MISCELLANIES AND POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY FIELDING, ESQ 
 
MISCELLANIES AND POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 HENEY MELDING, ESQ 
 
 EDITED, WITH PREFACE, 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES P. BROWNE, M.D. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 BICKERS and SON, 1, LEICESTER SQUARE, 
 H. S OTHER AN and CO., 136, STRAND. 
 LITTLE, BROWN and CO., BOSTON, U.S. 
 
 / * 7 v 
 
 M.DCCC.LXXII. 
 
 K 
 

 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED BY HEAD, HOLE & CO., HARP ALLEY, FAUKINGDON STREET, 
 
 AND IV ¥ LANE, E.C. 
 
 Q . ^ i *\> 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Liter's Preface v — xxvi 
 
 clear State of the Case of Elizabeth 
 Canning, who hath sworn that she was 
 Eobbed and almost Starved to Death by 
 a Gang of Gipsies and other Villains in 
 January last, for which one Mary Squires 
 now lies under Sentence of Death . . 1 — 43 
 
 A true State of the Case of Boscavern Penlez, 
 who suffered on account of the late Eiot in 
 the Strand, in which the Law regarding 
 these Offences, and the Statute of George L, 
 commonly called the Eiot Act, are fully 
 considered . . . . . . 44 — 82 
 
 Preface by Fielding to the Original Edition 
 
 of his Miscellanies and Poems in 1743 . 83 — 98 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Of True Greatness. An Epistle to the Eight 
 
 Honourable George Dodington, Esq. . 99 — 410 
 
 Of Good-Nature. To his Grace the Duke of 
 
 Eichmond 111—115 
 
 Liberty. To George Lyttleton, Esq. . . 116—120 
 
 To a Friend, on the Choice of a Wife . . 120—129 
 
11 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To John Hayes, Esq. On the Mixed Passions 
 
 of Man .... . 129—131 
 
 A Description of U n {alias New Hog's 
 
 Norton), in Com. Hants. Written to a 
 
 Young Lady in the year 1728 . . . 132, 133 
 'To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Wal- 
 pole, 1730. " While at the helm of state 
 
 you ride" ...... 134—136 
 
 Jo the Same. Anno 1731 .... 136 
 
 Written Extempore on a Halfpenny, which 
 a Young Lady gave a Beggar, and the 
 
 Author redeemed for Half-a-Crown . . 137, 138 
 
 The Beggar. A Song .... 138 
 
 An Epigram . . . . . . 139 
 
 The Question ...... 139 
 
 J n W ts at a Play . . . . 140 
 
 To Celia 140, 141 
 
 On a Lady, Coquetting with a very Silly 
 
 Fellow 141 
 
 On the Same 142 
 
 Epitaph on Butler's Monument ... 142 
 Another. On a Wicked Fellow ... 142 
 Epigram on one who Invited many Gentle- 
 men to a Small Dinner . . . . 143 
 
 A Sailor's Song 143, 144 
 
 Advice to the Nymphs of New S m . 145, 146 
 
 To Celia. Cupid called to Account . . 146 — 148 
 To the Same, on her Wishing to have a 
 
 Lilliputian to Play with . . . . 148, 149 
 
 Similes/ To the Same 150 
 
 The Price. To the Same .... 150 
 
 Her Christian Name. To the Same . . 150 
 To the Same ; having blamed Mr. Gay for 
 
 his Severity on the Sex . . . . 151 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ill 
 
 An Epigram . . . . . 151 
 
 Another 151 
 
 To the Master of the Salisbury Assembly. 
 Occasioned by a Dispute whether the Com- 
 pany should have fresh Candles . . 15 L 
 The Cat and Fiddle. To the favourite Cat of 
 
 a Fiddling Miser ..... 152 
 
 The Queen of Beauty 152—154 
 
 A Parody, from the First iEneid ... 155 
 
 A Simile from Silius Italicus . . . 155 
 
 To Euthalia . . . . . . 156 
 
 Part of Juvenal's Sixth Satire, modernized in 
 
 Burlesque Verse V 157 — 199 
 To Miss H , and at Bath. Written ex- 
 tempore in the Pump Room, 1742 . . 200 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In this supplementary volume of the works of Fielding 
 will be found the 4 Case of Elizabeth Canning,' as 
 stated by the great novelist himself, in vindication of 
 his conduct, as a magistrate, in that very mysterious 
 affair. Its purpose is to refute the harsh animadversions 
 of some respectable writers, who viewed the merits of 
 the transaction through a medium, which imparted to 
 that strange and appalling picture of human conduct a 
 form and complexion very different from the impression 
 which it had made upon himself, after he had investi- 
 gated the matter with scrupulous attention, and the 
 sagacity of an accomplished criminal lawyer. That it 
 is a triumphant vindication no one who will read it with 
 attention can help admitting ; although the poor young 
 creature's narrative is fraught with incidents that border 
 closely upon the precincts of improbability. But these 
 doubtful points are conclusively disposed of, after being 
 put forward in the most effective manner by the author 
 himself. He there appears as a pleader of great acute- 
 ness and rare logical discrimination. 
 
 To this case is now, for the first time, added that of 
 Bosavern Penlez, who was hanged for a robbery in one 
 of the three houses which were sacked by a mob during 
 the ' Strand Riots ' in 1749. 
 
 b 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 On this occasion, also, the magisterial conduct of 
 Fielding was severely animadverted on, and the govern- 
 ment accused of having acted contrary to the spirit of 
 the constitution. But here, likewise, he fairly exone- 
 rated his judicial character from all blame; while, at 
 the same time, he showed that the Government had not 
 infringed the barriers of constitutional law, as it then 
 existed. 
 
 In a moral point of view the case of Penlez falls 
 far short of that of Canning, in regard to the story ; for 
 it consists, in a great measure, of statements as to Acts 
 of Parliament respecting riots, from the outbreak of 
 Wat Tyler, in Richard II. 's reign, to the Riot Act 
 of George I. ; and of affidavits in evidence of those 
 Strand Riots of 1849, and of the guilt of Penlez. But 
 still it is interesting to the admirers of the greatest 
 of English novelists, as a record of the fact, that the 
 committal of the accused, on that occasion, was not 
 an unhumane overstraining of the law ; for he proves, 
 by the sworn testimony of trustworthy witnesses, that 
 Penlez was guilty of burglary, and as that crime was 
 then deemed capital felony, there was no other 
 alternative left him but that which he pursued. Here 
 it is a consolation to know that we live in a time when 
 a wretched creature, whose theft may spring not from 
 inherent roguery, but possibly from the poignant goad- 
 ing of starvation and destitution of all kinds, cannot now 
 be ' hanged by the neck until he is dead ' for stealing 
 anything to the value of thirteen-pence. It was sworn, 
 also, that Penlez was seen among the rioters in one of 
 the sacked houses in the Strand, to whose owner be- 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 longed the wearing apparel found in the possession of 
 the unfortunate young man. But, supposing him to be 
 only guilty of riot, Fielding shows that that was a crime 
 which the early statutes he quotes looked upon as treason 
 against the king ; and that, therefore, the passing of the 
 Riot Act of George I. could not be considered uncon- 
 stitutional. 
 
 So bitter were the aspersions cast upon him on that 
 occasion, that, in order to guard himself against the 
 charge of being unjust or devoid of clemency, he 
 ventures to assert that he felt that the 4 milk of human 
 ' kindness ' formed a characteristic ingredient of his 
 mental constitution ; and that this rendered it a painful 
 necessity for him, while affirming the strict adherence of 
 his conduct to the constitutional law of England, to call 
 forth from its silent resting-place the name of the un- 
 happy Penlez. 
 
 And certainly no one can read his works, with discri- 
 minating care, without feeling assured that good-nature 
 was an essential and abundant element of the capacious 
 mind of Harry Fielding. Thus it was his name was 
 called, long after his death, by his old friend, David 
 Garrick, when, upon receiving in its soiled and neglected 
 garb the comedy of ' The Good-natured Man,' he ex- 
 claimed, in tones of affectionate remembrance, c the lost 
 4 sheep is found ! This is Harry Fielding's comedy/ 
 
 To show that Fielding was not presumptuous in arro- 
 gating to himself the possession of a fair share of that 
 quality which Shakespeare has so beautifully named, it 
 may not be out of place here to quote a few lines from 
 his Epistle on Good-nature, addressed to the good Duke 
 
 2 b 
 
vin PREFACE. 
 
 of Richmond, who knew his character well, and must 
 have known that the sentiments expressed therein were 
 the genuine effusion of his kindly heart. In that poem 
 he says, in answer to the question, What is good- 
 nature ? — 
 
 And 
 
 ' Is it not virtue's self ? A flower so fine, 
 ' It only grows in soils almost divine.' 
 
 again — 
 
 ' What by this name, then, shall be understood ? 
 ' What but the glorious lust of doing good ? ' 
 
 And again — 
 
 ' ! great Humanity, whose beams benign, 
 ' Like the sun's rays, on just and unjust shine ; 
 ' Content what Nature lavishes admire, 
 ' Nor what is wanting in each piece require ; 
 ' Where much is right, some blemishes afford, 
 ' Nor look for Ch d * in every Lord/ 
 
 Here is clemency, that benign attribute of Good-nature, 
 recommended as a safeguard against undue captious- 
 ness in judging of any one's character. And as a 
 satirist Fielding was, all through life, careful in fol- 
 lowing the charitable injunction which he has thus 
 poetically and enthusiastically enjoined. For instance, 
 while alluding, in the preface to his Miscellanies, to his 
 4 History of Jonathan Wild the Great/ as he calls 
 him, he says that Roguery, and not a Eogue, is his 
 subject ; and that, in drawing the portrait of that detes- 
 table character, he had not used any particular indi- 
 vidual as his model; but, on the contrary, had with 
 his 'utmost art avoided it/ But yet he concludes 
 
 * Chesterfield. 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 with the following pungent sarcasm upon vicious and 
 unfeeling persons : — 
 
 ' . . .So will any such application be unfair to my reader, espe- 
 1 cially if he knows much of the great world, since he must then be 
 i acquainted, I believe, with more than one upon whom he can fix the 
 1 resemblance.' 
 
 So far, indeed, was he from bitterly subjecting his 
 enemies to personal reproaches, that he was never 
 reluctant in awarding them their just meed of praise; 
 as he did, for instance, in regard to his distinguished 
 rival Richardson. 
 
 Though the insertion of the very singular and in- 
 teresting story of Elizabeth Canning, and that of 
 Bosavern Penlez, never before printed in any col- 
 lected edition of Fielding's writings, is a considerable 
 enhancement of the value of this edition, yet it would 
 not be in accordance with the strongly expressed wishes 
 of his readers were we to exclude those poems of his 
 which are contained in the first volume of his Miscel- 
 lanies, published by Miller in 1743. 
 
 With regard to the poetic phase of Fielding's genius, 
 it will be allowed by all, who are instinctively affected 
 by the charms of poetry, and are familiar with his 
 works, that his mind was imbued with a fine sense of 
 the beautiful, which is the essential ingredient without 
 which the spirit of poetry cannot exist. 
 
 That this spirit of poetry doth not always need the 
 aid of verse for its exhibition, and that Fielding was 
 endow ed by natural instinct with an ample share of it, are 
 facts which are admirably exemplified in the following 
 glowing passage from ' Tom Jones,' which announces 
 the first approach of the charming Sophia Western : — 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 ' Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds 
 ' confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the sharp- 
 ' pointed nose of bitter — biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising 
 1 from thy fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those deli- 
 ' cious gales, the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from her 
 1 chamber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the first of June, her 
 ' birth-day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it o'er the 
 1 verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the whole 
 ' field becomes enamelled, and colours contrast with sweets which shall 
 'ravish her most. 
 
 ' So charming may she now appear ! and you, the feathered choristers of 
 'nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can excel, tune your 
 ' melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your 
 ' music, and to love it returns. Awaken, therefore, that gentle passion in 
 ' every swain : for lo ! adorned with all the charms with which nature can 
 i array her ; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, 
 'modesty, and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and 
 ' darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes.' 
 
 And her mind he says, 
 
 ' Was every way equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed some 
 ' charms from the former ; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her 
 ' temper diffused that glory over her countenance which no regularity 
 ' of features can give.' 
 
 But though this delightful element of his genius 
 served to augment the ardour of his affections, and 
 the uncommon gracefulness of his style, yet it was not 
 of force enough to become the leading feature of his 
 mind. Of this he seems to have felt conscious himself; 
 for he owns in his Preface to the Miscellanies that 
 poetry was a branch of writing which he very little 
 pretended to, and but little pursued. It should be 
 observed, also, in forming an estimate of his poetical 
 ability, that most of these poems were written when 
 he was very young, and which he himself estimated 
 as ' productions rather of the heart than of the head/ 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 This last fact would of itself be sufficient to account 
 for that want of polish which led Arthur Murphy to 
 exclude these poems from his edition of the works of 
 Fielding; with the exception of a short epistle to the 
 great Whig minister, Sir Robert Walpole, which is char- 
 acteristic of the easy playfulness of his wit and humour. 
 Yet it was, obviously, not for any special superiority 
 in itself that this poem was selected, but only as a 
 specimen of the author's quality as a poet ; and, perhaps, 
 his biographer, and able critical admirer, was desirous 
 of placing on an imperishable record an instance of the 
 cold neglect shown by a man, possessed of great poli- 
 tical power, towards a distressed man of genius, whose 
 talents were devoted to the strengthening of the cause 
 which that renowned statesman himself had espoused 
 and vigorously supported. These verses consist of allu- 
 sions to the writer's hard fortune, conveyed in a humor- 
 ous and playful strain of irony; in which, nevertheless, 
 the lightsome gaiety of the head cannot completely 
 conceal the gloomy sadness of the heart; and which 
 could hardly fail to strike home to the discerning mind 
 of the great man, as a gentle reminder of his neglect 
 of a strenuous and faithful political ally. 
 
 But the insertion of these poems in a complete edition 
 of Fielding's writings is the strongly expressed desire 
 of the purchasers of the fine edition, in ten volumes, 
 octavo, lately issued to the public from the houses of 
 Bickers and Son, and of Sotheran and Company, in 
 London, and from that of Little Brown, of Boston, U.S. 
 The propriety of gratifying this wish is greatly enhanced 
 by the fact, that these poems evince the prominent 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 characteristics of Fielding's disposition ; namely, his 
 ardent love of liberty, when that blessing is attended 
 with the graceful and benevolent qualities of human 
 nature, his superior knowledge of those qualities, and 
 the unselfish and cordial warmth of his gratitude, his 
 friendship, and his love. In these poems will also be 
 found, in a concentrated form, the lively versatility of 
 his imagination, the searching spirit of his pungent 
 but not ill-natured satire, and the playful brilliancy of 
 his wit and humour. 
 
 The first, in order, of these poems is his Epistle on 
 True Greatness, in which he strenuously denies to the 
 commander of conquering hosts the possession of that 
 virtue, when his exploits are solely the result of un- 
 hallowed thirst for the acquisition of personal power 
 and glory ; irrespective of the misery which the demon 
 of warfare inflicts upon mankind. And after drawing 
 a vivid picture of this misery in a few lines, he exclaims, 
 addressing Alexander the Great — 
 
 1 Could such exploits as these thy pride create ? 
 ' Gould these, Philip's son, proclaim thee Great ? ' 
 
 And, in alluding to the ferocious devourer of the 
 
 shepherd's gentle flock, the wolf, he thus contemptuously 
 
 shows his low estimate of such greatness, in these 
 
 lines — 
 
 ' If Greatness by these means may be possess'd, 
 
 ' 111 we deny it to the greater beast. 
 
 ' Single, and armed by Nature only, he 
 
 * That mischief does, which thousands do for thee.' 
 
 But war, and even very destructive war, when raised 
 and carried on in the cause of humanity and freedom, 
 
PREFACE. Xill 
 
 well entitles, in our author's mind, the successful con- 
 ductor of it to the epithet — Great, as the following 
 lines clearly show : — 
 
 ' Not on such wings to fame did Churchill soar, 
 ' For Europe while defensive arms he bore, 
 ' Whose conquests, cheap at all the blood they cost, 
 ' Saved millions by each noble life they lost.' 
 
 To the snarling cynic in his tub he says:- — 
 
 ' Well might the haughty son of Philip see 
 ' Ambition's second lot devolve on thee ; 
 ' Whose breast pride fires with scarce inferior joy, 
 ' And bids thee hate and shun men, him destroy.' 
 
 The self-satisfied superiority of the pedant of some 
 college, in his closet, he calls false greatness, with an 
 awkward mien. For, though — 
 
 ' Tully to him, and Seneca, are known, 
 
 ' And all their noblest sentiments his own. 
 
 ' These on each apt occasion he can quote ; \ 
 
 ' Thus the false Count affects the man of note, I 
 
 ' Awkward and shapeless in a borrowed coat.' J 
 
 To this category he also names critics, and says — 
 
 ' Critics through books, as beaus through countries stray, 
 ' Certain to bring their blemishes away. 
 
 ' Great is the man who, with unwearied toil, 
 ' Spies a weed springing in the richest soil. 
 ' If Dryden's page with one bad line be bless'd, 
 1 'Tis great to shew it as to write the rest.' 
 
 Commentators, unlike critics, he says, seek to find 
 out the beauties of great writers, and cling to their 
 authors : — 
 
 ' Close as to some tall tree the insect cleaves, 
 ' Myriads still nourished by its smallest leaves. 
 ' 80 cling these scribblers round a Virgil's name, 
 ' And on its least of beauties soar to fame.' 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 After showing that in every profession men find a 
 4 corner to be great.' Even — 
 
 ' The lowest lawyer, parson, courtier, squire, 
 
 ' Is somewhere great, finds some that will admire/ 
 
 He asks- 
 
 ' Where shall we say then that true greatness dwells ? 
 ' In palaces of kings or hermit's cells ? 
 ' Doth she confirm the minister's mock state, 
 ' Or bloody on the victor's garland wait ? 
 ' "Warbles harmonious in the poet's song, 
 1 Or, graver, laws pronounces to the throng ? ' 
 
 And then exclaims — 
 
 ' To no profession, party, place confined, 
 
 ' True greatness lives but in the noble mind ; 
 
 1 Greatness with learning decked in Carteret see, 
 'With justice and with clemency in Lee ; 
 ' In Chesterfield to ripe perfection come, 
 ' See it in Littleton beyond its bloom.' 
 
 Allusion has already been incidentally made to his 
 Epistle on Good-nature. The next in order is that on 
 Liberty, addressed to his faithful friend, George Lyttle- 
 ton, Esq., afterwards Lord Lyttleton; 'whom/ he says — 
 
 ' Nature vied with fortune to adorn ! 
 'Brave, tho' no soldier; without titles, great; 
 ' Feared, without power ; and envied, without state.' 
 
 And adds, with genuine modesty — 
 
 ' Accept the muse whom truth inspires to sing, 
 ' Who soars, though weakly, on an honest wing.' 
 
 He then invokes Liberty, the bright goddess, thus — 
 
 ' Come then, bright maid, my glowing breast inspire ; 
 ' Breathe in my lines, and kindle all my fire.' 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 And exclaims — 
 
 ' Curse on all laws which liberty subdue, 
 
 ' And make the many wretched to the few. 
 
 ' Presumptuous power assumes the public voice, 
 
 ' And what it makes our fate, pretends our choice.' 
 
 But of those, whose power was ennobled by true 
 humanity, he says: — 
 
 ' O'er abject slaves they scorned inglorious sway, 
 ' But taught the grateful freedman to obey ; 
 ' And thus by giving liberty, enjoyed 
 4 What the first hoped from liberty destroyed.' 
 
 Again- 
 
 The people power, to keep their freedom, gave, 
 And he who had it was the only slave.' 
 
 And then he thus patriotically addresses Liberty: — 
 
 ' Thy sacred name no Eomans now adore, 
 ' And Greece attends thy glorious call no more. 
 1 To thy Britannia, then, thy fire transfer, 
 ' Give all thy virtue, all thy force to her.' 
 
 And, after a beautiful allusion to the industry of the 
 Bee, he exclaims: — 
 
 ' But thou, great Liberty, keep Britain free, 
 ' Nor let man use us as we use the bee ; 
 ' Let not base drones upon our honey thrive ; 
 ' And suffocate the maker in his hive.' 
 
 In his Epistle on the Choice of a Wife he gives 
 valuable advice, which evinces his thorough knowledge 
 of the various affections of human nature; and his 
 statement of the unhappy results of ill-chosen marriages 
 shows the keenness and accuracy of his faculties of 
 
XVI PEE FACE. 
 
 observation. His strictures, too, upon the improper mode 
 of rearing daughters at that time, should act as a 
 salutary warning to mothers who attend too much upon 
 the superficial graces of the body, to the neglect of the 
 moral and intellectual accomplishments of the mind. 
 The result of this culpable oversight he thus describes: — 
 
 ' The face and shape are first the mother's care ; 
 
 ' The dancing-master next improves the air ; 
 
 ' To these perfections add a voice most sweet ; 
 
 ' The skilled musician makes the nymph complete. 
 
 ' Thus with a person well equipped, her mind ] 
 
 ' Left, as when first created, rude and blind, \ 
 
 ' She's sent to make her conquests on mankind.' J 
 
 But, amongst the desirable qualities of his friend's 
 wife, he says — 
 
 ' Her tender soul good-nature must adorn, 
 
 * And vice and meanness be alone her scorn.' 
 
 The short Epistle to John Hayes, Esq., is written in 
 the spirit of one well versed in the diversified characters 
 of the human mind. In this he ridicules Codrus for — 
 
 ' Confining all his knowledge, and his art, 
 ( To this, that each man is corrupt at heart.' 
 
 And adds — 
 
 ' Had Nature actions to one source confined, 
 
 * Ev'n blund'ring Codrus might have known mankind;' 
 
 But he shows that individuals do as much differ from 
 themselves, at times, as they differ from one another. 
 And that, moreover, their motives to action are as 
 various as the colours upon the pallet of Titian ; and, 
 when peculiarly blended, form pictures of human nature 
 by this great artist of the mental passions as distinct as 
 
PREFACE. XVil 
 
 those which adorn the glowing canvas of the renowned 
 Venetian painter. And towards the end he says : — 
 
 ' Men what they are not struggle to appear, 
 ' And Nature strives to show them as they are. 
 
 * For though with Quin's or Garrick's matchless art, 
 ' He acts, my friend, he only acts a part : 
 
 ' For Quin himself, in a few moments more, 
 'Is Quin again, who Oato was before.' 
 
 He then concludes with this satiric stroke : — 
 
 * Thus while the courtier acts the patriot's part, 
 
 ' This guides his face and tongue, and that his heart. 
 
 * Abroad the patriot shines with artful mien, 
 
 * The naked courtier glares behind the scene. 
 ' What wonder if to-morrow then he grow 
 
 ' A courtier good, who is a patriot now.' 
 
 Those quotations afford instructive testimony that the 
 spirit of true philosophy formed a copious ingredient of 
 Fielding's genius. And he possessed that spirit, because 
 the rare perspicuousness of his intellect was illumined, in 
 a superior measure, by the sentiments of justice and 
 mercy ; in the absence of an adequate share of which a 
 man of the most exalted intellectual capacity will be 
 wanting in wisdom. But though a man may think 
 wisely, and admonish with sagacity, he yet may not be 
 always capable of acting prudently. And such, certainly, 
 was the case with Fielding in the early period of his 
 career. But this arose from the enthusiastic ardour of 
 his social affections, which urged him to share in the 
 cordial pleasures of society, where the shining qualities 
 of his admirable wit and humour could not fail to make 
 him a conspicuous ornament. His carelessness, too, in 
 regard to money, and his kindly and liberal tendencies, 
 were calculated to render the promptings of frugality 
 
XVlll PREFACE. 
 
 nugatory, even supposing such salutary warnings to have 
 arisen ; and thus was he compelled to crave the aid of 
 men in power, who lay under obligations to him for his 
 political writings. 
 
 And what was his reward, after wasting disappoint- 
 ments ? The then not very reputable post of Middlesex 
 magistrate at Bow Street. But, to his credit be it told, 
 the corrupt practices which disgraced that important 
 though subordinate seat of criminal justice were swept 
 away by his judicious and indefatigable management, 
 and from being a nest rather for the nursing care of some 
 delinquents than for their utter extermination, it became 
 in his hands the dread of incorrigible evil-doers ; while 
 the weary and heavy-laden met with compassionate con- 
 sideration. Of these facts there is no one but must feel 
 assured who has read what may be called his dying 
 words, which are so impressively told in his ; Voyage to 
 Lisbon ' — his last resting-place. 
 
 To these disappointments must be ascribed the bitter- 
 ness of feeling which sometimes pervades the verses of 
 this warm-hearted and benevolent man. One of his 
 poems, addressed to Celia, is a striking instance of the 
 misanthropic spirit which, seemingly at least, had at that 
 time taken hold of his mind. The poem begins thus — 
 
 ' I hate the town and all its ways ; ' 
 
 and, after a detailed enumeration of the objects of his 
 detestation, he cries out — 
 
 * I hate the world, cramm'd all together, 
 ' From beggars, up to Lord knows whither.' 
 
PREFACE. XIX 
 
 And then concludes with the following ardent and 
 ingenious expression of his love : — 
 
 ' Ask you then, Celia, if there be 
 ' The thing I love ? My charmer, thee. 
 ' Thee more than light, than life adore, 
 ' Thou dearest, sweetest creature, more 
 ' Than wildest raptures can express ; 
 * Than I can tell, — or thou canst guess. 
 ' Then, tho' I bear a gentle mind, 
 1 Let not my hatred of mankind 
 ' Wonder within my Celia move, 
 ' Since she possesses all my love.' 
 
 The chagrin of his wounded and disappointed spirit 
 is also evinced, in an affecting way, in his brief epitaph 
 on Butler's monument — Butler, the ill-requited author 
 of the immortal Hudibras: — 
 
 ' What,' he exclaims, ' though alive neglected and undone, 
 ' let thy spirit triumph in this stone. 
 ' No greater honour could men pay thy parts, 
 ' For when they give a stone they give their hearts. ' 
 
 In the poems addressed to Celia is strikingly mani- 
 fested the enthusiastic ardour of his admiration and 
 his love of that incomparable impersonator of all the 
 graces and virtues which enhance the charms of con- 
 summate female beauty. And in them is also shown 
 the playful fertility of a fancy, akin to some of our 
 most admired early poets. Of this the one to Celia, 
 4 Occasioned by her apprehending her house would be 
 4 broke open, and having an old fellow to guard it, who 
 4 sat up all night, with a gun without any ammunition,' 
 is an example. His anxiety for her safety on that 
 occasion caused him to dream that Cupid was called 
 to account by his mother, for having suffered, by his 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 absence, the fear of danger to disturb the rest of her 
 choicest earthly representative— her own ' loved citadel 
 4 of beauty./ And, after severely reprimanding her mis- 
 chievous child, she thus concludes: — 
 
 * " Come, tell me, urchin, tell no lies ; 
 1 " Where was you hid — in Vince's eyes ? 
 ' " Did you fair Bennet's breast importune ? 
 ' " (I know you dearly love a fortune.) " 
 ' Poor Cupid now began to whine ; 
 ' " Mamma, it was no fault of mine. 
 '"I in a dimple lay perdue, 
 1 tl That little guard-room chose by you. 
 ' " A hundred Loves (all armed) did grace 
 ' " The beauties of her neck and face ; 
 ' " Thence, by a sigh I, dispossess'd, 
 ' " Was blown to Harry Fielding's breast ; 
 ' " Where I was forced all night to stay, 
 ' " Because I could not find my way. 
 ' " But did mamma know there what work 
 ' " I've made, how acted like a Turk ; 
 ' " What pains, what torments he endures, 
 ' " Which no physician ever cures, 
 1 " She would forgive." The goddess smil'd, 
 ' And gently chuck'd her wicked child ; 
 ' Bid him go back, and take more care, 
 f L And give her service to the fair.' 
 
 But there is yet another poem in which the charms 
 of the same matchless fair one are set forth in a strain 
 still more inventive, versatile, and brilliant. In this is 
 described the command of the Queen of Beauty to have 
 the most charming woman of each of her subject lands 
 send up a petition, with a view to her being appointed 
 the Queen's vice-regent, while the latter is easing herself 
 of her cares in temporary retirement. In obedience to 
 this order from the celestial council petitions from 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 all quarters of the world are being presented, when 
 those from New Sarum are loudly called for by the 
 crier : — 
 
 ' When lo, in bright celestial state , 
 'Jove came and thundered at the gate. 
 
 ' " And can you, daughter, doubt to whom 
 ' (He cried) " belongs the happy doom, 
 
 ' " While cks yet make blest the earth, 
 
 ' " cks, whom long before their birth, 
 
 ' " I, by your own petition moved, 
 1 " Decreed to be by all beloved ? 
 
 ' " cks, to whose celestial dower 
 
 * " I gave all beauties in my power, 
 
 ' " To form whose lovely minds and faces, 
 
 ' li I stripp'd half heaven of its graces ! 
 
 ' " let them bear an equal sway 
 
 ' " So shall mankind well pleased obey." ' 
 
 Subsequent to the writing of this poem, Fielding 
 married Charlotte Cradock, one of those incomparable 
 sisters: and though she was possessed of some fortune, 
 a thing which he was much in want of, yet it is obvious 
 that his marriage was the result of enthusiastic admira- 
 tion and love: for it is to the attractive graces and 
 exalted moral qualities of this inestimable woman we 
 owe the character of Amelia, which is so charmingly 
 and touchingly delineated in his novel of that name — 
 a character which, he somewhere says, in a sorrowful 
 tone, ' No one who had known my Charlotte could look 
 4 upon as overdrawn,' or words to that effect, for I 
 quote from memory. 
 
 His verses to the same charming woman, on her 
 wishing to have a Lilliputian to play with, are charac- 
 terized by happy playfulness of fancy, and some jocund 
 satiric allusions. 
 
XXll PREFACE. 
 
 It thus begins — 
 
 ' Is there a man who would not be, 
 
 * My Celia, what is prized by thee ? 
 
 ' A monkey beau to please thy sight 
 
 ' Would wish to be a monkey quite. 
 
 ' Or (could'st thou be delighted so) 
 
 ' Each man of sense would be a beau. 
 
 ' Courtiers would quit their faithless skill, 
 
 1 To be thy faithful dog Quadrille. 
 
 ' P — It — y, who does for freedom rage, 
 
 ' Would sing confin'd within thy cage ; 
 
 ' And W — Ip — le, for a tender pat, 
 
 ' Would leave his place to be thy cat. 
 
 ' ]\£ay I, to please my lovely dame, 
 
 i/ Be five foot shorter than I am ; 
 
 ' And, to be greater in her eyes, 
 
 ' Be sunk to Lilliputian size. 
 
 ' While on thy hand I skipp'd the dance, 
 
 ' How I'd despise the King of France!' 
 
 Exceedingly pleasing, also, are his lines, written 
 extempore, on a Half-penny which a young lady gave 
 a beggar, and the author redeemed for Half-a-Crown. 
 A trifling fact, which, in itself, is highly characteristic 
 of his affectionate and generous nature. 
 
 Among some other smaller pieces the first volume of. 
 his Miscellanies contains 4 Part of Juvenal's Sixth Satire 
 4 Modernised in Burlesque Verse/ But, as that satire 
 was written by the great Eoman satirist to hold forth to 
 ridicule and detestation those women of his time who 
 were steeped in the mire of shameless and faithless 
 sensuality, he thought it necessary to use language, too 
 indelicate and coarse for chaste ears, but still, no doubt, 
 suited to the loose manners of the time. It was the 
 excessive grossness of this immodesty in the latter 
 
PREFACE. XXlll 
 
 portion of it, which induced Fielding to abstain from 
 translating that part of it ; for he says — 
 
 ' We shall here close our translation of this satire ; for as the remainder 
 ' is in many places too obscene for chaste ears ; so, to the honour of the 
 ' English ladies, the Latin is by no means applicable to them, nor indeed 
 ' capable of being modernised.' 
 
 And much to his credit he further says — 
 
 ' For my part I am much more inclined to panegyric on that amiable 
 ', sex, which I have always thought treated with a very unjust severity by 
 ' ours, who censure them for faults (if they are truly such) into which we 
 ' allure and betray them.' 
 
 It was, no doubt, to those very objectionable passages 
 that Byron alludes in ' Don Juan,' when he says — 
 
 ' I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 
 ' Although, no doubt, his real intent was good, 
 ' For speaking out so plainly in his song, 
 ' So much, indeed, as to be downright rude.* 
 
 But, notwithstanding the exclusion of this very objec- 
 tionable part, there is still to be found in the portion 
 translated allusions so indelicate as to render its perusal 
 quite unsuited to the taste and principles of refined and 
 modest females, in this age of superior civilization; 
 although, in the age of ruder manners in which Fielding 
 lived, such narratives seem to have been tolerated, with- 
 out a feeling of disgust, even by persons who were free 
 from the slightest taint of impurity either of thought 
 or conduct. A striking instance of this occurred in 
 the person of a grand-aunt of Sir Walter Scott, who in 
 her old age requested him to procure her a copy of 
 Mrs. Aphra Behn's novels, which, she said, were in 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 her youthful days much admired, and which, from the 
 interest she then felt in them herself, she wished to 
 read over again. 
 
 1 So,' says Sir Walter, ' I sent Mrs. Aphra Behn curiously sealed up, 
 'with "private and confidential" on the packet, to my gay old grand- 
 ' aunt. The next time I saw her afterwards she gave me back Aphra, 
 ' properly wrapped up, with nearly these words, — " Take back your bonny 
 ' " Mrs. Behn, and if you will take my advice, put her in the fire : for I find 
 ' " it impossible to get through the very first novel. But is it not," she 
 ' said, " a very odd thing that I, an old woman of eighty and upwards, 
 ' " sitting alone, feel myself ashamed to read a book which sixty years ago 
 * " I have heard read aloud for the amusement of large circles, consisting 
 ' " of the first and most creditable society in London ? " 
 
 But, as it is the settled and general desire of the admirers 
 
 of Fielding's great genius that nothing which he is known 
 
 to have written should be lost, the publishers feel bound 
 
 to comply with that desire, because, otherwise, their 
 
 promise of issuing a complete edition of his writings would 
 
 remain unfulfilled. Yet, were it possible to avoid this 
 
 necessity, it would be (and with unfeigned sincerity be 
 
 it said) the editor's wish to see that such objectionable 
 
 allusions should find no place in these poems of Fielding, 
 
 'although no doubt his real intent was good;' as he 
 
 wished, by means of rigorous and pointed satiric humour, 
 
 to expose to shame the miserable results of ill-assorted 
 
 marriages, and thus serve to extirpate the unhallowed 
 
 profligacy of which they are, unhappily, so often the 
 
 incentives, and with the view of bringing society to a 
 
 condition more blissful and contented. And certainly 
 
 his affectionate conduct, both as a husband and a father, 
 
 proved the sincerity of his satiric exposure of the frivolity 
 
 and profligacy of fashionable life in his time. 
 
PREFACE. xxv 
 
 In conclusion, it is right to observe that, notwithstand- 
 ing the few quotations which have been made from the 
 Preface to the Miscellanies, and which appear in the Pre- 
 face to Fielding's works in ten volumes, octavo, to which 
 this one is supplementary, still in a complete edition of 
 his writings, the insertion here of the whole of that 
 excellent composition is desirable, especially in as far as 
 it regards the ' History of Jonathan Wild the Great;' for 
 there is given the author's notions of the kind of great- 
 ness which should attract the heartfelt homage of the 
 virtuous and the good ; as well as his enlightened views 
 of human nature, and of mankind's truest — indeed his 
 only true road to happiness. For he says : — 
 
 'I solemnly protest I do by no means intend in the character of my 
 
 * hero (Wild) to represent human nature in general I understand 
 
 ' those writers who describe human nature in this depraved character, as 
 ' speaking only of such persons as Wild and his gang ; and I think it may 
 ' be justly inferred that they do not find in their own bosoms any devia- 
 ' tion from the general rule. Indeed, it would be an insufferable vanity 
 'in them to conceive themselves as the only exception to it.' 
 
 How well applied is this adroit and cutting sarcasm to 
 those philosophers who read human nature through the 
 deceptive medium of the i Idols of the Den ;' for, as 
 Lord Bacon avers — 
 
 ' There is no small difference between the idols of the human mind 
 ' and the ideas of the divine mind — that is to say, between certain idle 
 
 * dogmas and the real stamp and impress of created objects, as they are 
 ' found in nature.' 
 
 And how admirable are his views with respect to 
 man's capacity for the attainment of happiness, and of 
 the surest, and at the same time easiest, manner of ob- 
 taining that blessing : and in quoting them here, I feel a 
 
xxyi PREFACE. 
 
 pride in closing this humble preface of mine with a 
 passage that exhibits, in a charming way, the instinctive 
 wisdom and glowing good-nature of 'the manly, the 
 English Harry Fielding/ as Thackeray emphatically 
 calls him : — 
 
 ' Nothing seems to me/ he writes, ' more preposterous than that, while 
 ' the way to true honour lies open and plain, men should 'seek false by 
 
 * such perverse and rugged paths ; that while it is so easy and safe, and 
 ' truly honourable to be good, men should wade through difficulty and 
 
 * danger, and real infamy, to be great, or, to use a synonymous word, 
 ' villains. 
 
 ' Nor hath goodness less advantage in the article of pleasure, than of 
 'honour over this kind of greatness. The same righteous Judge 
 ' always annexes a bitter anxiety to the purchases of guilt, whilst it adds 
 ' a double sweetness to the enjoyments of innocence and virtue : for fear, 
 ' which all the wise agree is the most wretched of human evils, is, in 
 'some degree, always attending on the former, and never can in any 
 ' manner molest the happiness of the latter.' 
 
 JAMES P. BROWNE, M.D. 
 
 February, 1872. 
 
THE 
 
 CASE 
 
 ELIZABETH CANNING. 
 
CLEAE STATE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 CASE 
 
 ELIZABETH CANNING. 
 
 Who hath sworn that she was Robbed and almost Starved to Death by a 
 gang of Gipsies and other villains in January last, for which one Mary 
 Squires now lies under Sentence of Death. 
 
 Qiifs, quia sunt admirabilia, contraque Opinionem omnium; tentare volui 
 possentne proferri in Lucem, <£■ ita did ut probarentur. 
 
 Cicero, Parad. 
 
 HENRY FIELDING, Esq. 
 
THE 
 
 CASE 
 
 ELIZABETH CANNING 
 
 There is nothing more admirable, nor, indeed, more 
 amiable, in the Law of England, than the extreme tender- 
 ness with which it proceeds against persons accused of 
 capital crimes. In this respect it justly claims a prefer- 
 ence to the institutions of all other countries; in some of 
 which a criminal is hurried to execution, with rather less 
 ceremony than is required by our law to carry him to 
 prison ; in many, the trials (if they may be called such) 
 have little of form, and are so extremely precipitate that 
 the unhappy wretch hath no time to make his defence, 
 but is often condemned without well knowing his accuser, 
 and sometimes without well understanding his accusa- 
 tion. In this happy kingdom, on the contrary, so tender 
 is the law of the life of a subject, so cautious of unjustly 
 or erroneously condemning him, that, according to its 
 own maxim, De Morte Hominis nulla est Cunctatio longa, it 
 
4 THE CASE OF 
 
 proceeds by slow and regular gradations, and requires 
 so many antecedent ceremonies to the ultimate discussion 
 of a court of justice, that so far from being in danger of a 
 condemnation without a fair and open trial, every man 
 must be tried more than once, before he can receive a 
 capital sentence. By the law of England, no man can 
 be apprehended for felony, without a strong and just 
 suspicion of his guilt; nor can he be committed to prison, 
 without a charge on oath before a lawful magistrate. 
 This charge must be again proved on oath, to the satis- 
 faction of a large number (twelve at least) of the better 
 sort of his countrymen (except in the case of an Appeal of 
 Felony, which is now obsolete, and where the proceedings 
 are still more ceremonial and tedious) ; before the accused 
 can be required to answer to it, or be put on his defence ; 
 and after all these preparatives, the truth of this charge 
 is to be tried in an open court of justice, before one at 
 least and often many judges, by twelve indifferent and 
 unexceptionable men : I may truly say unexceptionable, 
 since it is in the prisoner's power to except against twenty- 
 four without showing any cause, and as many more as 
 he can show a reasonable cause of exception against. 
 These, after a patient hearing of the witnesses against 
 him, and after attending to his defence (in the making 
 which, the law prescribes that every indulgence shall 
 be shown him, and that even his judge shall be his 
 counsel and assist him) must all concur in declaring 
 on their oaths, that he is guilty of the crime alleged 
 against him, or he is to be discharged, and can never 
 more be called in question for the same offence, save 
 only in the case of murder. 
 
 It seems, I think, that the wit of man could invent no 
 stronger bulwark against all injustice and false accusa- 
 tion than this institution, under which not only innocence 
 may rejoice in its own security, but even guilt can scarce 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 5 
 
 be so immodest as to require a fairer chance of escaping 
 the punishment it deserves. 
 
 And yet, if after all this precaution it should manifestly 
 appear that a person hath been unjustly condemned, 
 either by bringing to light some latent circumstance, or 
 by discovering that the witnesses against him are cer- 
 tainly perjured, or by any other means of displaying 
 the party's innocence, the gates of mercy are still left 
 open, and upon a proper and decent application, either 
 to the judge before whom the trial was had, or to the 
 Privy Council, the condemned person will be sure of 
 obtaining a pardon, of preserving his life, and of re- 
 gaining both his liberty and reputation. 
 
 To make, therefore, such an application on the behalf 
 of injured innocence is not only laudable in every man, 
 but it is a duty, the neglect of which he can by no means 
 answer to his own conscience ; but this, as I have said, 
 is to be done in a proper and decent manner, by a private 
 application to those with whom the law hath lodged a 
 power of correcting its errors and remitting its severity; 
 whereas to resort immediately to the public by inflam- 
 matory libels against the justice of the nation, to establish 
 a kind of Court of Appeal from this justice in the book- 
 seller's shop, to re-examine in newspapers and pamph- 
 lets the merits of causes which, after a fair and legal 
 trial, have already received the solemn determination of 
 a Court of Judicature, to arraign the conduct of magis- 
 trates, of juries, and even judges, and this even with the 
 most profligate indecency, are the effects of a licentious- 
 ness to which no government, jealous of its own honour, 
 or indeed provident of its own safety, will ever indulge 
 or submit to. 
 
 Sensible as I am of this, I should by no means become 
 an aggressor of this kind ; but surely when such methods 
 have been used to mislead the public, and to censure the 
 
6 THE CASE OF 
 
 justice of the nation in its sagacity at least, and grossly 
 to misrepresent their proceedings, it can require little 
 apology to make use of the same means to refute so 
 iniquitous an attempt. However unlawful a weapon may 
 be in the hands of an assailant, it becomes strictly 
 justifiable in those of the defendant : and as the judges 
 will certainly excuse an undertaking in defence of them- 
 selves, so may I expect that the Public (that part of it, I 
 mean, whose esteem alone I have ever coveted or desired) 
 should show some favour to a design which hath in view 
 not a bare satisfaction of their curiosity only, but to 
 prevent them from forming a very rash, and, possibly, a 
 very unjust judgment. Lastly, there is something 
 within myself which rouses me to the protection of 
 injured innocence, and which prompts me with the hopes 
 of an applause much more valuable than that of the 
 whole world. 
 
 Without this last motive, indeed, it may be imagined I 
 should scarce have taken up my pen in the defence of a 
 poor little girl, whom the many have already condemned. 
 I well know the extreme difficulty which will always be 
 found in obtaining a reversal of such a judgment. Men 
 who have applauded themselves, and have been applauded 
 by others, for their great penetration and discernment, 
 will struggle very hard before they will give up their 
 title to such commendation. Though they, perhaps, 
 heard the cause at first with the impartiality of upright 
 judges, when they have once given their opinion, they 
 are too apt to become warm advocates, and even 
 interested parties in defence of that opinion. Deplorable, 
 indeed, and desperate is the case of a poor wretch 
 against whom such a sentence is passed ! No Writ of 
 Error lies against this sentence, but before that 
 tremendous Court of the Public where it was first 
 pronounced, and no court whatever is, for the reasons 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. i 
 
 already assigned, so tenacious of the judgments which 
 it hath once given. 
 
 In defiance, nevertheless, of this difficulty, I am 
 determined to proceed to disclose, as far as I am able, 
 the true state of an affair, which, however inconsiderable 
 the parties may be in their station of life (though 
 injured innocence will never appear an inconsiderable 
 object to a good mind), is now become a matter of real 
 concern and great importance to the public ; against 
 whom a most horrible imposture, supported by the 
 most impudent as well as impious perjury is dressed 
 up, either on the one side or on the other. To discover 
 most manifestly on which side it lies seems to be within 
 the power of the government, and it is highly incumbent 
 on them to exert themselves on this occasion, in order 
 that by the most exemplary punishment they may deter 
 men from that dreadful crime of perjury, which, in this 
 case, either threatens to make the sword of justice a terror 
 to the innocent, or to take off all its edge from the 
 guilty ; which of these is it likeliest to do in the present 
 instance, I will endeavour to assist the reader, at least, 
 in forming a probable conjecture. 
 
 Elizabeth Canning, a young girl of eighteen years of 
 age, who lived at Aldermanbury Postern, in the City of 
 London, declares, That on Monday, the 1st of January 
 last, she went to see her uncle and aunt, who are 
 people of a very good character, and who live at Salt- 
 petre Bank, near Rosemary Lane; that having continued 
 with them till towards nine in the evening, her uncle 
 and aunt, it being late, walked a great part of the way 
 home with her; that soon after she parted with them, 
 and came opposite to Bethlehem-gate in Moorjields, she was 
 seized by two men who, after robbing her of half a 
 guinea in gold, and three shillings in silver, of her 
 hat, gown, and apron, violently dragged her into a 
 
8 THE CASE OF 
 
 gravel-walk that leads down to the gate of Bethlehem 
 Hospital, about the middle of which one of the men, 
 after threatening to do for her, gave her a violent 
 blow with his fist on the right temple, that threw her 
 into a fit, and entirely deprived her of her senses. These 
 fits she says she hath been accustomed to ; that they 
 were first occasioned by the fall of a ceiling on her head ; 
 that they are apt to return upon her whenever she is 
 frightened, and that they sometimes continue for six 
 or seven hours ; that when she came to herself she per- 
 ceived that two men were hurrying her along in a large 
 road-way, and that in a little time after she was re- 
 covered, she was able to walk alone ; however, they 
 still continued to pull and drag her along; that she 
 was so intimidated by their usage that she durst not 
 call out, nor even speak to them; that in about half 
 an hour after the recovery of her senses they carried 
 her into an house where she saw in the kitchen an old 
 Gipsy woman and two young women ; that the old 
 Gipsy woman took hold of her by the hand, and pro- 
 mised to give her fine clothes if she would go their wag, 
 which expression she understanding to mean the be- 
 coming a prostitute, she utterly refused to comply with; 
 upon which the old Gipsy woman took a knife out of a 
 drawer and cut the stays off this Elizabeth Canning, and 
 took them away from her, at which time one of the 
 men likewise took off her cap, and then both the men 
 went away; that soon after they were gone, and about 
 an hour after she had been in the house, the old Gipsy 
 woman forced her up an old pair of stairs, and pushed 
 her into a back room like a hay-loft, without any fur- 
 niture whatsoever in the same, and there locked her 
 up, threatening that if she made the least noise or 
 disturbance, the old Gipsy woman would come up and 
 cut her throat, and then fastened the door on the outside 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 9 
 
 and went away. She says, that when it was clay-light, 
 upon her looking round to see in what dismal place she 
 was confined, she discovered a large black jug, with the 
 neck much broken, filled with water, and several pieces of 
 bread, amounting to about the quantity of a quartern 
 loaf, scattered on the floor, where was likewise a small 
 parcel of hay. In this room, she says, she continued 
 from that time till about half an hour after four of the 
 clock in the afternoon of Monday, the 29th day of the 
 same month of January, being in all twenty- seven days 
 and upwards, without any other sustenance than the 
 aforesaid bread and water, except one small mince-pie 
 which she had in her pocket, which she was carrying 
 home as a present to her little brother. She likewise 
 says, that she had some part of this provision remaining 
 on the Friday before she made her escape, which she 
 did by breaking out at a window of the room or loft in 
 which she was confined, and whence having escaped, 
 she got back to her friends in London in about six 
 hours, in a most weak and miserable condition, being 
 almost starved to death, and without ever once stopping 
 at any house or place by the way. She likewise says, 
 that during her whole confinement no person ever came 
 near her to ask her any question whatever, nor did she 
 see any belonging to the house more than once, when 
 one of the women peeped through a hole in the door, 
 and that she herself was afraid to call or speak to anyone. 
 All this she hath solemnly sworn before a magistrate and 
 in a court of justice. 
 
 Such is the narrative of Elizabeth Canning, and a very 
 extraordinary narrative it is, consisting of many strange 
 particulars resembling rather a wild dream than a real 
 fact. First, it doth not well appear with what motive 
 these men carried this poor girl such a length of way, or 
 indeed that they had any motive at all for so doing. 
 
 vol. x, c 
 
10 THE CASE OF 
 
 Secondly, that they should be able to do it is not easy to 
 believe ; I do not mean that it is not within the strength 
 of two men to carry a little girl (for so she is) ten 
 miles, but that they could do this without being met, 
 opposed, or examined by any persons in the much 
 frequented roads near this town, is extremely strange 
 and surprising. Thirdly, the Gipsy woman doth not 
 seem to have had any sufficient motive to her proceed- 
 ings. If her design was to make a prostitute, or a 
 Gipsy, or both, of this poor girl, she would, in all 
 probability, have applied to her during her confine- 
 ment, to try what effect that confinement had pro- 
 duced. If her design was murder, she had many 
 easier and better ways than by starving, or if she 
 had chosen this method of destroying the girl, it 
 seems impossible to account for the conveying to her 
 that bread and water, which would serve for no other 
 purpose but to lengthen out the misery of a wretch 
 against whom the Gipsy woman had, as appears, no 
 foundation whatever of anger or revenge, and might 
 have increased the danger of discovering the whole 
 villainy. Fourthly, that Elizabeth Canning herself should 
 have survived this usage, and all the terrors it must 
 have occasioned, and should have been kept alive with 
 no other sustenance than she declares she had, are facts 
 very astonishing and almost incredible. Fifthly, that 
 she should so well have husbanded her small pittance as 
 to retain some of it till within two days of her escape, 
 is another surprising circumstance. Sixthly, that she 
 should undergo all this hardship and fasting without 
 attempting sooner to make her escape, or without per- 
 ceiving the possibility of making it in the manner in 
 which she at last says she did effect it, seems to be 
 no less shocking to reason and common sense, Lastly, 
 that, at the time when she elates this escape, she 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 11 
 
 should have strength sufficient left, not only to break 
 her prison in the manner she declares, but to walk 
 eleven or twelve miles to her own home, is another 
 fact which may very well stagger our belief, and is a 
 proper close to this strange, unaccountable, and scarce 
 credible story. 
 
 Thus have I set the several particulars of this 
 narrative in as strong a light against the relator, and 
 in one as disadvantageous to the credibility of her 
 relation, as I think they can fairly be placed. Certain 
 it is, that the facts seem at first to amount to the very 
 highest degree of improbability, but I think that they do 
 not amount to an impossibility; for, as to those objec- 
 tions which arise from the want of a sufficient motive in 
 the transactors of this cruel scene, no great stress I 
 think can be laid on these. I might ask what possible 
 motive could induce two ruffians, who were executed last 
 winter for murder, after they had robbed a poor wretch 
 who made no resistance, to return and batter his skull 
 with their clubs, till they fractured it in almost twenty 
 different places. How many cruelties, indeed, do we 
 daily hear of, to which it seems not easy to assign any 
 other motive than barbarity itself? In serious and 
 sorrowful truth, doth not history, as well as our own 
 experience, afford us too great reasons to suspect, that 
 there is in some minds a sensation directly opposite to 
 that of benevolence, and which delights and feeds itself 
 with acts of cruelty and inhumanity ? And if such a 
 passion can be allowed any existence, where can we 
 imagine it more likely to exist than among such people 
 as these. 
 
 Besides, though to a humane and truly sensible mind 
 such actions appear to want an adequate motive, yet to 
 wretches very little removed, either in their sensations or 
 understandings, from wild beasts, there may possibly 
 
12 THE CASE OF 
 
 appear a very sufficient motive to all that they did ; such 
 might be a desire of increasing the train of Gipsies, 
 or of whores in the family of the mother Wells. One 
 of these appear to have been the design of the Gipsy 
 woman from the declaration of Elizabeth Canning, who, 
 if she had said nothing more improbable, would cer- 
 tainly have been entitled to our belief in this, though 
 this design seems afterwards not to have been pursued. 
 In short she might very possibly have left the alter- 
 native, with some indifference, to the girl's own option ; 
 if she was starved out of her virtue, the family might 
 easily apprehend she would give them notice ; if out 
 of her life, it would be then time enough to convey 
 her dead body to some ditch or dunghill, where, when 
 it was found, it would tell no tales : possibly, however, 
 the indifference of the Gipsy woman was not so ab- 
 solute, but that she might prefer the girl's going her 
 way, and this will recount for her conveying to her 
 that bread and water, which might give the poor girl 
 a longer time to deliberate^ and consequently the love 
 of life might have a better chance to prevail over the 
 love of virtue. 
 
 So much for the first and third objection arising 
 from the want of motive, from which, as I observed 
 above, no very powerful arguments can be drawn in 
 the case of such wretches : as to the second objection, 
 though I mentioned it as I would omit none, the 
 reader, I presume, will lay so little weight upon it, 
 that it would be wasting time to give it much answer. 
 In reality, the darkness of the night at that season of 
 the year, and when it was within two days of the new 
 moon, with the indifference of most people to what 
 doth not concern themselves, and the terror with 
 which all honest persons pass by night through the 
 roads near this town, will very sufficiently account for 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 13 
 
 the want of all interruption to these men in their 
 conveyance of the poor girl. 
 
 With regard to the fourth objection — how she could 
 survive this usage, &c ? I leave the degree of prob- 
 ability to be ascertained by the physicians. Possible, I 
 think it is, and I contend for no more. I shall only 
 observe here, that she barely did survive it, and that 
 she, who left her mother in a plump condition, returned 
 so like a spectre, that her mother fainted away when 
 she saw her; her limbs were all emaciated, and the 
 colour of her skin turned black, so as to resemble a state 
 of mortification; her recovery from which state since, 
 is a proof of that firm and sound constitution, which 
 supported her, if she says true, under all her misery. 
 
 As to the fifth objection, she answers, that the 
 cruel usage she had met with, and the condition she 
 saw herself in, so affected both her mind and body, 
 that she ate scarce anything during the first days of 
 her confinement, and afterwards had so little appetite, 
 that she could scarce swallow the hard morsels which 
 were allotted her. 
 
 The sixth objection hath, in my opinion, so little in 
 it that had I not heard it insisted on by others, I 
 should not myself have advanced it; common ex- 
 perience every day teaches us, that we endure many 
 inconveniences of life, while we overlook those ways 
 of extricating ourselves, which, when they are dis- 
 covered, appear to have been, from the first, extremely 
 easy and obvious. The inference, which may be drawn 
 from this observation, a moderate degree of candour 
 will oblige us to extend very far in the case of a poor 
 simple child, under all the circumstances of weakness 
 of body and depression and confusion of spirits, till 
 despair, which is a quality that is ever increasing as 
 its object increases, grew to the highest pitch, and 
 
14 THE CASE OF 
 
 forced her to an attempt which she had not before 
 had the courage to undertake. 
 
 As to her accomplishing this, and being able to 
 escape to her friends, the probability of this likewise I 
 leave to the discussion of physicians: possible it surely 
 is, and I question very much whether the degree of 
 despair, which I have just mentioned, will not even 
 make it probable ; since this is known to add no less 
 strength to the body than it doth to the mind, a 
 truth which every man almost may confirm by many 
 instances. 
 
 But if, notwithstanding all I have here said, the 
 narrative should still appear ever so improbable, it 
 may yet become a proper object of our belief, from 
 the weight of the evidence ; for there is a degree of 
 evidence by which every fact that is not impossible to 
 have happened at all, or to have happened in the 
 manner in which it is related, may be supported and 
 ought to be believed. In all cases, indeed, the weight 
 of evidence ought to be strictly conformable to the 
 weight of improbability; and when it is so, the wiser 
 a man is the sooner and easier he will believe. To 
 say truth, to judge well of this conformity is what we 
 truly call sagacity, and requires the greatest strength 
 and force of understanding. He, who gives a hasty 
 belief to what is strange and improbable, is guilty of 
 rashness ; but he is much more absurd who declares 
 that he will believe no such fact on any evidence 
 whatever. The world are too much inclined to think 
 that the credulous is the only fool ; whereas, in truth, 
 there is another fool of a quite opposite character, who 
 is much more difficult to deal with, less liable to the 
 dominion of reason, and possessed of a frailty more 
 prejudicial to himself and often more detrimental to 
 mankind in general. 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 15 
 
 To apply this reasoning to the present case, as we have, 
 it is hoped, with great fairness and impartiality, stated 
 all the improbabilities which compose this girl's nar- 
 rative, we will now consider the evidence that supports 
 them. And when we have done this, it will possibly 
 appear, that the credulous person is he who believes 
 that Elizabeth Canning is a liar. 
 
 First, then, there is one part of this story which is 
 incontestably true, as it is a matter of public notoriety, 
 and known by almost every inhabitant in the parish 
 where her mother dwells. This is, that the girl, after 
 the absence of a month, returned on the 29th of 
 January, in the dreadful condition above described. 
 This being an established fact, a very fair presumption 
 follows that she was confined somewhere, and by some 
 person; that this confinement was of equal duration 
 with her absence ; that she was almost starved to 
 death ; that she was confined in a place whence it was 
 difficult to make her escape ; that, however, this escape 
 was possible, and that at length she actually made it. 
 All these are circumstances which arise from the 
 nature of the fact itself. They are what Tully calls 
 Evidentia Rei, and are stronger than the positive testi- 
 mony of any witnesses ; they do, indeed, carry con- 
 viction with them to every man who hath capacity 
 enough to draw a conclusion from the most self-evident 
 premises. 
 
 These facts being established, I shall oppose impro- 
 bability to improbability, and first I begin by asking, 
 Why did this girl conceal the person who thus cruelly 
 used her? It could not be a lover; for among all 
 the cruelties by which men have become infamous in 
 their commerce with women, none of this kind can, I 
 believe, be produced. What reason, therefore, can be 
 assigned for this great degree of more than Christian 
 
16 THE CASE OF 
 
 forgiveness of such barbarous usage is to me, I own, 
 a secret; such forgiveness, therefore, is at least as 
 great a degree of improbability as any which can be 
 found, or which can be feigned in her narrative. 
 
 Again, what motive can be invented for her laying 
 this heavy charge on those who are innocent ? That 
 street-robbers and Gipsies, who have scarce even the 
 appearance of humanity, should be guilty of wanton 
 cruelty without a motive, hath greatly staggered the 
 world, and many have denied the probability of such 
 a fact : Will they then imagine that this girl hath 
 committed a more deliberate, and, therefore, a more 
 atrocious crime, by endeavouring to take away the lives 
 of an old woman, her son, and another man, as well 
 as to ruin another woman, without any motive what- 
 ever? "Will they believe this of a young girl, hardly 
 18 years old, who hath the unanimous testimony of 
 all, who ever knew her from her infancy, to support 
 the character of a virtuous, modest, sober, well-dis- 
 posed girl; and this character most enforced by those 
 who know her best, and particularly by those with 
 whom she hath lived in service. 
 
 As to any motive of getting money by such an at- 
 tempt, nothing can be more groundless and evidently 
 false than the suggestion ; the subscription which was 
 proposed and publicly advertised, was thought of long 
 after the girl's return to her mother, upon which re- 
 turn she immediately told the story in the presence of 
 numbers of people, with all the circumstances with 
 which she hath since, without any variation, related 
 it. The real truth is, that this subscription was set 
 on foot by several well disposed neighbours and very 
 substantial tradesmen, in order to bring a set of horrid 
 villains to justice, which then appeared (as it hath 
 since proved) to be a matter which would be attended 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 17 
 
 with considerable expense, nor was any reward to the 
 girl then thought of; the first proposer of which re- 
 ward was a noble and generous lord, who was present 
 at the last examination of this matter in Boiv-street; so 
 that this charge of the Gipsy woman, and the rest, if 
 a false one, was absolutely without any motive at all. 
 A second improbability which . rises as much higher 
 than that to which it is opposed, as the crime would 
 be higher, since it would be more deliberate in the girl, 
 and as her character is better than that of street rob- 
 bers and Gipsies. 
 
 Again, as the girl can scarce be supposed wicked 
 enough, so I am far from supposing her witty enough 
 to invent such a story; a story full of variety of 
 strange incidents, and worthy the invention of some 
 writer of romances, in many of which we find such 
 kind of strange improbabilities that are the productions 
 of a fertile, though commonly, a distempered brain; 
 whereas this girl is a child in years, and yet more so 
 in understanding, with all the evident marks of simpli- 
 city that I ever discovered in a human countenance; 
 and this I think may be admitted to be a third impro- 
 bability. 
 
 A fourth seems to me to arise from the manner in 
 which this poor simple girl hath supported this story; 
 which, as it requires the highest degree of wickedness 
 of heart, and some tolerable goodness of head to have 
 invented, so doth it require no small degree of assur- 
 ance to support ; and that in large assemblies of persons 
 of a much higher degree than she had ever before 
 appeared in the presence of — before noblemen, and ma- 
 gistrates, and judges — persons who must have inspired 
 a girl of this kind with the highest awe. Before all 
 these she went through her evidence without hesitation, 
 confusion, trembling, change of countenance, or other 
 
 VOL. X. D 
 
18 THE CASE OF 
 
 apparent emotion. As such a behaviour could proceed 
 only from the highest impudence, or most perfect in- 
 nocence, so it seemed clearly to arise from the latter, 
 as it was accompanied with such a show of decency, 
 modesty, and simplicity, that if these were all affected, 
 which those who disbelieve her must suppose, it must 
 have required not only the highest art, but the longest 
 practice and habit to bring it to such a degree of per- 
 fection. 
 
 A fifth improbability is, that this girl should fix on 
 a place so far from home, and where it doth not ap- 
 pear she had ever been before. Had she gone to this 
 place of her own accord, or been carried thither by any 
 other than the person she accused, surely Mother Wells 
 would have told this, as it must have acquitted her of 
 the fact laid to her charge, and would indeed have 
 destroyed the whole character of Elizabeth Canning, and 
 of consequence have put an end to the prosecution; 
 but Mother Wells, on the contrary, denied absolutely 
 that Elizabeth Canning had ever been in her house, or 
 that she had ever seen her face before she came there 
 with the peace officers. 
 
 In this point, viz: That Elizabeth Canning was not 
 acquainted with Mother Wells, or her, house, nor ever 
 there, in any other manner than as she herself hath 
 informed us, her evidence stands confirmed by the 
 best and strongest testimony imaginable, and that is 
 by the declaration of the defendant Wells herself. It 
 is true indeed, that as to her being confined there, 
 Wells utterly denies it, but she as positively affirms that 
 this Elizabeth Canning was never there at any other 
 time, nor in any other manner. From this point then, 
 so established, will result an utter impossibility; for 
 unless this poor girl had been well acquainted with 
 the house, the hay-loft, the pitcher, &c, how was 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 19 
 
 it possible that she should describe them all so very 
 exactly as she did, at her return to her mother's, in 
 the presence of such numbers of people ? Nay, she 
 described likewise, the prospect that appeared from the 
 hay-loft, with such exactness, as required a long time 
 to furnish her with the particulars of. I know but 
 two ways of her being enabled to give this description ; 
 either she must have been there herself, or must have 
 had her information from some other. As to the former, 
 Wells herself denies it; and as to the latter, I leave 
 to the conjecture of my ingenious reader, whether it 
 was Mother Wells herself, the Gipsy woman, Virtue 
 Hall, or who else that instructed Elizabeth Canning in 
 all these particulars. 
 
 In the mean time, I shall beg leave to conclude, 
 either that we must account for the girl's knowledge 
 one of the ways which I have mentioned ; or, secondly, 
 we must believe an impossibility; or, thirdly, we must 
 swallow the truth of this relation, though it be as hard 
 a morsel as any which the poor girl fed on during her 
 whole confinement. 
 
 And now I come to a piece of evidence which hath 
 been the principal foundation of that credit which I 
 have given to this extraordinary story. It appeared to 
 me at first to be convincing and unsurmountable, in 
 the same light it appeared to a gentleman whose 
 understanding and sagacity are of the very first rate, 
 and who is one of the best lawyers of his time; he 
 owned that this evidence seemed to him to be un- 
 answerable, so I acknowledge it yet seems to me, and 
 till I shall receive an answer, I must continue to be- 
 lieve the fact which rests upon it. 
 
 In order to lay this evidence before the reader in a 
 fair and just light, it. will be necessary to give a 
 brief relation of the order of proceedings in this case, 
 
20 THE CASE OF 
 
 down to the time when Virtue Hall appeared first 
 before me. 
 
 Upon the return of Elizabeth Canning to her mother's 
 house in the manner above set forth, and upon the 
 account which she gave of her unprecedented sufferings, 
 the visible marks of which then appeared on her body, 
 all her neighbours began to fire with resentment against 
 the several actors concerned in so cruel a scene; and 
 presently some of the most substantial of these neigh- 
 bours proposed to raise a contribution amongst them- 
 selves, in order, if possible, to bring the villains who 
 had injured this poor girl to exemplary justice: as 
 soon, therefore, as she was able to bear the journey, 
 they put her into a chaise, and taking with them proper 
 peace officers, conveyed the girl along the Hertford 
 Roadj to see if she was able to trace out the house 
 where she had been confined; for she at that time knew 
 not the name of the place, nor could she sufficiently 
 describe the situation of Wells's house, though she had 
 before so exactly described the inside of it. Possibly, 
 indeed, she might never have been able to have dis- 
 covered the house at all, had it not been for a very 
 extraordinary incident, and this was, that through the 
 chinks or crevices of the boards of the hay-loft, she 
 saw at a distance the Hertford stage coach pass by, 
 the driver of which she knew, though he past not near 
 enough for her to call to him with any hopes of 
 success, and by this extraordinary circumstance she 
 came to know that the house stood on the Hertford 
 Eoad. 
 
 When they arrived at this house the poor girl was 
 taken out of the chaise, and placed on a table in the 
 kitchen, where all the family passed in review before 
 her ; she then fixed on the Gipsy woman, whom she 
 had very particularly described before, and who is, per- 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 21 
 
 haps, the most remarkable person in the whole world; 
 she charged likewise Virtue Hall, whose countenance 
 likewise is very easy to be remembered by those who 
 have once seen her. 
 
 The whole family, however, though no more were 
 positively charged by Elizabeth Canning, being put all 
 into a cart were conducted before Mr. Tyshemaher, who 
 is a justice of the peace for the County of Middlesex, 
 who, having first examined Elizabeth Canning alone, but 
 without taking from her any information in writing, 
 did afterwards examine all the parties, and in the end 
 committed the Gipsy woman and Wells — the former for 
 taking away the stays from Elizabeth Canning, and the 
 latter for keeping a disorderly house. 
 
 And here the reader will be pleased to observe these 
 facts : 
 
 First, That Elizabeth Canning did not make any 
 information in writing before this justice. 
 
 Secondly, That the history of the fact that she re- 
 lated to the justice was not in the presence of Virtue 
 Hall 
 
 Thirdly, That Elizabeth Canning, so cautious is she 
 in taking her oath, declared that she could not swear 
 to the Gipsy's son, as the men's hats were flapped 
 over their faces in the house, and as when she was 
 first assaulted it was so very dark, she could not dis- 
 tinguish their countenances, nor did she charge Wells 
 with any crime at all, except that which resulted from 
 the tenor of her whole evidence of keeping a disorderly 
 house. 
 
 Lastly, That Virtue Hall did, at that time, absolutely 
 deny that she knew anything of the matter, and de- 
 clared that Elizabeth Canning had never been in Wells's 
 house, to her knowledge, till that day, nor had she 
 ever seen her face before; the consequence of which 
 
22 THE CASE OF 
 
 declaration was, that the Gipsy's son, whom this Virtue 
 Hall hath since accused of the robbery, was discharged 
 by Mr. Tyshemaker.„ 
 
 Elizabeth Canning, with her friends, now returned 
 home to her mother's house, where she continued to 
 languish in a very deplorable condition; and now Mr. 
 Salt, the attorney, who hath been employed in this 
 cause, advised the parties to apply to counsel, and 
 upon this occasion, as he hath done upon many others, 
 he fixed upon me as the counsel to be advised with. 
 
 Accordingly, upon the 6th of February, as I was sit- 
 ting in my room, Counsellor Maden being then with 
 me, my clerk delivered me a case, which was thus, as 
 I remember, endorsed at the top, The Case of Eliza- 
 beth Canning for Mr. Fielding's opinion, and at the 
 bottom, Salt, Solr. Upon the receipt of this case, with 
 my fee, I bid my clerk give my service to Mr. Salt 
 and tell him that I would take the case with me into 
 the country, whither I intended to go the next day, 
 and desired he would call for it on the Friday morning 
 afterwards ; after which, without looking into it, I de- 
 livered it to my wife, who was then drinking tea with 
 us, and who laid it by. 
 
 The reader will pardon my being, so particular in 
 these circumstances, as they seem, however trifling 
 they may be in themselves, to show the true nature 
 of this whole transaction, which hath been so basely 
 misrepresented, and as they will all be attested by a 
 gentleman of fashion, and of as much honour as any 
 in the nation. My clerk presently returned up stairs, 
 and brought Mr. Salt with him, who, when he came 
 into the room, told me that he believed the question 
 would be of very little difficulty, and begged me ear- 
 nestly to read it over then, and give him my opinion, 
 as it was a matter of some haste, being of a criminal 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 23 
 
 nature, and he feared the parties would make their 
 escape. Upon this, I desired him to sit down, and 
 when the tea was ended, I ordered my wife to fetch 
 me back the case, which I then read over, and found 
 it to contain a very full and clear state of* the whole 
 affair relating to the usage of this girl, with a querc 
 what methods might be proper to take to bring the 
 offenders to justice ; which quere I answered in the 
 best manner I was able. Mr. Salt then desired that 
 Elizabeth Canning might swear to her information be- 
 fore me, and added, that it was the very particular 
 desire of several gentlemen of that end of the town, 
 that Virtue Hall might be examined by me relating to 
 her knowledge of this affair. 
 
 This business I at first declined, partly, as it was a 
 transaction which had happened at a distant part of 
 the county, as it had been examined already by a gen- 
 tleman, with whom I have the pleasure of some ac- 
 quaintance, and of whose worth and integrity I have 
 with all, I believe, who know him, a very high opinion; 
 but principally, indeed, for that I had been almost 
 fatigued to death, with several tedious examinations at 
 that time, and had intended to refresh myself with a 
 day or two's interval in the country, where I had not 
 been, unless on a Sunday, for a long time. 
 
 I yielded, however, at last, to the importunities of 
 Mr. Salt ; and my only motives for so doing were, be- 
 sides those importunities, some curiosity, occasioned by 
 the extraordinary nature of the case, and a great com- 
 passion for the dreadful condition of the girl, as it 
 was represented to me by Mr. Salt. 
 
 The next day Elizabeth Canning was brought in a 
 chair to my house, and being lead up stairs between 
 two, the following information, which I had never 
 
24 THE CASE OF 
 
 before seen, was read over to her, when she swore to 
 the truth and set her mark to it. 
 
 Middlesex.] The Information of Elizabeth Canning, 
 of Aldermanbury Postern, London, 
 spinster, taken upon oath this 7th 
 day of February, in the year of Our 
 Lord 1753, before Jlenry Fielding, 
 Esq., one of His Majesty's Justices 
 of the Peace for the County of Mid- 
 dlesex. 
 This informant, upon her oath, saith, That on Monday, 
 the 1st day of January last past, she, this informant, 
 went to see her uncle and aunt, who live at Saltpetre 
 Bank, near Rosemary Lane, in the County of Middlesex, 
 and continued with them until the evening, and saith, 
 That upon her return home about half an hour after 
 nine, being opposite Bethlehem-gate in Moorfields, she, 
 this informant, was seized by two men (whose names 
 are unknown to her, this informant) who both had 
 brown bob-wigs on, and drab-coloured great-coats, ohe 
 of whom held her, this informant, whilst the other 
 feloniously and violently, took from her one shaving 
 hat, one stuff gown, and one linen apron, which she 
 had on; and also, half a guinea in gold, and three 
 shillings in silver ; and then he that held her threatened 
 to do for this informant. And this informant saith, 
 that, immediately after, they, the same two men, 
 violently took hold of her, and dragged her up into 
 the gravel-walk that leads down to the said gate, and 
 about the middle thereof, he, the said man, that 
 first held her, gave her, with his fist, a very violent blow 
 upon the right temple, which threw her into a fit, and 
 deprived her of her senses, (which fits she, this infor- 
 mant, saith she is accustomed and subject to upon being 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 25 
 
 frighted, and that they often continue for six or seven 
 hours. And this informant saith, that when she came to 
 herself, she perceived that she was carrying along by the 
 same two men, in a large road-way: and saith, that 
 in a little time after, she was so recovered she was 
 able to walk alone ; however they continued to pull 
 her along, which still so intimidated and frighted her, 
 that she durst not call out for assistance, or speak to 
 them. And this informant saith, that, in about half an 
 hour after she had so recovered herself, they, the said 
 two men, carried her, this informant, into a house, 
 (which, as she, this informant, heard from some of them, 
 was about four o'clock in the morning, and which house, 
 as she, this informant, hath since heard and believes, 
 is situate at Enfield-wash in the County of Middlesex, 
 and is reputed to be a very bad and disorderly bawdy- 
 house, and occupied by one Wells widow) and there 
 
 this informant saw, in the kitchen, an old Gipsy 
 woman, and two young women, whose names were 
 unknown to this informant; but the name of one of 
 them this informant hath since heard, and believes is 
 Virtue Hall, and saith, that the said old Gipsy woman 
 took hold of this informant's hand, and promised to 
 give her fine clothes if she would go their way (mean- 
 ing, as this informant understood, to become a prosti- 
 tute) ; which this informant, refusing to do, she, the 
 said old Gipsy woman, took a knife out of a drawer, 
 and cut the lace of the stays of her, this informant, 
 and took the said stays away from her ; and one 
 of the said men took off her cap, and then the said 
 two men went away with it, and she, this infor- 
 mant, hath never since seen any of her things. And 
 this informant saith, that soon after they were gone 
 (which she, this informant, believes was about five 
 in the morning) she, the said old Gipsy woman, 
 vol. x. e 
 
26 THE CASE OF 
 
 forced her, this informant, up an old pair of stairs, 
 and pushed her into a back room like a hay-loft, 
 without any furniture whatsoever in the same, and 
 there locked her, this informant, up, threatening her, 
 this informant, that if she made the least noise or 
 disturbance, she, the said old Gipsy woman, would cut 
 her throat, and then she went away. And this infor- 
 mant saith, that when it grew light, upon her looking 
 round to see in what a dismal place she was, 
 she, this informant, discovered a large black jug, with 
 the neck much broken, wherein was some water; 
 and upon the floor, several pieces of bread, near in 
 quantity to a quartern loaf, and a small parcel of 
 hay: and saith, that she continued in this room or 
 place, from the said Tuesday morning, the 2nd clay 
 of January, until about half-an-hour after four of the 
 clock in the afternoon of Monday, the 29th day 
 of the same month of January, without having 
 or receiving any other sustenance or provision, than 
 the said bread and water (except a small minced-pie, 
 which she, this informant, had in her pocket) ; or any 
 thing to lie on other than the said hay, and with- 
 out any person or persons coming to her, although she 
 often heard the name of Mrs. and Mother Wells, 
 called upon, whom she understood was the mistress 
 of the house. And this informant saith, that on 
 Friday, the 26th day of January last past, she, this 
 informant, had consumed all the aforesaid bread 
 and water, and continued without having any thing 
 to eat or drink until the Monday following, when 
 she, this informant, being almost famished with hunger, 
 and starved with cold, and almost naked during the 
 whole time of her confinement, about half-an-hour 
 after four in the afternoon of the said 29th day 
 of January, broke out at a window of the said 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 27 
 
 room or place, and got to her friends in London, 
 about a quarter after ten the same night, in a most 
 weak, miserable condition, being very near starved to 
 death. And this informant saith, that she ever since 
 hath been, and now is, in a very weak and declin- 
 ing state and condition of health, and although all 
 possible care and assistance is given her, yet what- 
 ever small nutriment she, this informant, is able to 
 take, the same receives no passage through her, but 
 what is forced by the apothecary's assistance and 
 medicines. 
 
 The mark of 
 E.C. 
 Sworn before me, Elizabeth Canning. 
 
 this 1th of Feb. 1753. 
 H. FIELDING. 
 
 Upon this information, I issued a warrant against 
 all who should be found resident in the house of 
 the said Wells, as idle and disorderly persons, and 
 persons of evil fame, that they might appear before 
 me, to give security for their good behaviour ; upon 
 which warrant, Virtue Hall, and one Judith Natus were 
 seized and brought before me, both being found at 
 Mother Wells's : they were in my house above an 
 hour or more before I was at leisure to see them, 
 during which time, and before I had ever seen Virtue 
 Hall, I was informed, that she would confess the 
 whole matter. When she came before me she appeared 
 in tears, and seemed all over in a trembling condition ; 
 upon which I endeavoured to soothe and comfort her : 
 the words I first spoke to her, as well as I can 
 remember, were these, — child, you need not be under 
 this fear and apprehension; if you will tell us the 
 whole truth of this affair, I give you my word and 
 
28 
 
 THE CASE OF 
 
 honour, as far as it is in my power, to protect yon; 
 yon shall come to no manner of harm. She answered, 
 that she would tell the whole truth, but desired to 
 have some time given her to recover from her fright; 
 upon this, I ordered a chair to be brought her, and 
 desired her to sit down, and then, after some minutes, 
 began to examine her ; which I continued doing, in 
 the softest language and kindest manner I was able, 
 for a considerable time, till she had been guilty of so 
 many prevarications and contradictions, that I told 
 her I would examine her no longer, but would com- 
 mit her to prison, and leave her to stand or fall by 
 the evidence against her ; and at the same time advised 
 Mr. Salt to prosecute her as a felon, together with 
 the Gipsy woman ; upon this, she begged I would 
 hear her once more, and said that she would tell 
 the whole truth, and accounted for her unwillingness 
 to do it, from the fears of the Gipsy woman, and 
 Wells. I then asked her a few questions, which she 
 answered with more appearance of truth than she had 
 done before; after which, I recommended to Mr. 
 Salt to go with her and take her information in 
 writing ; and at her parting from me, I bid her be 
 a good girl, and to be sure to say neither more nor 
 less than the whole truth. During this whole time, 
 there were no less than ten or a dozen persons of 
 credit present, who will, I suppose, testify the truth 
 of this whole transaction as it is here related. Virtue 
 Hall then went from me, and returned in about 
 two hours, when the following information, which was, 
 as she said, taken from her mouth, was read over to 
 her and signed with her mark. 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 29 
 
 The Information of Virtue Hall, late of 
 the parish of Enfield in the County 
 of Middlesex, Spinster, taken upon 
 oath this 13th day of February, 1753, 
 before me, Henry Fielding, Esq., one 
 of His Majesty's Justices of the Peace 
 for the County of Middlesex. 
 This informant, upon her oath, saith, that on Tues- 
 day the 2nd day of January, last past, about four of 
 the clock in the morning, a young woman, whose 
 name, this informant hath since heard, is Elizabeth 
 Canning, was brought (without any gown, hat, or 
 apron on) to the house of one Susannah Wells, of 
 Enfield Wash, in the county aforesaid, widow, by two 
 men, the name of one of whom is John Squires, the 
 reputed son of one Mary Squires, an old Gipsy woman, 
 who then, and some little time before, had lodged 
 at the house of the said Susannah Wells, but the 
 name of the other of the said two men this in- 
 formant knows not, she, this informant, never having 
 seen him before or since to the best of her knowledge. 
 And this informant saith, that when she the said 
 Elizabeth Canning, was brought into the kitchen of 
 the said Wells s house, there were present the said 
 Mary Squires, John Squires, the man unknown, Catherine 
 Squires, the reputed daughter of the said Mary Squires, 
 and this informant ; and this informant does not 
 recollect that any one else was in the said kitchen 
 at that time : and saith, that immediately upon her, 
 the said Elizabeth Canning being brought in, the said 
 John Squires said, here mother take this girl, or used 
 words to that effect ; and she, the said Mary Squires, 
 asked him where they had brought her from : and 
 John said from Moorfields; and told his said mother 
 
30 THE CASE OF 
 
 that they had taken her gown, apron, hat, and half 
 a guinea from her, to the best of this informant's 
 recollection and belief; whereupon she, the said Mary 
 Squires, took hold of the said Elizabeth Canning's hand, 
 and asked her if she would go their way, or words 
 to that effect ; and upon the said Elizabeth Canning 
 answering no, she, the said Mary Squires, took a knife 
 out of the drawer of the dresser in the kitchen, and 
 therewith cut the lace of the said Elizabeth Canning's 
 stays, and took the said stays away from her, and 
 hung them on the back of a chair, and the said 
 man unknown, took the cap off the said Elizabeth Can- 
 ning's head, and then he, with the said John Squires, 
 went out of doors with it. And this informant saith, 
 that quickly after they were gone, she, the said Mary 
 Squires, pushed the said Elizabeth Canning along the 
 kitchen towards and up a pair of stairs leading into a 
 large back room like a loft, called the workshop, where 
 there was some hay; and whilst she, the said Mary 
 Squires, was pushing her, the said Elizabeth Canning, 
 towards the stairs, she, the said Susannah "Wells, came 
 into the kitchen and asked the said Mary Squires what 
 she was going to push the girl up stairs for, or words 
 to that effect, and to the best of this informant's 
 recollection and belief, the said Mary Squires answered — 
 What is that to you? you have no business with it. 
 Whereupon the said Susannah Wells directly went out of 
 the kitchen into an opposite room called the parlour, 
 from whence she came, as this informant believes. And 
 this informant saith that the said Mary Squires forced 
 the said Elizabeth Canning up stairs into the said work- 
 shop, and buttoned the door at the bottom of the stairs 
 in the kitchen upon her, and confined her there. And 
 this informant saith, that about two hours after, a quantity 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 31 
 
 of water in an old broken-mouthed large black jug was 
 carried up the said stairs, and put clown upon the floor 
 of the said workshop at the top of the stairs, to the best 
 of this informant's recollection and belief. And this in- 
 formant saith, that soon after the said Elizabeth Canning 
 was so put into the said workshop, and the said Susannah 
 Wells was returned into the parlour, the said John Squires 
 returned again into the kitchen, and took the stays from 
 off the chair and went away with the same, and in about 
 an hour's time returned and went into the parlour with 
 the said Susannah Wells ; he, the said John Squires, came 
 again into the kitchen, and then this informant went into 
 the parlour to the said Susannah Wells, and the said 
 Susannah Wells there said to the informant, Virtue, the 
 Gipsy man (meaning the said John Squires) has been 
 telling me that his mother had cut the girl's (meaning 
 the said Elizabeth Canning s) stays off her back, and that 
 he has got them; and further said I desire you will 
 not make a clack of it for fear it should be blown, or 
 used words to that or the like effect. And this informant 
 saith that from the time of the said Elizabeth Canning 
 being so confined in the morning of the said 2nd day of 
 January, in manner as aforesaid, she, the said Elizabeth 
 Canning was not missed or discovered to have escaped out 
 of the said workshop until Wednesday, the 31st day of 
 the same month of January, as she, this informant, verily 
 believes; for that to the best of this informant's recollec- 
 tion and belief, she was the person that first missed the 
 said Elizabeth Canning thereout. And this informant saith, 
 that the said Susannah Wells harboured and continued 
 the said Mary Squires in her aforesaid house from 
 the time of the said Mary Squires robbing the said 
 Elizabeth Canning of her stays, until Thursday, the 1st 
 day of February last past, when the said Susannah Wells, 
 
32 THE CASE OF 
 
 Sarah, her daughter, Mary Squires, John Squires, his 
 two sisters, Catherine and Mary Squires, Fortune Natus, 
 and Sarah, his wife, and this informant, were appre- 
 hended on account thereof, and carried before Justice 
 Tyshemaker. And this informant saith, that Fortune 
 Natus and Sarah his wife, to the best of this in- 
 formant's recollection and belief, have lodged in the 
 house of the said Susannah Wells about eleven weeks 
 next before Monday, the 5th day of February instant, 
 and layed on a bed of hay spread in the kitchen 
 at night, which was in the day-time pushed up in 
 a corner thereof, and continued lying there, when 
 at home, until Thursday, the said 5th day of February, 
 when, before the said Mr. Tyshemaker, all, except the 
 said Susannah Wells and Mary Squires, were dis- 
 charged, and then that evening the said Fortune 
 Natus and Sarah, his wife, laid up in the said work- 
 shop where the said Elizabeth Canning had been 
 confined, so that, as this informant understood, it 
 might be pretended that they had lain in the said 
 workshop for all the time they had lodged in the 
 said Susannah Wells's house. And saith, that on the 
 day on which it was discovered that the said Elizabeth 
 Canning had made her escape out of the said work- 
 shop, by breaking down some boards slightly affixed 
 across the window-place, the said Sarah, daughter of 
 the said Susannah Wells, nailed up the said window- 
 place again with boards, so that the said window- 
 place might not appear to have been broke open. And 
 lastly, this informant saith, that she, this informant, 
 hath lived with the said Susannah Wells about a 
 quarter of a year last past, and well knows that the 
 said Susannah Wells, during that time, hath kept a 
 very notorious, ill-governed and disorderly house, and 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 33 
 
 has had the character of doing so for many years 
 past; and that the said Susannah Wells well laaew 
 and was privy to the confinement of the said Elizabeth 
 Canning. 
 
 Sworn before me, this Her 
 
 14th February 1753. Virtue Hall x Mark. 
 
 H. FIELDING. 
 
 The reader will be pleased to consider the nature of 
 this information truly taken in the manner above 
 set down, to compare it with the evidence given by 
 this Virtue Hall at her trial, and lastly, to compare 
 it with the evidence of Elizabeth Canning, and then 
 I am much mistaken if he condemns either the judge 
 or jury. 
 
 After I had finished the examination of Virtue Hall, 
 one Judith Natus, the wife of Fortune Natus, whom 
 I apprehend to belong to the Gipsies, and who 
 was found in the house with Virtue Hall, being 
 examined upon her oath before me, declared, that 
 she and her husband lay in the same room where 
 Elizabeth Canning pretended to have been confined 
 during the whole time of her pretended confinement, 
 and declared that she had never seen nor heard of 
 any such person as Elizabeth Canning in Wells's 
 house. Upon this, Virtue Hall, of her own accord, 
 affirmed, as she doth in her information in writing, 
 these two persons were introduced into that room, to 
 lie there, by Mother Wells, to give a colour to the 
 defence which Wells was to make, and which these 
 people, in the presence of Virtue Hall, had agreed to 
 swear to. 
 
 Upon this some persons, who where present, were 
 desirous that this Judith Natus should be committed 
 for perjury, but I told them that such a proceeding 
 would be contrary to law, for that I might as well 
 
 F 
 
34 THE CASE OF 
 
 commit Virtue Hall upon the evidence of Judith 
 Natus. However, as I confess I myself thought her 
 guilty of perjury, I gave her some little caution, and 
 told her that she ought to be very sure of the truth 
 of what she said, if she intended to give that evidence 
 at the Old Bailey, and then discharged her. 
 
 The next day Virtue Hall came again before me, but 
 nothing material passed, nor was she three minutes 
 in my presence. I then ordered detainers for felony 
 against the Gipsy woman and Wells to be sent to the 
 prisons where they then lay, upon the commitments of 
 Mr. Tyshemaker, and thus ended all the trouble which 
 I thought it was necessary for me to give myself in 
 this affair ; for, as to the Gipsy woman or Wells, those 
 who understand the law well know I had no business 
 with them. 
 
 Some days afterwards, however, upon my return to 
 town, my clerk informed me that several noble lords had 
 sent to my house in my absence, desiring to be present 
 at the examination of the Gipsy woman. Of this I 
 informed Mr. Salt, and desired him to bring Elizabeth 
 C aiming and Virtue Hall, in order to swear their 
 several informations again in the presence of the Gipsy 
 woman and Wells, and appointed him a day for so 
 doing, of which I sent an advice to the noble lords. 
 
 One of these, namely, Lord Montfort, together with 
 several gentlemen of fashion, came at the appointed 
 time. They were in my room before the prisoners or 
 witnesses were brought up. The informations were read 
 to the two prisoners; after which I asked the prison- 
 ers a very few questions, and in what manner I 
 behaved to them, let all who were present testify ; I 
 can truly say, that my memory doth not charge me 
 with having ever insulted the lowest wretch that hath 
 been brought before me, 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 35 
 
 The prisoners and witnesses left the room while all 
 the company remained in it; and from that time to 
 this day I never saw the face of Virtue Hall, unless 
 once when she came before me with Canning, to see 
 a man who was taken on suspicion of the robbery, 
 and when I scarce spoke to her ; nor should I have 
 seen Elizabeth Canning more, had not I received a 
 message from some gentlemen desiring my advice 
 how to dispose of some money which they had col- 
 lected for the use of Elizabeth Canning, in the best 
 manner for her advantage ; upon which occasion I 
 ordered her to be sent for, to meet one of the gentle- 
 men at my house : and had I not likewise been 
 informed, since the trial, that a great number of 
 affidavits, proving that the Gipsy woman was at Ab- 
 botsbury in Dorsetshire, at the very time when Elizabeth 
 Canning had sworn that she was robbed by her at 
 Enfield Wash, were arrived at my lord mayor's office. 
 Upon this I sent for her once more, and endeavoured 
 by all means in my power to sift the truth out of her, 
 and to bring her to a confession if she was guilty; 
 but she persisted in the truth of the evidence that 
 she had given, and with such an appearance of 
 innocence, as persuaded all present of the justice of 
 her cause. 
 
 Thus have I very minutely recited the whole concern 
 which I had in this affair, unless that after I had 
 discharged my whole duty as a justice of the peace, 
 Mr. Salt came again to consult with me concerning 
 the crime of which Wells was accused, and the manner 
 of prosecuting her, upon a point of law, which is by 
 no means a very easy one, namely, that of accessories 
 after the fact in felony, upon which I gave him my 
 opinion. 
 
 And now, having run through the process of the 
 
36 THE CASE OF 
 
 affair as far as to the trial, which is already in print, 
 I come to lay before the reader that point of evidence 
 on which, as I have said, so great a stress ought to 
 be laid, a point on which indeed any cause whatever 
 might be safely rested: this is the agreement, in so 
 many particular circumstances, between the evidence 
 of Elizabeth Canning and Virtue Hall. That Virtue 
 Hall had never seen nor heard the evidence of Elizabeth 
 Canning at the time when she made her own infor- 
 mation, is a fact ; nay, had she even heard the other 
 repeat it once over before a justice of peace, that she 
 should be able, at a distance of time, to retain every 
 particular circumstance so exactly as to make it 
 tally in the manner her information doth with that 
 of Elizabeth Canning, is a supposition in the highest 
 degree absurd, and those who can believe it can 
 believe that which is much more incredible than any 
 thing in the narrative of Elizabeth Canning. 
 
 The only way therefore to account for this is, by 
 supposing that the two girls laid this story together. 
 To the probability and indeed possibility of this sup- 
 position, I object. 
 
 First, That from the whole circumstances of this 
 case it appears manifestly that they had never seen 
 the face of each other (unless Canning be believed as 
 to the time when she was brought into Wells's) before 
 the persons came to apprehend her, nay, Wells her- 
 self declared before me that Canning had never been 
 in her house, and the other scarce ever out of it 
 during the whole month in question. 
 
 Secondly, If we could suppose they had met together so 
 as to form this story, the behaviour of Virtue Hall before 
 Mr. Tyshemaker would entirely destroy any such sup- 
 position, for there this Virtue Hall was so far from 
 being in the same story with Elizabeth Canning, that 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 37 
 
 she there affirmed she knew nothing of the matter, 
 and she had then no reason to apprehend any further 
 examination; nor is it possible to conceive that these 
 two girls should afterwards enter into any such agree- 
 ment. From the day of the examination before Mr. 
 Tyshemaker, till Virtue Hall came before me, the two 
 girls never saw the face of each other, the one re- 
 mained sick at her mother's in town, the other con- 
 tinued at Wells's house at Enfield, in company with 
 those who yet persist in their friendship to Wells and 
 the Gipsy. In reality, I never yet heard a fact better 
 established in a court of justice than this, that Eliza- 
 beth Canning and Virtue Hall did not lay this story 
 together, nay, even she herself doth not, as I have 
 heard, since her apostacy, pretend to say any such 
 thing, but imputes her evidence to her being threat- 
 ened and bullied into it, which, to my own knowledge, 
 and that of many others, is a most impudent false- 
 hood; and, secondly, ascribes her agreeing with Eliza- 
 beth Canning to having heard her deliver her evidence, 
 which, besides being impossible, can be proved to be 
 another notorious falsehood, by a great number of 
 witnesses of indisputable credit. 
 
 So that I think I am here entitled to the following 
 syllogistical conclusion : 
 
 Whenever two witnesses declare a fact, and agree in 
 all the circumstances of it, either the fact is true or 
 they have previously concerted the evidence between 
 themselves. 
 
 But in this case it is impossible that these girls 
 should have so previously concerted the evidence : 
 
 And, therefore, the fact is true. 
 
 The reader will be pleased to observe, that I do not 
 here lay any weight on the evidence of Virtue Hall, 
 as far as her own credit is necessary to support that 
 
38 THE CASE OF 
 
 evidence, for In truth she deserves no credit at all; 
 the weight which I here lay on her evidence is so far 
 only as it is supported by that evidence of fact which 
 alone is always safely to be depended upon, as it is 
 alone incapable of a lie. 
 
 And here, though I might very well rest the merits 
 of the whole cause on this single point, yet I cannot 
 conclude the case of this poor girl without one obser- 
 vation, which hath, I own, surprised me, and will, I 
 doubt not, surprise the reader. It is this, Why did 
 not the Gipsy woman and Wells produce the evidence 
 of Fortune Natus and his wife in their defence at their 
 trial, since that evidence, as they well knew, was so 
 very strong in their behalf, that had the jury believed 
 it, they must have been acquitted? For my own part, 
 I can give but one answer to this, and that is too 
 obvious to need to be here mentioned. 
 
 Nor will I quit this case, without observing the 
 pretty incident of the minced pie, which, as it possibly 
 saved this poor girl's life, so doth the intention of 
 carrying it home to her little brother serve very highly 
 to represent the goodness as well as childishness and 
 simplicity of her character ; a character so strongly 
 imprinted in her countenance, and attested by all her 
 neighbours. 
 
 Upon the whole, this case, whether it be considered 
 in a private or a public light, deserves to be scruti- 
 nised to the bottom; and that can be only done by 
 the Government's authorising some very capable and 
 very indifferent persons to examine into it, and parti- 
 cularly into the alibi defence of Mary Squires, the 
 Gipsy woman. On the one side here is the life of a 
 subject at stake, who, if her defence is true, is inno- 
 cent; and a young girl, guilty of the blackest, most 
 premeditated, and most audacious perjury, levelled 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 39 
 
 against the lives of several innocent persons. On the 
 other side, if the evidence of Elizabeth Canning is true, 
 and perjury should, nevertheless, prevail against her, 
 an innocent young creature, who hath suffered the 
 most cruel and unheard-of injuries, is in danger of 
 being rewarded for them by ruin and infamy; and 
 what must extremely aggravate her case, and will dis- 
 tinguish her misery from that of all other wretches 
 upon earth, is, that she will owe all this ruin and in- 
 famy to this strange circumstance, that her sufferings 
 have been beyond what human nature is supposed 
 capable of bearing; whilst robbery, cruelty, and the 
 most impudent of all perjuries, will escape with im- 
 punity and triumph; and, therefore, will so escape, 
 because the barbarity of the guilty parties hath risen 
 to a pitch of wanton and untempted inhumanity, be- 
 yond all possibility of belief. 
 
 As to my own conduct in this affair, which I have 
 deduced with the most minute exactness, I know it to be 
 highly justifiable before God and before man. I frankly 
 own I thought it entitled me to the very reverse of 
 censure. The truth is, the same motive prevailed with 
 me then, which principally urged me to take up my 
 pen at this time, a desire to protect innocence and to 
 detect guilt ; and the delight in so doing was the only 
 reward I ever expected, so help me God ; and I have 
 the satisfaction to be assured that those who know me 
 best will most believe me. 
 
 In solemn truth, the only error I can ever be pos- 
 sibly charged with in this case is an error in sagacity. 
 If Elizabeth Canning be guilty of a false accusation, I 
 own she hath been capable of imposing on me; but I 
 have the comfort to think the same imposition hath 
 passed not only on two juries, but likewise on one of 
 the best judges that ever sate on the bench of justice,. 
 
40 THE CASE OF 
 
 and on two other very able judges who were present 
 at the trial. 
 
 I do not, for my own part, pretend to infallibility, 
 though I can at the same time with truth declare that 
 I have never spared any pains in endeavouring to de- 
 tect falsehood and perjury, and have had some very 
 notable success that way. 
 
 In this case, however, one of the most simple girls 
 I ever saw, if she be a wicked one, hath been too hard 
 for me ; supposing her to be such, she hath indeed 
 most grossly deceived me, for I remain still in the 
 same error; and I appeal, in the most solemn manner, 
 to the Almighty for the truth of what I now assert. 
 I am at this very time on this 15th day of March, 
 1753, as firmly persuaded as I am of any fact in this 
 world, the truth of which depends solely on the evi- 
 dence of others, that Mary Squires, the Gipsy woman, 
 is guilty of the robbery and cruelty of which she 
 stands convicted ; that the alibi defence is not only a 
 false one, but a falsehood very easy to be practised on 
 all occasions where there are gangs of people, as 
 Gipsies, &c. ; that very foul and unjustifiable practices 
 have been used in this whole affair since the trial, 
 and that Elizabeth Canning is a poor, honest, innocent, 
 simple girl, and the most unhappy and most injured 
 of all human beings. 
 
 It is this persuasion alone, I repeat it again, which 
 occasioned me to give the public this trouble; for as 
 to myself I am, in my own opinion, as little concerned 
 in the event of this whole matter as any other man 
 whatever. 
 
 "Whatever warmth I have at last contracted in this 
 matter, I have contracted from those who have been 
 much warmer on the other side ; nor can any such 
 magistrate blame me, since we must, I am persuaded, 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 41 
 
 act from the same motive of doing justice to injured 
 innocence. This is surely the duty of every man, and 
 a very indispensible duty it is, if we believe one of the 
 best of writers. Qui non defendit, nee obsistit, si potest, 
 injuria, tarn erit in vitio quam si parentes, aut amicos, aut 
 patriam deserat. These are Tully's words, and they are 
 in the most especial manner applicable to every magis- 
 trate. 
 
 To the merit of having discharged this duty, my lord 
 mayor as well as myself have a just title at all events. 
 And for my own part, as I do not expect to gain, so 
 neither do I fear to lose any other honour on the 
 final issue of this affair; for surely the cause is of 
 such a nature that a man must be intolerably vain 
 who is ashamed of being mistaken on either side. To 
 be placed above the reach of deceit is to be placed 
 above the rank of a human being ; sure I am that I 
 make no pretension to be of that rank; indeed I have 
 been often deceived in my opinion of men, and have 
 served and recommended to others those persons whom 
 I have afterwards discovered to be totally worthless. 
 I shall, in short, be very well contented with the cha- 
 racter which Cicero gives of Epicurus. Quis ilium negat 
 m bonum virum d comem & humanum fuisse I And 
 whoever will allow me this, which I must own I think 
 I deserve, shall have my leave to add, tamen, si licec 
 vera sunt non satis acutus fuit. 
 
 In solemn truth so little desirous am I to be found in 
 the right, that I shall not be in the least displeased to 
 find myself mistaken. This indeed I ought, as a good 
 man, to wish may be the case, since that this country 
 should have produced one great monster of iniquity is a 
 reflection much less shocking than to consider the nation 
 to be arrived at such an alarming state of profligacy, 
 and our laws and government to lie in so languish- 
 es 
 
42 THE CASE OF 
 
 ing a condition that a gang of wretches like these 
 sh6uld dare to form such an impudent attempt to 
 elude public justice, nay, rather to overbear it by the 
 force of associated perjury in the face of the whole 
 world; and that this audacious attempt should have 
 had, at least, a very high probability of succeeding. 
 
 This is the light in which I see this case at present. 
 I conclude, therefore, with hoping that the government 
 will authorise some proper persons to examine to the 
 very bottom, a matter in which the honour of our 
 national justice is so deeply concerned. 
 
 POSTSCEIPT 
 
 In the extreme hurry in which the foregoing case 
 was drawn up, I forgot to observe one strange cir- 
 cumstance which will attend the case of Elizabeth 
 Canning, if it should be admitted to be a forgery; 
 this is, ihat she should charge the Gipsy woman, 
 when she must have known that woman could prove 
 an alibi, and not Susannah Wells,, who could have 
 had no such proof. This will be very strong if ap- 
 plied to the evidence of Canning, but much stronger 
 when applied to the evidence of Virtue Hall, who 
 lived in the house the whole time. 
 
 This appears to be very simple conduct; and, as 
 such, indeed, is consistent enough with her character. 
 So is not the artful manner in which the charge was 
 brought out; first, Canning accused the Gipsy woman, 
 and went no further; then Hall brought the rest upon 
 the stage, all in such regularity, and with such 
 appearance of truth that no Newgate solicitor ever 
 
ELIZABETH CANNING. 43 
 
 ranged his evidence in better order. But, perhaps, 
 I might have spared my reader these observations, as 
 I can now inform him that I have this very afternoon 
 (Sunday the 18th instant) read over a great number of 
 affidavits corroborating the whole evidence of Canning, 
 and contradicting the alibi defence of the Gipsy woman. 
 I shall only add, that these affidavits are by unquestion- 
 able witnesses, and sworn before three worthy Justices 
 of the County of Middlesex, who lived in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Enfield Washe. 
 
A 
 
 TBUE STATE 
 
 CASE 
 
 OF 
 
 BOSAVERN PBNLEZ 
 
 WHO SUFFEBED ON ACCOUNT OF THE LATE 
 RIOT IN THE STRAND, 
 
 In which the Law, regarding these Offences and the Statute of George 
 the First, commonly called the Riot Act, are fully considered. 
 
 HENRY FIELDING, Esq., 
 
 Barrister at Law, and one of His Majesty's Justices of the Peace for the 
 County of Middlesex, and for the City and Liberty of Westminster. 
 
TRUE STATE 
 
 CASE 
 
 BOSAVEEN PBNLBZ 
 
 It may easily be imagined that a man whose character 
 hath been so barbarously, even without the least regard 
 to truth or decency, aspersed on account of his endea- 
 vours to defend the present government, might wish to 
 decline any future appearance as a political writer ; and 
 this possibly may be thought by some a sufficient reason 
 of that reluctance with which I am drawn forth to do an 
 act of justice to my King and his administration, by dis- 
 abusing the public, which hath been, in the grossest 
 and wickedest manner, imposed upon, with relation to 
 the case of Bosavem Penlez, who was executed for the 
 late riot in the Strand. 
 
 There is likewise another reason of this reluctance 
 with which those only who know me well can be cer- 
 
48 THE CASE OF 
 
 tainly acquainted ; and that is my own natural disposi- 
 tion. Sure I am, that I greatly deceive myself, if I 
 am not in some little degree partaker of that milk of 
 human kindness which Shakspeare speaks of. I was 
 desirous that a man who had suffered the extremity 
 of the law should be permitted to rest quietly in his 
 grave. I was willing that his punishment should end 
 there; nay, that he should be generally esteemed the 
 object of compassion, and, consequently, a more dreadful 
 example of one of the best of all our laws. 
 
 But when this malefactor is made an object of sedi- 
 tion, when he is transformed into a hero, and the most 
 merciful prince who ever sat on any throne is arraigned 
 of blameable severity, if not of downright cruelty, for 
 suffering justice to take place ; and the sufferer, in- 
 stead of remaining an example to incite terror, is re- 
 commended to our honour and admiration ; I should 
 then think myself worthy of much censure, if having 
 a full justification in my hands, I permitted it to sleep 
 there, and did not lay it before the public, especially 
 as they are appealed to on this occasion. 
 
 Before I enter, however, into the particulars of this 
 man's case, and perform the disagreeable task of raking 
 up the ashes of the dead, though of the meanest degree, 
 to scatter infamy among them, I will premise some- 
 thing concerning the law of riots in general. This I 
 shall do, as well for the justification of the law itself, 
 as for the information of the people, who have been 
 long too ignorant in this respect ; and who, if they are 
 now taught a little better to know the law, are taught 
 at the same time to regard it as cruel and oppressive, 
 and as an innovation on our constitution : for so the 
 statute of George the First, commonly called the Biot 
 Act, hath lately been represented in a public news- 
 paper. 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 49 
 
 If this doctrine had been first broached in this paper, 
 the ignorance of it would not have been worth remark- 
 ing; but it is in truth a repetition only of what hath 
 been formerly said by men who must have known 
 better. Whoever remembers the political writings pub- 
 lished twenty years ago, must remember that among 
 the articles exhibited against a former administration, 
 this of passing the Kiot Act was one of the principal. 
 
 Surely these persons mean to insinuate that by this 
 statute riots were erected into a greater crime than 
 they had ever before been esteemed, and that a more 
 severe punishment was enacted for them than had for- 
 merly been known among us. 
 
 Now the falsehood of this must be abundantly apparent 
 to every one who hath any competent knowledge of our 
 laws. Indeed whoever knows anything of the nature of 
 mankind, or of the history of free countries, must en- 
 tertain a very indifferent opinion of the wisdom of our 
 ancestors, if he can imagine they had not taken the 
 strongest precautions to guard against so dangerous a 
 political disease, and which hath so often produced the 
 most fatal effects. 
 
 Eiots are in our law divided into those of a private 
 and into those of a public kind. The former of these 
 are when a number of people (three at the least) assemble 
 themselves in a tumultuous manner, and commit some 
 act of violence amounting to a breach of the peace, where 
 the occasion of the meeting is to redress some grievance, 
 or to revenge some quarrel of a private nature ; such as 
 to remove the enclosures of lands in a particular parish, 
 or unlawfully and forcibly to gain the possession of some 
 tenement, or to revenge some injury done to one or a 
 few persons, or on some other such private dispute, in 
 which the interest of the public is no ways concerned. 
 
 H 
 
50 THE CASE OF 
 
 Such riot is a very high misdemeanor, and to be punished 
 very severely by fine and imprisonment. 
 
 Mr. Pulton, speaking of this kind of riot, writes thus : 
 
 * Riots, routs, unlawful and rebellious assemblies, have 
 ' been so many times pernicious and fatal enemies to 
 'this kingdom, the peace and tranquility thereof, and 
 1 have so often shaken the foundation, and put in hazard 
 ' the very form and state of government of the same, that 
 ' our law-makers have been enforced to devise from age to 
 ' age, one law upon another, and one statute after another 
 1 for the repressing and punishing of them, and have 
 ' endeavoured by all their wits to snip the sprouts, and 
 ■ quench the very first sparks of them. As every man 
 'may easily perceive there was cause thereof, who will 
 1 look back and call to his remembrance what that small 
 1 riot, begun at Dartmouth, in Kent, in the reign of King 
 ' Eichard the Second, between the collector of a subsidy 
 ' and a Tyler and his wife, about the payment of one poor 
 'groat, did come unto, which being not repressed in 
 
 * time, did grow to so great a rebellion, that after it put in 
 ' hazard the life of the King, the burning of the City of 
 ' London, the overthrow of the whole nobility, gentlemen, 
 ' and all the learned of the land, and the subversion of 
 ' this goodly monarchy and form of government. Or, if 
 ' they will call to mind the small riot or quarrel begun in 
 ' the reign of King Henry the Sixth, between a yeoman of 
 'the guard and a serving-man of Eichard Nevil's, Earl of 
 ' "Warwick, which so far increased for want of restraint, 
 ' that it was the root of many woeful tragedies, and a mean 
 ' to bring to untimely death first Eichard Plantagenet, 
 ' Duke of York, proclaimed successor to the Crown, and 
 ' the chief pillar of the House of York, and after him King 
 ' Henry the Sixth, and Prince Edward his son, the heirs 
 ' of the House of Lancaster, and to ruinate with the one 
 
BOSAVERN PBNLEZ. 51 
 
 1 or the other of them, most of the peers, great men, and 
 ' gentlemen of the realm, besides many thousands of the 
 ' common people. And therefore King Edward the First 
 1 did well ordain, that no sheriffs shall suffer barritors or 
 ' maintainers of quarrels in their counties. And that to all 
 'parliaments, treaties, and other assemblies, each man 
 ' shall come peaceably, without any armour ; and that 
 ' every man shall have armour in his house, according to 
 'his ability, to keep the peace. And King Edward the 
 1 Third provided, that no man shall come before the 
 'justices, nor go or ride armed, And that suspected, 
 ' lewd, and riotous persons shall be arrested, and safely 
 'kept until they be delivered by the justices of goal 
 'delivery. And that justices of peace shall restrain 
 'offenders, rioters, and all other barritors, and pursue, 
 ' take, and chasten them according to their trespass and 
 ' offence. King Eichard the Second did prohibit riots, 
 * routs, and forcible entries into lands, that were made in 
 ' divers counties and parts of the realm. And that none 
 'from thenceforth should make any riot, or rumour. 
 ' And that no man shall ride armed, nor use launcegaies. 
 ' And that no labourer, servant in husbandry, or artificer, 
 ' or victualler, shall wear any buckler, sword, or dagger. 
 'And that all the King's officers shall suppress and 
 'imprison such as make any riots, routs, or unlawful 
 ' assemblies against the peace. King Henry the Fourth 
 'enacted. That the justices of peace and the sheriff 
 ' shall arrest those which commit any riot, rout, or 
 'unlawful assembly, shall enquire of them, and record 
 ' their offences. King Henry the Fifth assigned com- 
 ' missioners to enquire of the same justices and sheriffs 
 ' defaults in that behalf, and also limited what punish- 
 ' ment offenders attainted of riot should sustain. King 
 ' Henry the Seventh ordained, that such persons as were 
 'returned to enquire of riots should have sufficient 
 
52 THE CASE OF 
 
 6 freehold or copyhold land within the same shire. And. 
 'that no maintenance should hinder their inquisition. 
 s And in the reign of Queen Mary there was a necessary 
 6 statute established to restrain and punish unlawful and 
 'rebellious assemblies raised by a multitude of unruly 
 ' persons, to commit certain violent, forcible, and riotous 
 'acts.' 
 
 The second kind of riot is of a public kind ; as 
 where an indefinite* number of persons assembled 
 themselves in a tumultuous manner, in manner of 
 war, arrayed, and commit any open violence with 
 an avowed design of redressing any public .grievance ; 
 as to remove certain persons from the King, or to 
 lay violent hands on a privy- counsellor, or to revenge 
 themselves of a magistrate for executing his office, or 
 to bring down the price of victuals, or to reform the 
 law or religion, or to pull down all bawdy houses, 
 or to remove all enclosures in general, &c.f This 
 riot is high-treason within the words levying war 
 against the king, in the statute of Edward III. ' For 
 here,' says Lord Coke, 'the pretence is public and 
 1 general, and not private in particular. \ And this, 
 1 says he, tho' there be no great number of con- 
 ' spirators, is levying war within th6 purview of the 
 ' above statute/ 
 
 In the reign of King Henry VIII. it was resolved 
 by all the judges of England, that an insurrection 
 against the statute of labourers for the enhancing of 
 salaries and wages, was a levying of war against the 
 King, because it was generally against the King's 
 
 * It may be gathered, perils, from Lord Coke, 3 Inst. 176. that the 
 number ought to be above 7 or at most 34, for such number is, he says, 
 called an arm} r . And a lesser number cannot, I think, be well said to be 
 modo gucvrino arraiati. 
 
 t Hawk. lib. i. cap. 17, sect. 25. 
 
 + 
 i 
 
BOSAVERN PBNLEZ. 53 
 
 law, and the offenders took upon them the reforma- 
 tion thereof, which subjects, by gathering power, 
 ought not to do.* 
 
 In the 20th of Charles II. a special verdict was 
 found at the Old Bailey, that A, B, C, &c, with 
 divers others, to the number of an hundred, assem- 
 bled themselves in manner of war arrayed to pull 
 down bawdy houses, and that they marched with a 
 flag on a staff, and weapons, and pulled down houses 
 in prosecution of their conspiracies ; which by all 
 the judges assembled, except one, was ruled to be 
 high treason.} 
 
 My Lord Chief-Justice Kelyng, who tried the cause, 
 tells us, in his reports, J ' that he directed the jury, 
 ' that he was well satisfied in his own judgement, 
 I that such assembling together as was proved, and 
 ' the pulling down of houses upon pretence they were 
 ' bawdy houses; was high treason, because they took 
 ' upon them regal power to reform that which be- 
 
 * longed to the King by his law and justices to correct 
 ' and reform ; and it would be a strange way and mis- 
 
 * chievous to all people to have such a rude rabble, 
 j without an indictment to proceed in that manner 
 
 * against all persons houses which they would call 
 ! bawdy houses, for then no man were safe ; therefore 
 
 * as that way tore the government out of the King's 
 
 * hands, so it destroyed flie great privilege of the 
 jj people, which is not to be proceeded against, but 
 i upon an indictment first found by a grand jury, and 
 
 * after, upon a legal trial by another jury, where the 
 1 party accused was heard to make his defence ; yet, 
 ' says he, because the Kings of this nation had often- 
 
 * 3 Inst. 10. 
 
 t Hale's History of the Pleas of the Crown, vol. i, p. 134. 
 
54 THE CASE OF 
 
 1 times been so merciful as when such outrages had 
 ' been heretofore done, not to proceed capitally against 
 ' the offenders but to proceed against the offenders 
 
 * in the star-chamber, being willing to reduce their 
 ' people by milder ways, if it were possible, to their 
 'duty and obedience ; yet that lenity of the King 
 ' in some cases did not hinder the King, when 
 ' he saw there was need to proceed in a severer 
 ' way, to take that course which was warranted 
 
 * by law, and to make greater examples, that the 
 ' people may know the law is not wanting so far to 
 ' the safety of the King and his people, as to let 
 ' such outrages go without capital punishment, which 
 ' is at this time absolutely necessary, because we our- 
 
 * selves have seen a rebellion raised by gathering 
 1 people together upon fairer pretences than this was, 
 ' for no such persons use at first to declare their 
 'wickedest design, but when they see that they may 
 ' effect their design, then they will not stick to go 
 i further, and give the law themselves, and destroy 
 ' all that oppose them: but yet because there was no 
 ' body of the long robe there but my brother Wylde, 
 
 * then Kecorder of London, and myself, and that this 
 ' example might have the greater authority, I did re- 
 ' solve that the jury should find the matter specially, 
 ' and then I would procure a meeting of all the 
 ' judges of England, and what was done should be 
 ' by their opinion, that so this question might have 
 i such a resolution as no person afterwards should 
 ' have reason to doubt the law, and all persons might 
 ' be warned how they for the time to come mingle 
 ' themselves with such rabble on any kind of such 
 ' pretences/ 
 
 And afterwards out of six against whom special verdicts 
 were found, four were executed. 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 55 
 
 In the 13th year of Queen Elizabeth, it was made 
 treason to compass, imagine, invent, devise, or intend 
 to levy war against the Queen, &c. 
 
 On this statute Richard Bradshaw, a miller, Robert 
 Burton, a mason, and others of Oxfordshire, were in- 
 dicted and attainted. ' This case,' says Lord Coke, 'was 
 | that they conspired and agreed to assemble themselves, 
 \ with as many as they could procure, at Emflowe Hill, 
 j in the said county, there to rise, and from thence to go 
 | from gentleman's house to gentleman's house, and to 
 \ cast down enclosures as well for enlargement of high- 
 ' ways as of arable lands, &c.' This was resolved to be 
 a compassing to levy war against the Queen, and to be 
 treason, and the offenders were executed at Emflowe 
 Hill.* 
 
 The last mentioned case was in the 30th year of Queen 
 Elizabeth : and two years before that several apprentices 
 of London assembled themselves to the number of three 
 hundred and upwards at Bunhill and Tower Hill, in 
 order to deliver some of their fellows out of prison, 
 and threatened to burn my Lord Mayor's house, and 
 to break open two houses near the Tower where arms 
 were lodged. They had with them a trumpet, and a 
 cloak upon a pole was carried as their colours, and 
 being opposed by the sheriff and sword-bearer of London, 
 offered violence to their persons, and for the offence they 
 were indicted of treason, attainted and executed, f 
 
 Now the reason of the judgment in all these cases was 
 because the offenders had attempted by force and violence 
 to redress grievances of a public nature ; for as Anderson, 
 in his report of the last case tells us, ' When any persons 
 \ intend to levy war for any matter which the King by 
 ' his law and justice ought or can regulate in his govern- 
 
 * 3 Inst. 10, 2 And 66. Poph, 122. 
 t 2 And 2. Hale's Hist,, vol. i. 125. 
 
56 THE CASE OF 
 
 ' ment as King, this shall be intended a levying of war 
 ' against the King ; nor is it material whether they in- 
 ' tend any hurt to the person of the King, if their intent 
 ' be against his office and authority.' This is within the 
 statute of the 13th Elizabeth, and wherever the intent is 
 within that statute, the real levying war is within the 
 statute of Edward III, 
 
 I have set down these cases only to show the light in 
 which these kinds of riots have been always considered by 
 our ancestors, and how severely they have been punished 
 in the most constitutional reigns. 
 
 And yet extensive as this branch of treason on the 
 statute of Edward the Third may seem to have been, it 
 was not held sufficient. For by the 3 and 4 of Edward 
 VI. it was made high treason for twelve persons, or 
 above, being assembled together, to attempt to alter any 
 laws, &c, or to continue together above an hour after they 
 are commanded by a justice of peace, mayor, sheriff, &c, to 
 return. And by the same Act it was made felony for 
 twelve persons, or above, to practice to destroy any park, 
 pond, conduit, or dove-house, &c, or to pull down any 
 houses, barns, or mills, or to abate the rates of any lands, 
 or the prices of any victual, &c. 
 
 This statute was repealed in the ffrst year of Queen 
 Mary, and then it was enacted that * If any persons to the 
 1 number of twelve, or above, being assembled together, 
 ' shall intend, go about, practice, or put in use, with force 
 ' and arms, unlawfully and of their own authority, to 
 ' change any laws made for religion by authority of 
 ' parliament standing in force, or any other laws or 
 ' statutes of this realm, or any of them, the same 
 'number of twelve, or above, being commanded 
 ' or required by the sheriff of the shire, or by any justice 
 ' of peace of the same shire, or by any mayor, sheriff, 
 ' justices of peace, or bailiffs of any city, borough, or 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 57 
 
 'town corporate, where any such assemblies shall be 
 1 lawfully had or made, by proclamation in the Queen's 
 ' name to retire and repair to their houses, habitations, 
 * or places from whence they came, and they or any of 
 ' them, notwithstanding such proclamation, shall con- 
 ' tinue together by the space of one whole hour after such 
 - commandment or request made by proclamation ; or 
 ' after that shall willingly in forcible and riotous manner 
 ' attempt to do or put in ure any of the things above 
 ' specified, that then, as well every such abode together, 
 ' as every such act or offence, shall be adjudged felony, 
 6 and the offenders therein shall be adjudged felons, and 
 6 shall suffer only execution of death, as in case of felony. 
 'And if any persons to the said number of twelve, or 
 ' above, shall go about, &c, to overthrow, cut, cast 
 ' down, or dig the pales, hedges, ditches, or other enclo- 
 4 sure of any park, or other ground enclosed, or the banks 
 ' of any fish-pond or pool, or any conduits for water, con- 
 ' duit-heads, or conduit-pipes having course of water, to 
 ' the intent that the same, or any of them, should from 
 ' thenceforth lie open, or unlawfully to have way or 
 ' common in the said parks or other grounds enclosed, or 
 ' to destroy the deer in any manner of park, or any 
 ' warren of conies, or any dove-houses, or any fish in any 
 i fish-pond or pool, or to pull or cut down any houses, 
 ' barns, mills, or bayes, or to burn any stacks of corn, 
 ' or to abate or diminish the rents of any lands, or the 
 ' price of any victual, corn or grain, or any other thing 
 £ usual for the sustenance of man ; and being required or 
 ' commanded by any justice of peace, &c, by proclama- 
 ' tion to be made, &c, to retire to their habitations, &c, 
 ' and they or any of them notwithstanding shall remain 
 ' together by the space of one whole hour after such 
 ' commandment made by proclamation, or shall in forcible 
 ' manner put in ure any the things last before mentioned, 
 
 i 
 
58 THE CASE OF 
 
 r &c. That then every of the said offenders shall be 
 
 * judged a felon, &c. And if any person or persons 
 6 unlawfully, and without authority, by ringing of any 
 ' bell or bells, sounding of any trumpet, drum, horn, or 
 < other instrument, or by firing of any beacon, or by 
 ' malicious speaking of any words, or making any out- 
 ' cry, or by setting up or casting of any bill or writing, or 
 6 by any other deed or act, shall raise, or cause to be 
 ' raised, any persons to the number of twelve, or above, 
 4 to the intent that the same persons should do or put in 
 s ure any of the acts above mentioned, and that the persons 
 ' so raised and assembled, after commandment given in 
 ( form aforesaid, shall make their abode together in form 
 ' as is aforesaid, or in forcible manner put in ure any of 
 4 the acts aforesaid, that then all and singular persons by 
 4 whose speaking, deed, act, or other the means above 
 ' specified, to the number of twelve so raised, shall be 
 ' adjudged felons. And if the wife, servant, or other 
 6 persons shall any way relieve them that be unlawfully 
 
 * assembled, as is aforesaid, with victuals, armours, 
 ' weapons, or any other thing, that then they shall be 
 6 adjudged felons. And if any persons above the number 
 4 of two, and under the number of twelve, shall practice 
 6 or put in ure any of the things above mentioned, and! 
 ' being commanded by a justice of peace, &c, to retire, &c.,| 
 < and they make their abode by the space of one hour] 
 ' together, that then every of them shall suffer imprison- 
 
 * ment by the space of one year without bail or mainprise, 
 ' and every person damnified shall or may recover his 
 
 ' triple damages against him ; and every person able, j 
 ' being requested by the King's officers, shall be bound to 
 ' resist them. If any persons to the number of forty or 
 'above, shall assemble together by forcible manner, 
 ' unlawfully and of their own authority, to the intent to 
 ' put in ure any of the things above specified, or to do 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 59 
 
 \ other felonies or rebellious act or acts, and so shall 
 ' continue together by the space of three hours after 
 f proclamation shall be made at or nigh the place where 
 1 they shall be so assembled, or in some market-town 
 I thereunto next adjoining, and after notice thereof to 
 j them given, then every person so willingly assembled in 
 ' forcible manner, and so continuing together by the space 
 I of three hours, shall be adjudged a felon. And if any 
 copyholder or farmer being required by any of the 
 ' King's officers having authority, to aid and assist them 
 ' in repressing any of the said offenders do refuse so to 
 ' do, that then he shall forfeit his copyhold or lease, only 
 6 for term of his life/ 
 
 Some well-meaning honest Jacobite will perhaps object 
 that this last statute was enacted in a Popish reign ; but 
 he will please to observe, that it is even less severe than 
 that of Edward VI., to which I shall add, that by the 1st 
 of Queen Elizabeth, chap. 16, this very Act of Queen 
 Mary was continued during the life of Queen Elizabeth, 
 and to the end of the parliament then next following. 
 
 Having premised thus much, we will now examine the 
 statute of George I., commonly called the Eiot Act; 
 which hath so often been represented either by the most 
 profound ignorance, or the most impudent malice, as 
 unconstitutional, unprecedented, as an oppressive inno- 
 vation, and dangerous to the liberty of the subject. 
 
 By this statute all persons to the number of twelve or 
 more, being unlawfully, riotously, and tumultuously 
 assembled together, to the disturbance of the public 
 peace, and not dispersing themselves within an hour after 
 the proclamation is read to them by a proper magistrate, 
 are made guilty of felony without benefit of clergy. 
 
 Secondly. The statute gives a power to all magistrates 
 and peace officers, and to all persons who are by such 
 magistrates and peace officers commanded to assist them, 
 
60 THE CASE OF 
 
 to apprehend all such persons so continuing together as 
 above after the proclamation read, and indemnifies the j 
 said magistrates and peace officers, and all their assist- 
 ants, if in case of resistance any of the rioters should be 
 hurt, maimed, or killed. 
 
 Thirdly. It is enacted, that if any persons unlawfully, 
 riotously, and tumultuously assembled together, to the 
 disturbance of the public peace, shall unlawfully and 
 with force demolish or pull down, or begin to demolish 
 or pull down any church or chapel, or any building for 
 religious worship certified and registered, &c, or any 
 dwelling-house, barn, stable, or other out-house, that 
 then every such demolishing, or pulling down, or be- \ 
 ginning to demolish or pull down, shall be adjudged 
 felony without benefit of clergy. 
 
 Fourthly. If any persons obstruct the magistrate in 
 reading the proclamation, so that it cannot be read, 
 such obstruction is made felony without clergy; and 
 the continuing together, to the number of twelve, 
 after such let or hindrance of reading the proclama- 
 tion, incurs the same guilt as if the proclamation 
 had really been read. 
 
 These are all the penal clauses in the statute. 
 I observe then that this law cannot be complained 
 against as an innovation : for as to that part of the 
 statute by which rioters, who continued together for 
 the space of an hour, after they are commanded by 
 the magistrate to disperse, are made guilty of felony 
 without benefit of clergy, what does it more than 
 follow the precedents of those laws which were en- 
 acted in the time of Edward VI., Queen Mary, and 
 Queen Elizabeth ? And if the law now under our 
 consideration be a little more severe than one of the 
 former acts, it must be allowed to be less severe 
 than the other. 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 61 
 
 Indeed this power of the magistrates in suppressing 
 all kind of riots hath been found so necessary, that 
 from the second year of Edward III. even down to these 
 days, the legislature hath from time to time more and 
 more increased it. Of such consequence hath this 
 matter appeared, and so frequently hath it been under 
 the consideration of parliament, that I think there are 
 almost twenty statutes concerning it. 
 
 And upon the statute of 13 H. IV. cap. 7, by which 
 the justices, sheriff, &c, are empowered and ordered 
 to suppress all riots, it hath been holden, that not only 
 the justices, &c, but all who attended them, may 
 take with them such weapons as shall be necessary to 
 enable them effectually to do it; and that they may 
 justify the beating, wounding, and even killing such 
 rioters as shall resist or refuse to surrender them- 
 selves.* 
 
 As to that branch of the statute by which demolishing, 
 &c, houses, &c, is made felony, the offence, instead* of 
 being aggravated, seems to be lessened, namely, from 
 treason into felony ; according to the opinion of Judge 
 Walmsley in Popham's Reports, and of Lord Chief 
 Justice Hale in his Pleas of the Crown, f 
 
 It is true, as that learned judge observes, :{: the 
 statutes of Edward or Mary did not require (nor doth 
 that of George I. require) that the rioters should be 
 in manner of war arrayed. But how little of this 
 array of war was necessary upon the head of the 
 constructive treason, must have appeared from the cases 
 I have mentioned ; in one of which the Insignia Belli 
 were a few aprons carried on staves. § In another 
 they had a trumpet, and a cloak carried upon a 
 
 * Paph. 121. 2 And. 67. Hawk. lib. i. cap. 65, f. 21, &c. 
 
 f Vol. i. 134. 
 
 I Vol. i. 154. 
 
 ■ § Kel. 70. 
 
62 THE CASE OF 
 
 pole,* and in others, as appears, there were no such 
 insignia at all. 
 
 Again. Upon the indictment of treason any overt- 
 act would be sufficient; but here the offence is 
 restrained to such acts as most manifestly threaten, 
 not only the public peace, but the safety of every 
 individual. 
 
 How then can this statute be said, in the second 
 place, to be oppressive ? Is it not rather the most 
 necessary of all our laws, for the preservation and 
 protection of the people ? 
 
 The houses of men are in law considered as the 
 castles of their defence ; and that in so ample a 
 manner, that no officer of justice is empowered by 
 the authority of any mesne civil process to break 
 them open. Nay, the defence of the house is by the 
 law so far privileged beyond that of the person, that 
 in the former case a man is allowed to assemble a force, 
 which is denied him in the latter; and to kill a man 
 who attacked your house was strictly lawful, whereas 
 some degree of guilt was by the common law in- 
 curred by killing him who attacked your person. 
 To burn your house (nay, at this day to set fire 
 to it) is felony without benefit of clergy. To break 
 it open by night, either committing a felony, or 
 with intent to commit it, is burglary. To break 
 it open by clay, and steal from it the value of 
 five shillings, or privately to steal from any dwelling- 
 house to the value of forty shillings, is felony with- 
 out benefit of clergy. Is it then an unreasonable or 
 oppressive law, to prohibit the demolishing or pulling 
 down your house, and that by numbers riotously and 
 tumultuously assembled, under as severe a penalty ? 
 Is not breaking open your doors and demolishing your 
 
 * 2 And. 2. 
 
BOSAVEBN PENLEZ. . 63 
 
 house, a more atrocious crime in those who commit it, 
 and much more injurious to the person against whom 
 it is committed, than the robbing it forcibly of goods 
 to the value of five shillings, or privately to the value 
 of forty ? If the law can here be said to be cruel, 
 how much more so is it to inflict death on a man 
 who robs you of a single farthing on the highway, or 
 who privately picks your pocket of thirteen pence ? 
 
 But I dwell, I am afraid, too long on this head. For 
 surely no statute had ever less the mark of oppression ; 
 nor is any more consistent with our constitution, or more 
 agreeable to the true spirit of our law. 
 
 And where is the danger to liberty which can arise 
 from this statute ? Nothing in reality was ever more 
 fallacious or wicked than this suggestion. The public 
 peace and the safety of the individual are indeed much 
 secured by this law ; but the government itself, if their 
 interest must be or can be considered as distinct from, 
 and indeed in opposition to, that of the people, acquires 
 not by it the least strength or security. And this, I 
 think, must sufficiently appear to every one who considers 
 what I have said above. For surely there is no lawyer 
 who can doubt, even for a single moment, whether any 
 riotous and tumultuous assembly, who shall avow any 
 design directly levelled against the person of the King 
 or any of his counsellors, be high treason or not, whether, 
 as Lord Hale says, the assembly were greater or less, or 
 armed or not armed. And as to the power of the 
 magistrate for suppressing such kinds of riots, and for 
 securing the bodies of the offenders, it was altogether as 
 strong before as it is now. 
 
 It seems, therefore, very difficult to see any evil 
 intention in the makers of this Act, and I believe it will 
 be as difficult to show any ill use that hath been made, or 
 attempted to be made of it. In thirty-four years I 
 
64 THE CASE OF 
 
 remember to have heard of no more than two prosecu- 
 tions upon it ; in neither of which any distinct interest of 
 the government, or rather, as I suppose is meant, of the 
 governors, was at all concerned. And to evince how 
 little any such evil use is to be apprehended at present, I 
 shall here repeat the sentiments of our present excellent 
 Lord Chief Justice, as I myself heard them delivered in 
 the King's Bench, viz., that the branch of the statute 
 which empowers magistrates to read the proclamation 
 for the dispersing rioters was made, as the preamble 
 declares, on very important reasons, and intended to be 
 applied only on very dangerous occasions ; and that 
 he should always regard it as a very high crime in any 
 magistrate, wantonly or officiously to attempt to read it 
 on any other. 
 
 So much for this law, on which I have dwelt perhaps 
 longer than some may imagine to be necessary ; but 
 surely it is a law well worthy of the fullest justification, 
 and is altogether as necessary to be publicly and indeed 
 universally known, at a time when so many wicked acts 
 are employed to infuse riotous principles into the mob, 
 and when they themselves discover so great a forwardness 
 to put these principles in practice. 
 
 I will now proceed to the fact of the 1 late riot, and to 
 the case which hath been so totally misrepresented. 
 Both of which I shall give the public from the mouths 
 of the witnesses themselves. 
 Middlesex, The information of Nathanael Munns, one 
 
 to wit. of the beadles of the Dutchy-liberty of 
 
 Lancaster. " 
 
 This informant on his oath saith, that on Saturday, 
 the 1st day of July last, this informant was sum- 
 moned to quell a disturbance which was then in the 
 Strand, near the New Church, where a large mob was 
 assembled about the house of one Owen, the cause of 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 65 
 
 which, this informant was told, was, that a sailor had 
 been there, robbed by a woman. When this informant 
 first came up, the populace were crying out, * Pull down 
 ' the house, pull down the house!' and were so very 
 outrageous, that all his endeavours, and those of another 
 beadle of the same liberty, to appease them, were vain. 
 This informant, however, attempted to seize one of the 
 ringleaders, but he was immediately rescued from him, 
 and he himself threatened to be knocked down; upon 
 which this informant sent for the constables, and soon 
 after went to his own home. And this informant saith, 
 that between eleven and twelve the same evening two of 
 the aforesaid rioters, being seized by the constable, were 
 delivered into the custody of this informant, who confined 
 them in the night prison of the said liberty, which night 
 prison is under this informant's house. 
 
 And this informant further saith, that on the succeed- 
 ing night, being Sunday, the 2nd day of July, about 
 twelve at night, a great number of the mob came to this 
 informant's house, and broke open the windows, and 
 entered thereat, seized his servant, and demanded the 
 keys of the prison, threatening to murder her if she did 
 not deliver them; but not being able to procure the 
 same, they wrenched the bars out of the windows, with 
 which, as this informant has been told, and verily 
 believes, they broke open the prison, and rescued the 
 prisoners. And this informant further saith, that he was 
 the same evening at the watch-house of the said liberty, 
 where two other prisoners were confined for the said riot, 
 and saith that a very great mob came to the said watch- 
 house, broke the windows of the same all to pieces, 
 demanding to have the prisoners delivered to them, 
 threatening to pull the watch-house down if the said 
 prisoners were not set at liberty immediately ; after which 
 they forced into the said watch-house, and rescued the 
 
 K 
 
66 THE CASE OF 
 
 prisoners. And this informant further saith, that he 
 apprehends himself to have been in the most imminent 
 danger of his life, from the stones and brickbats thrown 
 into the windows of the said watch-house by the said 
 mob, before they forced the same. 
 
 Nathanael Munns, 
 Sworn before me, 
 HENBY FIELDING. 
 
 Middlesex, The information of John Carter, one of the 
 to wit. constables of the Dutchy-liberty of Lan- 
 
 caster. 
 
 This informant upon his oath saith, that on Saturday, 
 the 1st of July, between the hours of seven and eight in 
 the evening, he was present at the house of one 
 Owen, in the Strand, where there were a great mob at 
 that time assembled, which filled up the whole space 
 of the street for near two hundred yards ; and saith, that 
 the said house was then broke open, and the mob within 
 it were demolishing and stripping the same ; that the 
 windows of the said house were all broke to pieces, and 
 the mob throwing out the goods, which they soon after 
 set fire to, and consumed them in the street ; and saith, 
 that he believes there were near two waggon loads of 
 goods consumed, whiqh caused so violent a flame, that 
 the beams of the houses adjoining were so heated thereby, 
 that the inhabitants were apprehensive of the utmost 
 danger from the fire, and sent for the parish engines upon 
 that occasion, which not being immediately to be 
 procured, several firemen attended, by whose assistance, 
 as this informant verily believes, the fire was prevented 
 from doing more mischief. Upon this, this informant, 
 not daring himself to oppose the rage and violence of the 
 mob, and not being able to find any magistrate in town, 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 67 
 
 applied to General Campbell, at Somerset House, for the 
 assistance of the guards there, who presently detached a 
 corporal and twelve men, upon the approach of whom, 
 the word was given by the mob to quit the house, which 
 was immediately done by all except two, whom this 
 informant, by the assistance of the guards, seized upon, 
 and presently conveyed them safe to the night prison of 
 the liberty aforesaid. The mob, however, without doors, 
 rather increased than diminished, and continued in a 
 very riotous and tumultuous manner, insomuch that it 
 was thought necessary to apply for a further guard, and 
 accordingly an officer and a considerable body of men, to 
 the number, as this informant believes, of forty, was 
 detached from the tilt-yard ; but the mob, far from being 
 intimidated by this reinforcement, began to attack a 
 second house, namely, the house of one Stanhope, 
 throwing stones, breaking the windows, and pelting, not 
 only the sentinels who were posted before the door, but 
 the civil as well as the military officers. And this 
 informant further saith, that though by the interposition 
 of the soldiers, the mob were prevented from doing further 
 mischief that night, yet they continued together till he 
 was relieved by another peace officer, which was not till 
 twelve at night ; nor was the said mob, as this informant 
 has heard, and verily believes, dispersed until between 
 two and three in the morning. 
 
 And this informant further saith, that on Sundaij, 
 the 2nd July, being the succeeding day, he was 
 called out of his bed on account of the re-assembling 
 of the mob before the house of Stanhope, which they 
 had attacked the night before. That upon his arrival 
 there, he found a vast mob got together, the house 
 broke open and demolished, and all the goods there- 
 of thrown into the street and set on fire ; and saith, 
 that the said fire was larger than that the preceding 
 
68 THE CASE OF 
 
 night. That he was then applied to by Mr. Wilson, 
 woollen-draper, and principal burgess of the said 
 liberty, and one Mr. Acton, another woollen- draper, 
 both of whom expressed the greatest apprehension 
 of danger to the whole neighbourhood, and desired 
 this informant immediately to apply to the tilt-yard 
 for a number of soldiers, which he accordingly did; 
 but being sent by the officer to a magistrate, to 
 obtain his authority for the said guard, before he 
 could obtain the same, Mr. Welch, high-constable of 
 Holborn division, procured the said guard, by which 
 means' the aforesaid rioters were soon after dispersed. 
 
 John Carter. 
 Sworn before me, 
 H. FIELDING. 
 
 Middlesex, The information of James Cecil, one of the 
 to wit. constables of the parish of St. George 
 
 the Martyr, in the said county. 
 
 This informant upon oath saith, that on the 3rd 
 of July last, he was ordered by Justice Fielding 
 to attend the prisoners to Newgate. That though 
 an officer, with a very large guard of soldiers, 
 attended upon the said occasion, it was not without 
 the utmost difficulty that the said prisoners were 
 conveyed in coaches through the streets, the mob 
 frequently endeavouring to break in upon the soldiers, 
 and crowding towards the coach doors. And saith, 
 that he seized one of the most active of the mob, 
 and carried him before the said justice, who, after 
 having reprimanded, dismissed him. And further this 
 informant saith, that as he passed near the Old Bailey 
 with the aforesaid prisoners, he saw a great mob 
 assembled there, who, as this informant was then 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 69 
 
 acquainted, had been breaking the windows of some 
 house or houses there ; and saith, that several of the 
 said mob were in sailors' habits, but upon the approach 
 of the soldiers they all ran away. 
 
 James Cecil. 
 
 Middlesex, The information of Saunders Welsh, 
 to wit, gentleman, high- constable of Holborn 
 
 division, in the said county. 
 
 This informant saith, that on Sunday morning, about 
 ten of the clock, on the 2nd of July last, one Stan- 
 hope, who then kept a house in the Strand, near the 
 New Church, came to this informant and told him. 
 that a house had been demolished the night before 
 in the Strand by a great mob, and that he had great 
 reason to fear that the said mob would come and 
 demolish his house, they having threatened that they 
 would pull down all bawdy houses. Upon which this 
 informant directed the said Stanhope to apply to a 
 magistrate, telling him that he, this informant, would 
 conduct himself upon the magistrate's directions. Upon 
 which the said Stanhope departed, and returned no more 
 to this informant. 
 
 And this informant saith, that as he was returning the 
 same evening between the hours of eleven and twelve, 
 from a friend's house in the City, as he passed through 
 Fleet- street he perceived a great fire in the Strand, upon 
 which he proceeded on till he came to the house of one 
 Peter Wood, who told this informant that the mob 
 had demolished the house of Stanhope, and were burning 
 his goods, and that they had threatened, as soon as they 
 had finished their business there, that they would come 
 and demolish his house likewise, and prayed the 
 assistance of this informant. Upon which this informant, 
 
70 THE CASE OF 
 
 despairing of being able to quell the mob by his own 
 authority, and well knowing the impossibility of pro- 
 curing any magistrate at that time who would act, 
 applied to the tilt-yard for a military force, which with 
 much difficulty he obtained, having no order from any 
 justice of peace for the same. And this informant saith, 
 that having at last procured an officer with about 
 forty men, he returned to the place of the riot ; but saith, 
 that when he came to Cecil- street end, he prevailed upon 
 the officer to order his drum to beat, in hopes, if possible, 
 of dispersing the mob without any mischief ensuing. 
 And this informant saith, that when he came up to the 
 house of Peter Wood, he found that the mob had in 
 a great part demolished the said house, and thrown a 
 vast quantity of his goods into the street, but had not 
 perfected their design, a large parcel of the goods still 
 remaining in the house, the said house having been 
 very well furnished. And this informant says, that 
 he hath been told there was a debate among the mob 
 concerning burning the goods of that house likewise, 
 as they had served those of two other houses. And this 
 informant says, that had the goods of the said house been 
 set on fire, it must have infallibly have set on fire 
 the houses on both sides, the street being there extremely 
 narrow, and saith, that the house of Messrs. Snow and 
 Denne, the bankers, is almost opposite to that of Peter 
 Wood. And this informant saith, that at his coming 
 up, the mob had deserted the house of the said Peter, 
 occasioned, as he verily believes, and hath been informed, 
 by the terror spread among them from beating the drum 
 as aforesaid, so that this informant found no person in 
 the aforesaid house, save only Peter Wood, his wife, and 
 man-servant, and two or three women who appeared 
 to belong to it, and one Lander, who was taken by 
 soldier in the upper part of the house, and who, it 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 71 
 
 afterward appeared at his trial, to the satisfaction of 
 the jury, came along with the guard. 
 
 And this informant further says, that the said 
 rioters not immediately dispersing, several of them 
 were apprehended by the soldiers, who being pro- 
 duced to Peter Wood, were by him charged as 
 principally concerned in the demolition of his house, 
 upon which they were delivered by this informant to 
 a constable of the Duchy-liberty, and were by that 
 constable conveyed, under a guard of soldiers, to New 
 Prison. And this informant further saith, that he 
 remained on the spot, together with part of the guards, 
 till about three of the clock the next morning, before 
 which time the mob were all dispersed, and peace again 
 restored. 
 
 And this informant further saith, that on the Monday 
 morning, about twelve of the clock, he attended H. 
 Fielding, Esq., one of His Majesty's Justices of the Peace 
 for the County of Middlesex, who had been out of town 
 during all the preceding riot, and acquainted him with it. 
 That immediately the said justice sent an order for a 
 party of the guards to conduct the aforesaid prisoners to 
 his house, the streets being at that time full of mob, 
 assembled in a riotous and tumultuous manner, and 
 danger of a rescue being apprehended. And saith, that 
 the above mentioned prisoners, together with Bosavern 
 Penlez, who was apprehended by the watch in Carey- 
 street, were brought before the said justice, who, 
 after hearing the evidence against them, and taking the 
 depositions thereof, committed them to Newgate. And 
 this informant saith, that whilst he attended before the 
 said justice, and while the prisoners were under examina- 
 tion, there was a vast mob assembled, not only in Bow- 
 street, but many of the adjacent streets, so that it was 
 difficult either to pass or repass. And further saith, that 
 
72 THE CASE OF 
 
 he, this informant, received several informations that the 
 mob had declared that, notwithstanding what had been 
 done, they intended to carry on the same work again at 
 night. Upon which, this informant was, by the said 
 justice, despatched to the Secretary of War, to desire 
 a reinforcement of the guard. 
 
 And this informant further saith, that he was 
 present when the said justice, from his window, 
 spoke to the mob, informed them of their danger, 
 and exhorted them to depart to their own habita- 
 tions : for which purpose, this informant likewise 
 went among them, and entreated them to disperse, 
 but all such exhortations were ineffectual. And this 
 informant further saith, that he was present at the 
 house of the said justice, when several informations 
 were given, that a body of sailors, to the number 
 four thousand, were assembling themselves at Tower- 
 hill, and had declared a resolution of marching to 
 Temple-Bar, in the evening. And so riotous did the 
 disposition of the mob appear that whole day, to 
 wit, Monday, that numbers of persons, as this in- 
 formant hath been told, removed their goods from 
 their own houses, from apprehension of sharing the 
 fate of Owen, Stanhope and Wood. To obviate 
 which danger, the aforesaid justice, the officer of 
 the guard and this informant, sat up the whole 
 night, while a large party of soldiers were kept ready 
 under arms, who with^the peace-officers patrolled the 
 streets where the chief danger was apprehended; by 
 means of all which care the public peace was again 
 restored. 
 
 Saunders Welch. 
 
 Sworn before me, 
 HENKY FIELDING. 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 73 
 
 Middlesex, The information of Samuel Marsh, Edward 
 to wit, Fritter, Eobert Oliver, and John Hoare. 
 
 Samuel Marsh, of St. Clement Danes, in the said 
 county, labourer, one of the watchmen of St. Dunstan's, 
 in the West, in the City of London, maketh oath, 
 that on the 3rd of July last, as he was going his rounds, a 
 little after one in the morning, one Mr. Phillip Warwick, 
 an engraver by trade, who then lived at Pimlico, 
 near Buckingham-house, from whence he is since 
 removed, came to this informant in Bell-yard, opposite 
 the Appollo-passage, and said, there was a man above 
 who had a great bundle of linen, which he (Warwick) 
 thought the said man had stolen, and desired this 
 informant to take care of him. And further acquainted this 
 informant, that the said man told him that the linen 
 which he then had in the bundle was his wife's, which 
 said Warwick did not believe to be true. And this 
 informant further saith, that when he had received this 
 account, he went directly to the place where the said 
 man was ; and saith, that the said man, before this 
 informant came up to him, had thrust most of the above 
 said linen into his bosom and pockets; and saith, 
 that just as this informant came up to him, and 
 called out to him saying, friend, here, come and take 
 the cap you have dropped, the said man scrambled up 
 the rest of the things, and ran away as fast as he 
 could all up Bell-yard ; upon which this informant ran 
 after him, and called to Edward Fritter, another watch- 
 man, to stop him. And this informant farther saith, 
 that the said man, being afterwards taken by Fritter, 
 and in custody of him and this informant, being asked 
 by them to whom the said linen belonged, declared 
 
 that they belonged to the b his wife, who had pawned 
 
 all his clothes ; and that he had taken away these that she 
 
 L 
 
74 „ THE CASE OF 
 
 might not pawn them likewise. To which this informant 
 answered, that answer would not do ; for that he was 
 resolved to have a better answer before he left him. And 
 this informant saith, that he and the said Fritter then 
 carried the said man to the watch-house, where he 
 sat down on a bench. And this informant saith, that 
 whilst the said man sat there, several persons came into 
 the watch-house unknown to this informant, one of 
 
 whom said to the prisoner, ' You son of a b pull the 
 
 * things out of your bosom and out of your pockets, 
 ' and don't let the constable find them upon you, unless 
 'you have a mind to hang yourself.' Upon which the 
 prisoner pulled out the linen from his bosom and pockets, 
 and laid it upon the bench, and saith that the said 
 linen was afterwards delivered to Mr. Hoare, the 
 constable. And further saith, that the aforesaid man, 
 who was apprehended as above said, was the same 
 Bosavern Penlez, who was afterwards convicted of the 
 riot at the Old Bailey, and executed for the same. And 
 further saith, that he believes the said Penlez was then a 
 little in liquor, but by no means dead drunk ; for that he 
 talked and behaved very rationally all the time he 
 was in the said watch-house, And further saith, that 
 Penlez, when he was in the watch-house, said, that 
 the woman to whom the linen belonged was not his wife ; 
 for that he was an unfortunate young fellow, and had kept 
 company with bad women, and that he had been robbed 
 by one of them of fifteen shillings, and had taken away 
 her linen out of revenge. 
 
 Edward Fritter, of the precinct of Whitefriars, in 
 the City of London, shoemaker, one of the watchmen 
 of the liberty of the rolls, maketh oath, that upon the 3rd 
 of July last, a little after one in the morning, as he 
 was at his stand at the upper end of Bell-yard, Samuel 
 Marsh, another watchman, called out to him, ' Stop that 
 
BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 75 
 
 man before you : stop that man before you. And this 
 informant saith, that when he heard these words, the 
 said man had just passed by him, making off as fast 
 as he could ; upon which this informant ran after him, 
 and at about an hundred yards' distance overtook him, 
 and pushed him up against the rails in Carey-street. 
 And this informant then said to him, ' So, brother, what 
 ' is all this you have got here ?' To which the man 
 answered, ' I am an unfortunate young man, and have 
 * married one of the women of the town, who hath pawned 
 I all my clothes, and I have got all her linen for it/ And 
 this informant saith, that the said man had at that time 
 some linen under his arm. Soon after which, the 
 said man, who, as this informant saith, was Bosavem 
 Penlez, was carried to the watch-house, where this 
 informant was present when all passed that informant 
 Marsh hath sworn. And this informant hearing the 
 information of Marsh read, declares, that all which 
 is there related to have passed, is true. 
 
 Robert Oliver, of the liberty of the rolls, shoemaker, and 
 beadle of that liberty, maketh oath and saith, that he was 
 present when Bosavem Penlez was brought into the watch- 
 house belonging to the said liberty, on the 3rd of July last, 
 between one and two in the morning ; and saith, that he was 
 present in the said watch-house upon his duty all the time 
 that the said Penlez staid there ; and upon hearing the infor- 
 mation of Marsh read to him, this informant, he, this infor- 
 mant, upon his oath confirms the same in every particular. 
 
 John Hoare, of the liberty of the rolls aforesaid, 
 victualler, then one of the constables of the liberty 
 of the rolls, maketh oath and saith, that at two in 
 the morning, on the 3rd of July, he was called by 
 one of the watchmen of that liberty, and informed 
 that a thief was apprehended and confined in the 
 watch-house ; upon which this informant went directly 
 thither, and found Bosavem Penlez and the linen lying 
 
76 THE CASE OF 
 
 on the bench, as mentioned in Marsh's information. 
 And this informant further says, that he then ex- 
 amined said Penlez how he came by that linen, to 
 which the said Penlez answered, that he had taken 
 up the said linen in the street, to which this infor- 
 mant answered, that if he (Penlez) could give no 
 better account, he must secure him till the morning. 
 Then this informant asked him, if he could send to 
 any one who would give him a character. Upon 
 which Penlez, after some hesitation, mentioned the 
 name of a barber who lived next to the Bunch of 
 Grapes in the Strand, who was sent to, and refused 
 to come, And this informant saith, that he then 
 proposed to Penlez to send for some other person; 
 but that the said Penlez mentioned no other person. 
 Upon which this informant carried the said Penlez 
 to New-prison, and there delivered him into custody. 
 And this informant further saith, that he attended 
 the next day before H. Fielding, Esq; one of His 
 Majesty's Justices of the peace for the said county, 
 when the said Penlez was examined, and the aforesaid 
 linen was produced by this informant. To wit; ten 
 laced caps, four laced handkerchiefs, three pair of laced 
 ruffles, two laced clouts, five plain handkerchiefs, five 
 plain aprons, and one laced apron, all which the 
 wife of Peter Wood swore to be her property. And 
 this informant saith, that Penlez being asked by the 
 justice, how he came by the said linen, answered, 
 he had found them ; and could not, or would not give 
 any other account. 
 
 The mark of Sam. Marsh. 
 
 Ed. Fritter. 
 
 Rob. Oliver. 
 
 John Hoare. 
 Sworn before me, 
 H. FIELDING. 
 
BOS A VERN PENLEZ. 77 
 
 Middlesex, 
 to wit. 
 
 Kobert Oliver aforesaid further on his oath says, 
 that when Penlez was examined before the justice, he 
 solemnly denied that he was in the house of Peter 
 Wood, or near it. 
 
 Rob. Oliver. 
 Sworn before me, 
 H. FIELDING. 
 
 Now upon the whole of this evidence, which I have 
 taken the pains to lay before the public, and which is 
 the evidence of persons entirely disinterested and of 
 undoubted credit, I think it must be granted by every 
 impartial and sensible person : 
 
 1. That the riot here under consideration was of a 
 very high and dangerous nature, and far from deserving 
 those light or ludicrous colours which have been cast 
 upon it. 
 
 2. That the outrages actually committed by this mob, 
 by demolishing the houses of several people, by cruelly 
 and barbarously misusing their persons, by openly and 
 audaciously burning their goods, by breaking open 
 prisons and rescuing offenders, and by resisting the 
 peace-officers, and those who came to their assistance, 
 were such as no government could justify passing over 
 without some censure and example. 
 
 3. That had not Mr. Welch (one of the best officers 
 who was ever concerned in the execution of justice, 
 and to whose care, integrity and bravery the public 
 hath, to my knowledge, the highest obligations) been 
 greatly active in the discharge of his duty; and had 
 he not arrived time enough to prevent the burning of 
 that pile of goods which was heaped up before Wood's 
 
78 THE CASE OF 
 
 house, the most dreadful consequences must have en- 
 sued from this riot. For not to mention the mischiefs 
 which must necessarily have happened from the fire in 
 that narrow part of the town, what must have been 
 the consequence of exposing a banker's shop to the 
 greediness of the rabble ? Or what might we have 
 reasonably apprehended from a mob encouraged by such 
 a booty, and made desperate by such atrocious guilt ? 
 
 4. I think it may be very fairly inferred, that the mob, 
 which had already carried on their riotous proceedings 
 during two successive nights, and who, during the 
 whole day on Monday, were in motion all over the town, 
 had they not been alarmed and intimidated by the care 
 of the magistrate, would have again repeated their 
 outrage, as they had threatened on Monday night. And 
 had such a riot continued a little longer, no man 
 can, I think, foresee what it might have produced. The 
 cry against bawdy houses might have been easily 
 converted into an out- cry of a very different nature, 
 and goldsmiths might have been considered to be as 
 great a nuisance to the public as whores. 
 
 5. The only remaining conclusion which I shall draw, 
 is, that nothing can be more unjust, or indeed more 
 absurd, than the complaint of severity which hath been 
 made on this occasion. If one could derive this silly 
 clamour from malevolence to the government, it might be 
 easily converted into the most delicate of compliments. 
 For surely those must afford very little cause of 
 complaint, whose enemies can find no better object of 
 their censure than this. To say the truth, the govern- 
 ment is here injudiciously attacked in its most defensible 
 part. If it be necessary, as some seem to think, to find 
 fault with their superiors, our administration is more 
 liable to the very opposite censure. If I durst presume to 
 look into the royal breast, I might with certainty affirm, 
 
BOS AVE RN PENLEZ. 79 
 
 that mercy is there the characteristic. So truly is this 
 benign prince the father of his people, that he is never 
 brought, without paternal reluctance, to suffer the 
 extremity of justice to take place. A most amiable 
 excess, and yet an excess by which, I am afraid, subjects 
 may be as liable to be spoiled as children. 
 
 But I am willing to see these clamours in a less 
 culpable light, and to derive them from a much better 
 motive ; I mean from a zeal against lewd and disorderly 
 houses. But zeal in this case, as well as in all others, 
 may hurry men too far, and may plunge them headlong 
 into the greater evils, in order to redress the lesser. 
 
 And surely this appears to be the case at present, 
 when an animosity against these houses hath made man 
 blind to the clearest light of evidence ; and impelled them 
 to fly in the face of truth, of common sense, I might say 
 yet more, and all in the behalf of a licentious, outrageous 
 mob, who, in open defiance of law, justice or mercy, 
 committed the most notorious offences against the persons 
 and properties of their fellow- subjects, and who had 
 undoubtedly incurred the last and highest degree of 
 guilt, had they not been happily and timely prevented. 
 
 When I mention this zeal as some kind of excuse 
 or mitigation, I would be understood to apply it only 
 to those persons who have been so weak (at least) to 
 espouse the cause of these malefactors. As to the rioters 
 themselves, I am satisfied. they had no such excuse. The 
 clamour against bawdy houses was in them a bare 
 pretence only. Wantonness and cruelty were the motives 
 of most; and some, as it plainly appeared, converted the 
 inhuman disposition of the mob to the very worst of 
 purposes, and became thieves under the pretence of 
 reformation. 
 
 How then is it possible for any man in his senses 
 to express a compassion for such offenders, as for men, 
 
80 THE CASE OF 
 
 who, while they are doing an illegal act, may yet be 
 supposed to act from a laudable motive ? I would ask 
 men this question. By whom are these houses frequented 
 and supported ? Is it not by the young, the idle, and 
 the dissolute ? — This is, I hope, true ; no grave zealot 
 will, I am convinced, assert the contrary. Are these then 
 the people to redress the evil ? Play-houses have been 
 in a former age reputed a grievance ; but did the players 
 rise in a body to demolish them ? Gaming-houses are 
 still thought a nuisance; but no man, I believe, hath 
 ever seen a body of gamesters assembled to break them 
 open, and burn their goods. It is indeed possible, 
 that after a bad run of luck they might be very well 
 pleased with an opportunity of stealing them. 
 
 The nuisance which bawdy houses are to the public, 
 and how far it is interested in suppressing them, is not 
 our present consideration. The law clearly considers 
 them as a nuisance, and hath appointed a remedy against 
 them ; and this remedy it is in the power of every man 
 who desires it to apply. But surely it will not be wished 
 by any sober man, that open illegal force and violence 
 should be with impunity used to remove this nuisance ; 
 and that the mob should have an uncontrolled jurisdiction 
 in this case. "When, by our excellent constitution, the 
 greatest subject, no, not even the King himself, can, 
 without a lawful trial and conviction, divest the meanest 
 man of his property, deprive him of his liberty, or attack 
 him in his person ; shall we suffer a licentious rabble to 
 be accuser, judge, jury, and executioner; to inflict 
 corporal punishment, break open men's doors, plunder 
 their houses, and burn their goods ? I am ashamed to 
 proceed further in a case so plain, where the absurdity is 
 so monstrous, and where the consequences are so obvious 
 and terrible. 
 
 As to the case of the sufferer, I shall make no remarks. 
 
BOS AVE RN PENLEZ. 81 
 
 Whatever was the man's guilt, he hath made all the 
 atonement which the law requires, or could be exacted of 
 him ; and though the popular clamour made it necessary 
 to publish the above depositions, nothing shall come 
 from me to add to, or to aggravate them. 
 
 If, after perusing the evidence which I have here 
 produced, there should remain any private compassion in 
 the breast of the reader, far be it from me to endeavour to 
 remove it. I hope I have said enough to prove that this 
 was such a riot as called for some example, and that the 
 man who was made that example deserved his fate. 
 Which, if he did, I think it will follow, that more hath 
 been said * and done in his favour than ought to have 
 been; and that the clamour of severity against the 
 government hath been in the highest degree unjustifiable. 
 
 To say truth (as I have before hinted) it would be more 
 difficult to justify the lenity used on this occasion. The 
 first and second day of this riot, no magistrate, nor any 
 other higher peace officer than a petty constable (save 
 only Mr. Welch) interfered with it. On the third day, 
 only one magistrate took upon him to act. When the 
 prisoners were committed to Newgate, no public prosecu- 
 tion was for some time ordered against them ; and when 
 it was ordered, it was carried on so mildly, that one gf 
 the prisoners (Wilson) being sick in prison, was, though 
 contrary to law, at the desire of a noble person in great 
 power, bailed out, when a capital indictment was then 
 found against him. At the trial, neither the attorney- 
 nor solicitor-general, nor even one of the King's council, 
 appeared against the prisoners. Lastly, when two were 
 convicted, one only was executed: and I doubt very 
 much whether even he would have suffered, had it not 
 
 * He was buried by a private subscription, but not at the public expense 
 of the parish of St. Clement Danes, as hath been falsely asserted. 
 
 M 
 
82 THE CASE OF BOSAVERN PENLEZ. 
 
 appeared that a capital indictment t for burglary was 
 likewise found by the grand jury against him, and upon 
 such evidence as I think every impartial man must allow 
 would have convicted him (had he been tried) of felony at j 
 least. 
 
 Thus I have finished this ungrateful task, which I 
 thought it the more incumbent on me to undertake, 
 as the real truth of this case, from the circumstance 
 mentioned at the bottom of this page, was known only 
 to myself, and a very few more. This I thought it 
 my duty to lay before some very noble persons, in order 
 to make some distinction between the two condemned 
 prisoners, in favour of Wilson, whose case to me seemed 
 to be the object of true compassion. And I flatter myself 
 that it might be a little owing to my representation, 
 that the distinction between an object of mercy, and an 
 object of justice at last prevailed, to my satisfaction, I own 
 entirely, and I hope, now at last, to that of the public. 
 
 * Upon this indictment he was arraigned, hut as the judge said as he was 
 already capitally convicted for the same fact, though of a different offence, j 
 there was no occasion of trying him again; by which means the evidence 
 which I have above produced, and which the prosecutor reserved to give on 
 this indictment, was never heard at the Old Bailey, nor in the least known t<r 
 the public. 
 
 
PREFACE 
 
 MISCELLANIES AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY FIELDING, ESQ. 
 
 M-2 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The volumes I now present the public consist, as their 
 title indicates, of various matter; treating of subjects 
 which bear not the least relation to each other, and 
 perhaps, what Martial says of his epigrams, may be 
 applicable to these several productions. 
 
 Sunt bona, sunt qucedam mediocria, sunt mala pluea. 
 
 At least, if the bona be denied me, I shall, I apprehend, 
 be allowed the other two. 
 
 The poetical pieces which compose the first part of 
 the first volume were most of them written when I was 
 very young, and are indeed productions of the heart 
 rather than of the head. If the good-natured reader 
 thinks them tolerable, it will answer my warmest hopes. 
 This branch of writing is what I very little pretend to, 
 and will appear to have been very little my pursuit, 
 since I think (one or two poems excepted) I have here 
 presented my reader with all I could remember, or 
 procure copies of. 
 
 My modernization of part of the sixth satire of Juvenal 
 will, I hope, give no offence to that half of our species, 
 for whom I have the greatest respect and tenderness. 
 It was originally sketched out before I was twenty, and 
 was all the revenge taken by an injured lover. For 
 my part, I am much more inclined to panegyric on that 
 amiable sex, which I have always thought treated with 
 
86 PREFACE. 
 
 a very unjust severity by ours, who censure them for 
 faults (if they are truly such) into which we allure and 
 betray them, and of which we ourselves, with an un- ! 
 blamed licence, enjoy the most delicious fruits. 
 
 As to the Essay on Conversation, however it may 
 be executed, my design in it will be at least allowed 
 good; being to ridicule out of society one of the most 
 pernicious evils which attends it, viz., pampering the 
 gross appetites of selfishness and ill-nature with the 
 shame and disquietude of others; whereas I have en- 
 deavoured in it to show, that true good-breeding consists 
 in contributing, with our utmost power, to the satisfaction 
 and happiness of all about us. 
 
 In my Essay on the Knowledge of the Characters of\ 
 Men, I have endeavoured to expose a second great evil, 
 namely, hypocrisy ; the bane of all virtue, morality, and 
 goodness ; and to arm, as well as I can, the honest, un- 
 designing, open-hearted man, who is generally the prey 
 of this monster, against it. I believe a little reflection 
 will convince us, that most mischiefs (especially those 
 which fall on the worthiest part of mankind) owe their 
 original to this detestable vice. 
 
 I shall pass over the remaining part of this volume, 
 to the Journey from this World to the next, which fills 
 the greatest share of the second. 
 
 It would be paying a very mean compliment to the 
 human understanding, to suppose I am under any neces- 
 sity of vindicating myself from designing, in an allegory 
 of this kind, to oppose any present system, or to erect 
 a new one of my own: but perhaps the fault may lie 
 rather in the heart than in the head ; and I may be mis- 
 represented, without being misunderstood. If there are 
 any such men, I am sorry for it; the good-natured 
 reader will not, I believe, want any assistance from me 
 to disappoint their malice. 
 
PREFACE, 87 
 
 Others may (and that with greater colour) arraign my 
 ignorance; as I have, in the relation which I have put 
 into the mouth of Julian, whom they call the Apostate, 
 done many violences to history, and mixed truth and 
 falsehood with much freedom. To these T answer. I 
 profess fiction only; and though I have chosen some 
 facts out of history to embellish my work, and fin a 
 chronology to it, I have not, however, confined myself 
 to nice exactness; having often ante-dated, and some- 
 times post-dated the matter I have found in the historian, 
 particularly in the Spanish history, where I take both 
 these liberties in one story. 
 
 The residue of this volume is filled with two dramatic 
 pieces, both the productions of my youth, although the 
 latter was not acted until this season. It was the third 
 dramatic performance I ever attempted ; the parts of 
 MillamouT and Charlotte being originally intended for 
 Mr. Wilks and Mrs. Oldfield ; but the latter died before 
 it was finished; and a slight pique which happened 
 between me and the former, prevented him from ever 
 seeing it. The play was read to Mr. Rich upwards of 
 twelve years since, in the presence of a very eminent 
 physician of this age, who will bear me testimony, that I 
 did not recommend my performance with the usual 
 warmth of an author. Indeed I never thought, until 
 this season, that there existed on any one stage, since the 
 death of that great actor and actress above mentioned, any 
 two persons capable of supplying their loss in those parts : 
 for characters of this kind do, of all others, require most 
 support from the actor, and lend the least assistance 
 to him. 
 
 From the time of its being read to Mr. Rich, it lay by 
 me neglected and unthought of, until this winter, when 
 it visited the stage in the following manner. 
 
 Mr. Garrick, whose abilities as an actor will, I hope, 
 
88 PREFACE. 
 
 rouse up better writers for the stage than myself, asked 
 me one evening, if I had any play by me ; telling me he 
 was desirous of appearing in a new part. I answered 
 him I had . one almost finished ; but I conceived it so 
 little the manager's interest to produce anything new 
 on his stage this season, that I should not think of offering 
 it him, as I apprehended he would find some excuse to 
 refuse me, and adhere to the theatrical politics, of never 
 introducing new plays on the stage, but when driven to it 
 by absolute necessity. 
 
 Mr. Gar rick's reply to this was so warm and friendly, 
 that, as I was full as desirous of putting words into his 
 mouth, as he could appear to be of speaking them^ I 
 mentioned the play the very next morning to Mr. Fleet- 
 wood, who embraced my proposal so heartily, that an 
 appointment was immediately made to read it to the 
 actors who were principally to be concerned in it. 
 
 When I came to revise this play, which had likewise 
 lain by me some years, though formed on a much better 
 plan, and at an age when I was much more equal to the 
 task, than the former ; I found I had allowed myself too 
 little time for the perfecting it ; but I was resolved to 
 execute my promise, and accordingly, at the appointed 
 day, I produced five acts, which were entitled, The 
 Good-natured Man. 
 
 Besides, that this play appeared to me, on the read- 
 ing, to be less completely finished than I thought its 
 plan deserved; there was another reason which dis- 
 suaded me from bringing it on the stage as it then stood, 
 and this was, that the very actor on whose account I 
 had principally been inclined to have it represented, had 
 a very inconsiderable part in it. 
 
 Notwithstanding my private opinion, of which I then 
 gave no intimation, The Good-natured Man was received, 
 and ordered to be written into parts, Mr. Gar rich pro- 
 
PREFACE. 89 
 
 fessing himself very ready to perform his ; but as I 
 remained dissatisfied, for the reasons above mentioned, I 
 now recollected my .other play, in which I remembered 
 there was a character I had originally intended for Mr. 
 Wilhs. 
 
 Upon perusal, I found this character was preserved 
 with some little spirit, and (what I thought would be a 
 great recommendation to the audience) would keep their 
 so justly favourite actor almost eternally before their 
 eyes. I apprehended (in which I was not deceived) 
 that he would make so surprising a figure in this 
 character, and exhibit talents so long unknown to the 
 theatre, that, as hath happened in other plays, the 
 audience might be blinded to the faults of the piece, for 
 many T saw it had, and some very difficult to cure. 
 
 I accordingly sat down with a resolution to work 
 night and day during the short time allowed me, which 
 was about a week, in altering and correcting this pro- 
 duction of my more juvenile years; when unfortunately, 
 the extreme danger of life into which a person, very dear 
 to me, was reduced, rendered me incapable of executing 
 my task. 
 
 To this accident alone, I have the vanity to apprehend, 
 the play owes most of the glaring faults with which it 
 appeared. However, I resolved rather to let it take its 
 chance, imperfect as it was, with the assistance of Mr, 
 Garrick, than to sacrifice a more favourite, and in the 
 opinion of others, a much more valuable performance, 
 and which could have had very little assistance from him. 
 
 I then acquainted Mr. Garrich with my design, and 
 read it to him, and Mr. Macklin ; Mr. Fleetwood agreed 
 to the exchange, and thus the Wedding Day was destined 
 to the stage. 
 
 Perhaps it may be asked me, why then did I suffer a 
 piece, which I myself knew was imperfect, to appear ? I 
 
90 PREFACE. 
 
 answer honestly and freely, that reputation was not my 
 inducement ; and that I hoped, faulty as it was, it might 
 answer a much more solid, and in my unhappy situation, 
 a much more urgent motive. If it will give my enemies 
 any pleasure to know that they totally frustrated my 
 views, I will be kinder to them, and give them a satisfac- 
 tion which they denied me ; for though it was acted six 
 nights, I received not 50£. from the house for it. 
 
 This was indeed chiefly owing to a general rumour 
 spread of its indecency; which originally arose, I be- 
 lieve, from some objections of the licenser, who had 
 been very unjustly censured for being too remiss in his 
 restraints on that head; but as every passage which he 
 objected to was struck out, and I sincerely think very 
 properly so, I leave to every impartial judge to decide, 
 whether the play, as it was acted, was not rather freer 
 from such imputation than almost any other comedy on 
 the stage. However, this opinion prevailed so fatally 
 without doors, during its representation, that on the 
 sixth night there were not above five ladies present in 
 the boxes. 
 
 But I shall say no more of this comedy here, as I 
 intend to introduce it the ensuing season, and with such 
 alterations as will, I hope, remove every objection to it, 
 and may make the manager some amends for what he lost 
 by very honourably continuing its representation, when 
 he might have got much more by acting other plays. 
 
 I come now to the third and last volume, which con- 
 tains the History of Jonathan Wild. And here it will 
 not, I apprehend, be necessary to acquaint my reader, 
 that my design is not to enter the lists with that ex- 
 cellent historian, who from authentic papers and records, 
 &c, hath already given so satisfactory an account of 
 the life and actions of this great man. I have not 
 indeed the least intention to depreciate the veracity and 
 
PREFACE. 91 
 
 impartiality of that history* nor do I pretend to any 
 of those lights, not having, to my knowledge, ever seen 
 a single paper relating to my hero, save some short 
 memoirs, which about the time of his death were pub- 
 lished in certain chronicles called newspapers, the 
 authority of which hath been sometimes questioned, and 
 in the Ordinary of Newgate his account, which generally 
 contains a more particular relation of what the heroes 
 are to suffer in the next world, than of what they did 
 in this. 
 
 To confess the truth, my narrative is rather of such 
 actions which he might have performed, or would, or 
 should have performed, than what he really did; and 
 may, in reality, as well suit any other such great man, 
 as the person himself whose name it bears. 
 
 A second caution I would give my reader is, that as 
 it is not a very faithful portrait of Jonathan Wild him- 
 self, so neither is it intended to represent the features of 
 any other person. Eoguery, and not a rogue, is my 
 subject; and as I have been so far from endeavouring 
 to particularize any individual, that I have with my 
 utmost art avoided it; so will any such application be 
 unfair in my reader, especially if he knows much of the 
 great world, since he must then be acquainted, I believe, 
 with more than one on whom he can fix the re- 
 semblance. 
 
 In the third place, I solemnly protest, I do by no 
 means intend in the character of my hero to represent 
 human nature in general. Such insinuations must be 
 attended with very dreadful conclusions; nor do I see 
 any other tendency they can naturally have, but to 
 encourage and soothe men in their villanies, and to 
 make every well-disposed man disclaim his own species, 
 and curse the hour of his birth into such a society. 
 For my part, I understand those writers who describe 
 
92 PREFACE. 
 
 human nature in this depraved character, as speaking 
 only of such persons as Wild and his gang ; and I think 
 it may be justly inferred, that they do not find in their 
 own bosoms any deviation from the general rule. In- 
 deed it would be an insufferable vanity in them to 
 conceive themselves as the only exception to it. 
 
 But without considering Newgate as no other than 
 human nature with its mask off, which some very 
 shameless writers have done, a thought which no price 
 should purchase me to entertain, I think we may be 
 excused for suspecting, that the splendid palaces of the 
 great are often no other than Newgate with the mask on. 
 Nor do I know anything which can raise an honest 
 man's indignation higher than that the same morals 
 should be in one place attended with all imaginable 
 misery and infamy, and in the other, with the highest 
 luxury and honour. Let any impartial man in his 
 senses be asked, for which of these two places a com- 
 position of cruelty, lust, avarice, rapine, insolence, 
 hypocrisy, fraud and treachery, was best fitted, surely 
 his answer must be certain and immediate ; and yet I am 
 afraid all these ingredients, glossed over with wealth and 
 a title, have been treated with the highest respect and 
 veneration in the one, while one or two of them have 
 been condemned to the gallows in the other. 
 
 If there are then any men of such morals who dare to 
 call themselves great, and are so reputed, or called at 
 least, by the deceived multitude, surely a little private 
 censure by the few is a very moderate tax for them to 
 pay, provided no more was to be demanded : but I fear 
 this is not the case. However the glare of riches, and 
 awe of title, may dazzle and terrify the vulgar ; nay, 
 however hypocrisy may deceive the more discerning, 
 there is still a judge in every man's breast, which none 
 can cheat nor corrupt, though perhaps it is the only un- 
 
PREFACE. 93 
 
 corrupt thing about him. And yet, inflexible and honest 
 as this judge is (however polluted the bench be on which 
 he sits) no man can, in my opinion, enjoy any applause 
 which is not thus adjudged to be his due. 
 
 Nothing seems to me more preposterous than that, 
 while the way to true honour lies so open and plain, 
 men should seek false by such perverse and rugged 
 paths : that while it is so easy and safe, and truly honour- 
 able, to be good, men should wade through difficulty and 
 danger, and real infamy, to be great, or, to use a synony- 
 mous word, villains. 
 
 Nor hath goodness less advantage in the article of 
 pleasure, than of honour over this kind of greatness. 
 The same righteous judge always annexes a bitter anxiety 
 to the purchases of guilt, whilst it adds a double sweet- 
 ness to the enjoyments of innocence and virtue : for fear, 
 which all the wise agree is the most wretched of human 
 evils, is, in some degree, always attending on the former, 
 and never can in any manner molest the happiness of the 
 latter. 
 
 This is the doctrine which I have endeavoured to 
 inculcate in this history, confining myself at the same 
 time within the rules of probability. (For except in one 
 chapter, which is visibly meant as a burlesque on the ex- 
 travagant accounts of travellers, I believe I have not 
 exceeded it.) And though perhaps it sometimes happens, 
 contrary to the instances I have given, that the villain 
 succeeds in his pursuit, and acquires some transitory im- 
 perfect honour or pleasure to himself for his iniquity ; 
 yet I believe he oftener shares the fate of my hero, and 
 suffers the punishment, without obtaining the reward. 
 
 As I believe it is not easy to teach a more useful lesson 
 than this, if I have been able to add the pleasant to it, I 
 might flatter myself with having carried every point. 
 
 But perhaps some apology may be required of me, for 
 
94 PREFACE. 
 
 having used the word greatness to which the world hath 
 affixed such honourable ideas, in so disgraceful and con- 
 temptuous a light. Now if the fact be, that the greatness 
 which is commonly worshipped is really of that kind 
 which I have here represented, the fault seems rather to 
 lie in those who have ascribed to it those honours, to 
 which it hath not in reality the least claim. 
 
 The truth, I apprehend, is, we often confound the ideas 
 of goodness and greatness together, or rather include the 
 former in our idea of the latter. If this be so, it is surely 
 a great error, and no less than a mistake of the capacity 
 for the will. In reality, no qualities can be more distinct : 
 for as it cannot be doubted but that benevolence, honour, 
 honesty, and charity, make a good man ; and that parts, 
 courage, are the efficient qualities of a great man, so must 
 it be confessed, that the ingredients which compose the 
 former of these characters bear no analogy to, nor de- 
 pendence on, those which constitute the latter. A man 
 may therefore be great without being good, or good 
 without being great. 
 
 However, though the one bear no necessary dependence 
 on the other, neither is there any absolute repugnancy 
 among them which may totally prevent their union so 
 that they may, though not of necessity, assemble in the 
 same mind, as they actually did, and all in the highest 
 degree, in those of Socrates and Brutus; and perhaps in 
 some among us. I at least know one to whom Nature 
 could have added no one great or good quality more than 
 she hath bestowed on him. 
 
 Here then appear three distinct characters ; the great, 
 the good, and the great and good. 
 
 The last of these is the true sublime in human nature. 
 That elevation by which the soul of man, raising and 
 extending itself above the order of this creation, and 
 brightened with a certain ray of divinity, looks down on 
 
PREFACE. 95 
 
 the condition of mortals. This is indeed a glorious object, 
 on which we can never gaze with too much praise and 
 admiration. A perfect work ! the Iliad of Nature ! 
 ravishing and astonishing, and which at once fills us 
 with love, wonder, and delight. 
 
 The second falls greatly short of this perfection, and 
 yet hath its merit. Our wonder ceases ; our delight is 
 lessened ; but our love remains ; of which passion, good- 
 ness hath always appeared to me the only true and 
 proper object. On this head I think proper to observe, 
 that I do not conceive my good man to be absolutely a 
 fool or a coward ; but that he often partakes too little 
 of parts or courage to have any pretensions to great- 
 ness. 
 
 Now as to that greatness which is totally devoid of 
 goodness, it seems to me in nature to resemble the false 
 sublime in poetry ; whose bombast is, by the ignorant 
 and ill-judging vulgar, often mistaken for solid wit and 
 eloquence, whilst it is in effect the very reverse. Thus 
 pride, ostentation, insolence, cruelty, and every kind of 
 villainy, are often construed into true greatness of mind, 
 in which we always include an idea of goodness. 
 
 This bombast greatness then is the character I intend 
 to expose ; and the more this prevails in and deceives 
 the world, taking to itself not only riches and power, 
 but often honour, or at least the shadow of it, the 
 more necessary is it to strip the monster of these false 
 colours, and show it in its native deformity: for by 
 suffering vice to possess the reward of virtue, we do a 
 double injury to society, by encouraging the former, and 
 taking away the chief incentive to the latter. Nay, 
 though it is, I believe, impossible to give vice a true 
 relish of honour and glory, or, though we give it riches 
 and power, to give it the enjoyment of them, yet it 
 contaminates the food it can't taste, and sullies the robe 
 
96 PREFACE. 
 
 which neither fits nor becomes it, till virtue disdains 
 them both. 
 
 Thus have I given some short account of these works. 
 I come now to return thanks to those friends who have 
 with uncommon pains forwarded this subscription: for 
 though the number of my subscribers be more pro- 
 portioned to my merit, than their desire or expectation, 
 yet I believe I owe not a tenth part to my own interest. 
 My obligations on this head are so many, that for fear 
 of offending any by preference, I will name none. Nor 
 is it indeed necessary, since I am convinced they served 
 me with no desire for a public acknowledgment; nor 
 can I make any to some of them, equal with the gra- 
 titude of my sentiments. 
 
 I cannot, however, forbear mentioning my sense of 
 the friendship shewn me by a profession of which I am 
 a late and unworthy member, and from whose assistance 
 I derive more than half the names which appear to 
 this subscription. 
 
 It remains that I make some apology for the delay 
 in publishing these volumes, the real reason of which 
 was, the dangerous illness of one from whom I draw 
 all the solid comfort of my life, during the greatest 
 part of this winter. This, as it is most sacredly true, 
 so will it, I doubt not, sufficiently excuse the delay to 
 all who know me. 
 
 Indeed when I look a year or two backwards, and 
 survey the accidents which have befallen me, and the 
 distresses I have waded through whilst I have been 
 engaged in these works, I could almost challenge some 
 philosophy to myself, for having been able to finish 
 them as I have; and however imperfectly that may be, 
 I am convinced the reader, was he acquainted with the 
 whole, would want very little good-nature to extinguish 
 his disdain at any faults he meets with. 
 
PREFACE. 97 
 
 But this hath dropped from me unawares: for I in- 
 tend not to entertain my reader with my private his- 
 tory: nor am I fond enough of tragedy to make myself 
 the hero of one. 
 
 However, as I have been very unjustly censured, as 
 well on account of what I have not written, as for 
 what I have, I take this opportunity to declare in the 
 most solemn manner, I have long since (as long as from 
 June, 1741) desisted from writing one syllable in the 
 Champion, or any other public paper ; and that I never 
 was, nor will be, the author of anonymous scandal on 
 the private history or family of any person whatever. 
 
 Indeed there is no man who speaks or thinks with 
 more detestation of the modern custom of libelling. I 
 look on the practice of stabbing a man's character in 
 the dark, to be as base and as barbarous as that of 
 stabbing him with a poignard in the same manner ; nor 
 have I ever been once in my life guilty of it. 
 
 It is not here, I suppose, necessary to distinguish 
 between ridicule and scurrility; between a jest on a 
 public character, and the murther of a private one. 
 
 My reader will pardon my having dwelt a little on 
 this particular, since it is so especially necessary in this 
 age, when almost all the wit we have is applied this 
 way; and when I have already been a martyr to such 
 unjust suspicion. Of which I will relate one instance. 
 While I was last winter laid up in the gout, with a 
 favourite child dying in one bed, and my wife in a con- 
 dition very little better on another, attended with other 
 circumstances, which served as very proper decorations 
 to such a scene, I received a letter from a friend, desiring 
 me to vindicate myself from two very opposite reflections, 
 which two opposite parties thought fit to cast on me, 
 viz., the one of writing in the Champion (though I had 
 not then written in it for upwards of half a year), the 
 
98 PREFACE. 
 
 other, of writing in the Gazetteer, in which I never had 
 the honour of inserting a single word. 
 
 To defend myself therefore as well as I can from all 
 past, and to enter a caveat against all future, censure of 
 this kind, I once more solemnly declare, that since the 
 end of June, 1741, I have not, besides Joseph Andrews, 
 published one word, except The Opposition, a Vision. 
 A Defence of the Dutchess of Marlborough! s Book. Miss 
 Lucy in Town (in which I had a very small share). And 
 I do farther protest, that I will never hereafter publish 
 any book or pamphlet whatever, to which I will not put 
 my name. A promise which, as I shall sacredly keep, 
 so will it, I hope, be so far believed, that I may hence- 
 forth receive no more praise or censure, to which I have 
 not the least title. 
 
 And now, my good-natured reader, recommending my 
 works to your candour, I bid you heartily farewell ; and 
 take this with you, that you may never be interrupted 
 in the reading these Miscellanies with that degree of 
 heartache which hath often discomposed me in the 
 writing them. 
 
OF 
 
 TEUE GEEATNESS 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 GEORGE DODINGTON, ESQ. 
 
 n 2 
 
 LafC. 
 
OF 
 
 TEUE GEEATNESS 
 
 AN EPISTLB TO 
 
 GEORGE DODINGTON, ESQ. 
 
 'Tis strange, while all to greatness homage pay, 
 So few should know the goddess they obey. 
 That men should think a thousand things the same, 
 And give contending images one name. 
 Not Greece, in all her temples' wide abodes, 
 Held a more wild democracy of Gods 
 Than various deities we serve, while all 
 Profess before one common shrine to fall. 
 
 Whether ourselves of greatness are possess'd, 
 Or worship it within another's breast. 
 
 While a mean crowd of sycophants attend, 
 And fawn and flatter, creep and cringe and bend ; 
 The fav'rite blesses his superior state, 
 Eises o'er all, and hails himself the great. 
 Vain man ! can such as these to greatness raise ? 
 Can honour come from dirt ? from baseness, praise ? 
 Then Indicts gem on Scotland's coast shall shine, 
 And the Peruvian ore enrich the Cornish mine. 
 
102 
 
 Behold, in blooming May, the May-pole stand, 
 Dress'd out in garlands by the peasant's hand ; 
 Around it dance the youth, in mirthful mood ; 
 And all admire the gaudy, dress' d up wood. 
 See, the next day, of all its pride bereft, 
 How soon the unreguarded post is left. 
 So thou, the wonder of a longer day, 
 Kais'd high on pow'r, and dressed in titles, gay, 
 Stripp'd of these summer garlands, soon would' st see 
 The mercenary slaves ador'd, not thee ; 
 Would' st see them thronging thy successor's gate, 
 Shadows of power, and properties of state. 
 As the sun insects, pow'r court-friends begets, 
 Which wanton in its beams, and vanish as it sets. 
 
 Thy highest pomp the hermit dares despise, 
 Greatness (cries this) is to be good and wise. 
 To titles, treasures, luxury and show, 
 The gilded follies of mankind, a foe. 
 He flies society, to wilds resorts, 
 And rails at busy cities, splendid courts. 
 Great to himself, he in his cell appears, 
 As kings on thrones, or conquerors on cars. 
 
 thou, that dar'st thus proudly scorn thy kind, 
 Search, with impartial scrutiny, thy mind ; 
 Disdaining outward flatterers to win, 
 Dost thou not feed a flatterer within ? 
 While other passions temperance may guide, 
 Feast not with too delicious meals thy pride. 
 On vice triumphant while thy censures fall, 
 Be sure no envy mixes with thy gall. 
 Ask thyself oft, to pow'r and grandeur born, 
 Had pow'r and grandeur then incurr'd thy scorn ? 
 
103 
 
 If no ill-nature in thy breast prevails, 
 Enjoying all the crimes at which it rails ? 
 A peevish sour perverseness of the will, 
 Oft we miscall antipathy to ill. 
 
 Scorn and disdain the little cynic hurl'd 
 At the exulting victor of the world. 
 Greater than this what soul can be descried ? 
 His who contemns the cynic's snarling pride. 
 Well might the haughty son of Philip see 
 Ambition's second lot devolve on thee ; 
 Whose breast pride fires with scarce inferior joy, 
 And bids thee hate and shun men, him destroy. 
 
 But had'st thou, Alexander, wish'd to prove ^ 
 Thyself the real progeny of Jove, 
 Virtue another path had bid thee find, 
 Taught thee to save, and not to slay, mankind. / 
 
 Shall the lean wolf, by hunger fierce and bold, 
 Bear off no honours from the bloody fold ? 
 Shall the dead flock his greatness not display ; 
 But shepherds hunt him as a beast of prey ? 
 While man, not drove by hunger from his den, 
 To honour climbs o'er heaps of murder' d men. 
 Shall ravag'd fields and burning towns proclaim 
 The hero's glory, not the robber's shame ? 
 Shall thousands fall, and millions be undone, 
 To glut the hungry cruelty of one ? 
 
 Behold, the plain with human gore grow red, 
 The swelling river heave along the dead. 
 See, through the breach the hostile deluge flow, 
 Along it bears the unresisting foe : 
 
/ 
 
 104 
 
 Hear, in each street the wretched virgin's cries, 
 Her lover sees her ravish' d as he dies. 
 The infant wonders at its mother's tears, 
 And smiling feels its fate before its fears. 
 Age, while in vain for the first blow it calls, 
 Views all its branches lopp'd before it falls. 
 Beauty betrays the mistress it should guard, 
 And, faithless, proves the ravisher's reward : 
 Death, their sole friend, relieves them from their ills, 
 Their kindest victor he, who soonest kills. 
 
 Could such exploits as these thy pride create ? 
 Could these, Philip 's Son, proclaim thee Great ? 
 Such honours Mahomet expiring crav'd, 
 Such were the trophies on his tomb engrav'd. 
 If greatness by these means may be possess'd, 
 111 we deny it to the greater beast. 
 Single and arm'd by nature only, he 
 That mischief does, which thousands do for thee. 
 
 Not on such wings to fame did Churchill soar, 
 For Europe while defensive arms he bore. 
 Whose conquests, cheap at all the blood they cost, 
 Sav'd millions by each noble life they lost. 
 
 Oh, name august ! in capitals of gold, 
 In fame's eternal chronicle enroll' d ! 
 Where Ccesar, viewing thee, asham'd withdraws, 
 And owns thee greater in a greater cause. 
 Thee, from the lowest depth of time, on high 
 i blazing, shall late posterity descry ; 
 And own the purchase of thy glorious pains, 
 While Liberty, or while her name, remains. 
 
105 
 
 But quit, great sir, with me this higher scene, 
 And view false greatness with more awkward mien, 
 For now, from camps to colleges retreat ; 
 No cell, no closet here without the great. 
 See, how pride swells the haughty pedant's looks ; 
 How pleas' d he smiles o'er heaps of conquer' d books 
 Tully to him, and Seneca, are known, 
 And all their noblest sentiments his own. 
 These, on each apt occasion, he can quote ; 
 Thus the false count affects the man of note, 
 Awkward and shapeless in a borrow'd coat. 
 
 Thro' books some travel, as thro' nations some, 
 Proud of their voyage, yet bring nothing home. 
 Critics thro' books, as beaus thro' countries stray, 
 Certain to bring their blemishes away. 
 
 Q eat is the man, who with unwearied toil 
 Spit a weed springing in the richest soil. 
 If I), dens page with one bad line be bless' d, 
 ' Tis gi at to show it, as to write the rest. 
 
 Others, with friendly eye run authors o'er, 
 Not to find faults, but beauties to restore ; 
 Nor scruple (such their bounty) to afford 
 Folios of dulness to preserve a word : 
 Close, as to some tall tree the insect cleaves, 
 Myriads still nourish' d by its smallest leaves. 
 So cling these scribblers round a Virgil's name, 
 And on his least of beauties soar to fame. 
 
 Awake, ye useless drones, and scorn to thrive 
 On the sweets gather' d by the lab'ring hive. 
 Behold, the merchant give to thousands food, 
 His loss his own, his gain the public good. 
 
106 
 
 Her various bounties Nature still confines, 
 Here gilds her sands, there silvers o'er her mines : 
 The merchant's bounty Nature hath outdone, 
 He gives to all, what she confines to one. 
 And is he then not great ? Sir B. denies 
 True greatness to the creature whom he buys : 
 Blush the wretch wounded, conscious of his guile, 
 B — nard and H — cote at such satire smile. 
 
 But if a merchant lives, who meanly deigns 
 To sacrifice his country to his gains, 
 Tho' from his house, untrusted and unfed, 
 The poet bears off neither wine nor bread ; 
 As down Cheapside he meditates the song, 
 He ranks that merchant with the meanest throng. 
 Nor him the poet's pride contemns alone, 
 But all to whom the muses are unknown. 
 These, cries the bard, true honours can bestow, 
 And separate true worth from outward show ; 
 Sceptres and crowns by them grow glorious things 
 (For tho' they make not, they distinguish kings). 
 Short-liv'd the gifts which kings to them bequeath ; 
 Bards only give the never-fading wreath. 
 Did all our annals no Argyle afford, 
 The muse constrain' d could sing a common lord. 
 But should the muse withhold her friendly strain, 
 The hero's glory blossoms fair in vain ; 
 Like the young spring's, or summer's riper flow'r, 
 The admiration of the present hour. 
 She gleans from death's sure scythe the noble name, 
 And lays up in the granaries of fame. 
 Thus the great tatter' d bard, as thro' the streets 
 He cautious treads, lest any bailiff meets. 
 Whose wretched plight the jest of all is made ; 
 Yet most, if hapless, it betray his trade. 
 
107 
 
 Fools in their laugh at poets are sincere, 
 
 And wiser men admire them thro' a sneer. 
 
 For poetry with treason shares this fate, 
 
 Men like the poem and the poet hate. 
 
 And yet with want and with contempt oppress' d, 
 
 Shunn'd, hated, mock'd, at once men's scorn and jest, 
 
 Perhaps from wholesome air itself confin'd, 
 
 Who hopes to drive out greatness from his mind? 
 
 Some greatness in myself perhaps I view ; 
 Not that I write, but that I write to you. 
 
 To you ! who in this Gothic leaden age, 
 "When wit is banish 7 d from the press and stage, 
 Wlien fools to greater folly make pretence, 
 And those who have it seem asham'd of sense ; 
 When nonsense is a term for the sublime, 
 And not to be an idiot is a crime ; 
 When low buffoons in ridicule succeed, 
 And men are largely for such writings fee'd, 
 
 As W 's self can purchase none to read ; 
 
 Yourself th' unfashionable lyre have strung, 
 Have own'd the muses and their darling Young. / 
 
 All court their favour when by all appro v'd ; 
 Ev'n virtue, if in fashion, would be lov'd. 
 You for their sakes with fashion dare engage, 
 Maecenas you in no Augustan age. 
 
 Some merit then is to the muses due ; 
 But oh ! their smiles the portion of how few ! 
 Tho' friends may flatter much, and more ourselves, 
 Few, Dodington, write worthy of your shelves. 
 Not to a song which Coelid s smiles make fine, 
 Nor play which Booth had made esteem'd divine ; 
 
108 
 
 To no rude satire from ill-nature sprung, 
 
 Nor panegyric for a pension sung ; 
 
 Not to soft lines that gently glide along, 
 
 And vie in sound and sense with HandeTs song ; 
 
 To none of these will Dodington bequeath 
 
 The poet's noble name and laureate wreath. 
 
 Leave, scribblers, leave the tuneful road to fame, 
 Nor by assuming damn a poet's name. 
 Yet how unjustly we the muses slight, 
 Unstirr'd by them because a thousand write ! 
 Who would a soldier or a judge upbraid, 
 * That wore ermine, a cockade. 
 
 To greatness each pretender to pursue, 
 Would tire, great sir, the jaded muse and you. 
 
 The lowest beau that skips about a court, 
 The lady's plaything, and the footman's sport ; 
 Whose head adorn' d with bag or tail of pig^ 
 Serves very well to bear about his wig ; t 
 Himself the sign-post of his tailor's trade, 
 That shows abroad, how well his clothes are made ; 
 This little, empty, silly, trifling toy, 
 Can from ambition feel a kind of joy ; 
 Can swell, and even aim at looking wise, 
 And walking merit from its chair despise. 
 
 Who wonders, then, if such a thing as this 
 At greatness aims, that none the aim can miss ! 
 
 * This verse may be filled up with any two names out of our Chronicles, 
 as the reader shall think fit. 
 
 f These verses attempt (if possible) to imitate the meanness of the 
 creature they describe. 
 
109 
 
 Nor trade so low, profession useless, thrives, 
 Which to its followers not greatness gives. 
 What quality so n mean, what vice can shame 
 The base possessors from the mighty claim ? 
 To make our merits little weight prevail, 
 We put not virtue in the other scale ; 
 Against our neighbour's scale our own we press, 
 And each man's great who finds another less. 
 In large dominions some exert their state, 
 But all men find a corner to be great. 
 The lowest lawyer, parson, courtier, squire, 
 Is somewhere great, finds some that will admire. 
 
 Where shall we say then that true greatness dwells? 
 In palaces of kings, or hermits' cells? 
 Does she confirm the minister's mock-state, 
 Or bloody on the victor's garland wait ? 
 Warbles, harmonious, she the poet's song, 
 Or, graver, laws pronounces to the throng? 
 
 To no profession, party, place confin'd, 
 True greatness lives but in the noble mind ; 
 Him constant through each various scene attends, 
 Fierce to his foes, and faithful to his friends. 
 In him, in any sphere of life she shines, 
 Whether she blaze a Hoadley 'mid divines, 
 Or, an Argyle, in fields and senates dare, 
 Supreme in all the arts of peace and war. 
 Greatness with learning deck'd in Carteret see, 
 With justice, and with clemency in Lee; 
 In Chesterfield to ripe perfection come, 
 See it in Littleton beyond its bloom. 
 
 Lives there a man, by nature form'd to please, 
 To think with dignity, express with ease ; 
 
110 
 
 Upright in principle, in council strong, 
 Prone not to change, nor obstinate too long : 
 Whose soul is with such various talents bless' d, 
 What he now does seems to become him best; 
 Whether the Cabinet demands his pow'rs, 
 Or gay addresses soothe his vacant hours, 
 Or when from graver tasks his mind unbends, 
 To charm with wit the muses or his friends. 
 His friends ! who in his favour claim no place, 
 From titles, pimping, flattery or lace, 
 To whose blest lot superior portions fall, 
 To most of fortune, and of taste to all. 
 Aw'd not by fear, by prejudice not sway'd, 
 By fashion led not, nor by whim betray' d, 
 By candour only biass'd, who shall dare 
 To view and judge and speak men as they are? 
 In him (if such there be) is greatness shewn, 
 Nor can he be to Dodington unknown. 
 
OF 
 
 GO OD-N AT UEE 
 
 TO HIS GRACE THE 
 
 DUKE OF EICHMOND. 
 
 "What is good-nature ? Gen'rous Richmond^ tell ; 
 He can declare it best, who best can feel. 
 Is it a foolish weakness in the breast, 
 As some who know, or have it not, contest ? 
 Or is it rather not the mighty whole, 
 Full composition of a virtuous soul ? 
 Is it not virtue's self? A flower so fine, 
 It only grows in soils almost divine. 
 
 Some virtues flourish, like some plants, less nice, 
 And in one nature blossom out with vice. 
 Knaves may be valiant, villains may be friends ; 
 And love in minds deprav'd effect its ends. 
 Good-nature, like the delicatest seeds. 
 Or dies itself, or else extirpates weeds. 
 
 Yet in itself, howe'er unmix' d and pure, 
 No virtue from mistakes is less secure. 
 Good-nature often we those actions name, 
 Which flow from friendship, or a softer flame. 
 
112 
 
 Pride may the friend to noblest efforts thrust, 
 
 Or savages grow gentle out of lust. 
 
 The meanest passion may the best appear, 
 
 And men may seem good-natur'd from their fear. 
 
 What by this name, then, shall be understood ? 
 What ? but the glorious lust of doing good ? 
 The heart that finds its happiness to please 
 Can feel another's pain, and taste his ease. 
 The cheek that with another's joy can glow, 
 Turn pale and sicken with another's woe ; 
 Free from contempt and envy, he who deems 
 Justly of life's two opposite extremes. 
 Who to make all and each man trcdy bless' d 
 Doth all he can and wishes all the rest ? 
 
 Tho' few have pow'r their wishes to fulfil, 
 Yet all men may do good, at least in will. 
 Tho' few, with you or Marlborough, can save 
 From poverty, from prisons, and the grave ; 
 Yet to each individual heav'n affords 
 The pow'r to bless in wishes, and in words. 
 
 Happy the man with passions bless'd like you, 
 Who to be ill, his nature must subdue. 
 Whom fortune fav'ring, was no longer blind, 
 Whose riches are the treasures of mankind. 
 O ! nobler in thy virtues than thy blood, 
 Above thy highest titles place The Good. 
 
 High on life's summit rais'd, you little know 
 The ills which blacken all the vales below ; 
 Where industry toils for support in vain, 
 And virtue to distress still joins disdain. 
 
113 
 
 Swell;' ring with wealth, where men unmov'd can hear 
 The orphans sigh, and see the widow's tear ; 
 Where griping av'rice slights the debtor's pray'r, 
 And wretches wanting bread deprives of air. 
 
 Must it not wond'rous seem to hearts like thine, 
 That God, to other animals benign, 
 Should unprovided man alone create, 
 And send him hither but to curse his fate ! 
 Is this the being for whose use the earth 
 Sprung out of nought, and animals had birth ? 
 This he, whose bold imagination dares 
 Converse with heav'n, and soar beyond the stars ? 
 Poor reptile ! wretched in an angel's form, 
 And wanting that which Nature gives the worm. 
 
 Far other views our kind Creator knew, 
 When man the image of himself he drew. 
 
 So full the stream of Nature's bounty flows, 
 Man feels no ill, but what to man he owes. 
 The earth abundant furnishes a store, 
 To sate the rich, and satisfy the poor. 
 These would not want, if those did never hoard ; 
 Enough for Irus falls from Dives board. 
 
 And dost thou, common son of Nature, dare 
 From thy own brother to withhold his share ? 
 To vanity, pale idol, offer up 
 The shining dish, and empty golden cup ! 
 Or else in caverns hide thy precious ore, 
 And to the bowels of the earth restore 
 What for our use she yielded up before ? 
 
114 
 
 Behold, and take example, how the steed 
 
 Attempts not, selfish, to engross the mead. 
 
 See how the lowing herd, and bleating flock, 
 
 Promiscuous graze the valley, or the rock ; 
 
 Each tastes his share of Nature's gen'ral good, 
 
 Nor strives from others to withhold their food. 
 
 But say, man ! would it not strange appear 
 
 To see some beast (perhaps the meanest there) 
 
 To his repast the sweetest pastures choose, 
 
 And ev'n the sourest to the rest refuse. 
 
 Would'st thou not view, with scornful wond'ring eye, 
 
 The poor, contented, starving herd stand by ? 
 
 All to one beast a servile homage pay, 
 
 And boasting, think it honour to obey. 
 
 Who wonders that good-nature in so few, 
 Can anger, lust, or avarice subdue ? 
 When the cheap gift of fame our tongues deny, 
 And risk our own, to poison with a lie. 
 
 Dwells there a base malignity in men, 
 That 'scapes the tiger's cave, or lion's den ? 
 Does our fear dread, or does our envy hate, 
 To see another happy, good, or great ? 
 Or does the gift of fame, like money, seem ? 
 Think we we lose, whene'er we give, esteem ? 
 
 Oh ! great humanity, whose beams benign, 
 Like the sun's rays, on just and unjust shine; 
 Who turning the perspective friendly still, 
 Dost magnify all good, and lessen ill ; 
 Whose eye, while small perfections it commends, 
 Not to what's better, but what's worse attends : 
 
115 
 
 Who, when at court it spies some well-shaped fair, 
 
 Searches not through the rooms for ShaftsVrys air ; 
 
 Nor when Clarindas lilies are confessed, 
 
 Looks for the snow that whitens Richmond's breast. 
 
 Another's sense and goodness when I name, 
 
 Why wouldst thou lessen them with Mountford } s fame ? 
 
 Content, what Nature lavishes admire, 
 
 Nor what is wanting in each piece require. 
 
 Where much is right some blemishes afford, 
 
 Now look for Ch— d in every lord. 
 
116 
 
 LIBERTY 
 
 TO 
 
 GEORGE LYTTLETON, ESQ. 
 
 To Lyttleton the muse this off ring pays ; 
 Who sings of liberty, must sing his praise. 
 This man, ye grateful Britons, all revere ; 
 Here raise your altars, bring your incense here. 
 To him the praise, the blessings which ye owe, 
 More than their sires your grateful sons shall know. 
 O ! for thy country's good and glory born ! 
 Whom nature vied with fortune to adorn ! 
 Brave, tho' no soldier ; without titles, great ; 
 Feard, without pow'r; and envied, without state. 
 Accept the muse whom truth inspires to sing, 
 Who soars, tho' weakly, on an honest wing. 
 
 See Liberty, bright goddess, comes along, 
 Rais'd at thy name, she animates the song. 
 Thy name, which Lacedemon had approved, 
 Rome had ador'd, and Brutus self had lov'd. 
 
 Come, then, bright maid, my glowing breast inspire ; 
 Breathe in my lines, and kindle all thy fire. 
 
 Behold, she cries, the groves, the woods, the plains, 
 Where nature dictates, see how freedom reigns ; 
 
117 
 
 The herd, promiscuous, o'er the mountain strays ; 
 Nor begs this beast the other's leave to graze. 
 Each freely dares his appetite to treat, 
 Nor fears the steed to neigh, the flock to bleat. 
 
 Did God, who freedom to these creatures gave, 
 Form his own image, man, to be a slave ? 
 
 But men, it seems, to laws of compact yield ; 
 While nature only governs in the field. 
 Curse on all laws which liberty subdue, 
 And make the many wretched for the few. 
 
 However deaf to shame, to reason blind, 
 Men dare assert all falsehoods of mankind ; 
 The public never were, when free, such elves 
 To covet laws pernicious to themselves. 
 Presumptuous pow'r assumes the public voice, 
 And what it makes our fate, pretends our choice. 
 
 To whom did pow'r original belong ? 
 Was it not first extorted by the strong ? 
 And thus began, where it will end, in wrong. 
 
 These scorn' d to pow'r another claim than might, 
 And in ability established right. 
 
 At length a second nobler sort arose, 
 Friends to the weak, and to oppression foes ; 
 With warm humanity their bosoms glow'd, 
 They felt to nature their great strength they ow'd. 
 And as some elder born of noble rate, 
 To whom devolves his father's rich estate, 
 Becomes a kind protector to the rest, 
 Nor sees unmov'd the younger branch distress' d, 
 
118 
 
 So these, with strength whom nature deign' d to grace, 
 Became the guardians of their weaker race ; 
 Fore d tyrant pow'r to bend its stubborn knee, 
 Broke the hard chain, and set the people free. 
 O'er abject slaves they scorn'd inglorious sway, 
 But taught the grateful freed man to obey ; 
 And thus, by giving liberty, enjoy'd 
 What the first hop'd from liberty destroyed. 
 
 To such the weak for their protection flew, 
 Hence right to pow'r and laws by compact grew. 
 With zeal embracing their deliverer's cause, 
 They bear his arms, and listen to his laws. 
 Thus pow'r superior strength superior wears, 
 In honour chief, as first in toils and cares. 
 The people pow'r, to keep their freedom, gave, 
 And he who had it was the only slave. 
 
 But fortune wills to wisest human schemes, 
 The fate that torrents bring to purest streams, 
 Which from clear fountains soon polluted run, 
 Thus ends in evil what from good begun. 
 
 For now the savage host, o'erthrown and slain, 
 New titles, by new methods, kings obtain. 
 To priests and lawyers soon their arts applied, 
 The people these, and those the Gods belied. 
 The Gods, unheard, to power successors name, 
 And silent crowds their rights divine proclaim. 
 Hence all the evils which mankind have known, 
 The priest's dark mystery, the tyrant's throne ; 
 Hence lords, and ministers, and such sad things; 
 And hence the strange divinity of kings. 
 Hail liberty ! Boon worthy of the skies, 
 Like fabled Venus fair, like Pallas wise. 
 
119 
 
 Thro' thee the citizen braves war's alarms, 
 Tho' neither bred to fight, nor paid for arms ; 
 Thro' thee, the laurel crown' d the victor's brow, 
 Who serv'd before his country at the plough : 
 Thro' thee (what most must to thy praise appear) 
 Proud senates scorn' d not to seek virtue there. 
 
 O thou, than health or riches dearer far, 
 Thou gentle breath of peace, and soul of war ; 
 Thou that hast taught the desert sweets to yield, 
 And shame the fair Campania's fertile field ; 
 Hast shown the peasant glory, and call'd forth 
 Wealth from the barren sand, and heroes from the 
 north ! 
 
 The southern skies, without thee, to no end 
 In the cool breeze, or genial show'rs descend : 
 Possess' d of thee, the Vandal, and the Hun, 
 Enjoy their frost, nor mourn the distant sun. 
 
 As poets Samos, and the Cyprian grove, 
 Once gave to Juno, and the Queen of Love : 
 Be thine Britannia : ever friendly smile, 
 And fix thy seat eternal in this isle. 
 Thy sacred name no Romans now adore, 
 And Greece attends thy glorious call no more. 
 To thy Britannia, then, thy fire transfer, 
 Give all thy virtue, all thy force to her ; 
 Eevolve, attentive, all her annals o'er, 
 See how her sons have lov'd thee heretofore. 
 While the base sword oppress' d Iberia draws, 
 And slavish Gauls dare fight against thy cause, 
 See Britain's youth rush forth, at thy command, 
 And fix thy standard in the hostile land. 
 
120 
 
 With noble scorn they view the crowded field, 
 
 And force unequal multitudes to yield. 
 
 So wolves large flocks, so lions herds survey, 
 
 Not foes more num'rous, but a richer prey. 
 
 O ! teach us to withstand, as they withstood, 
 
 Nor lose the purchase of our father's blood. 
 
 Ne'er blush that sun that saw in Blenheims plain 
 
 Streams of our blood, and mountains of our slain ; 
 
 Or that of old beheld all France to yield 
 
 In Agincourt or Cresses glorious field ; 
 
 Where freedom Churchill, Henry, Edward gave, 
 
 Ne'er blush that sun to see a British slave. 
 
 As industry might from the bee be taught, 
 
 So might oppression from the hive be brought : 
 
 Behold the little race laborious stray, 
 
 And from each flow'r the hard-wrought sweets convey, 
 
 That in warm ease in winter they may dwell, 
 
 And each enjoy the riches of its cell. 
 
 Behold th r excising pow'r of man despoil 
 
 These little wretches of their care and toil. 
 
 Death's the reward of all their labour lost, 
 
 Careful in vain, and provident to their cost. 
 
 But thou, great liberty, keep Britain free, 
 Nor let men use us as we use the bee. 
 Let not base drones upon our honey thrive, 
 And suffocate the maker in his hive. 
 
TO A FEIEND 
 
 CHOICE OF A WIFE. 
 
 'Tis hard (experience long so taught the wise) 
 Not to provoke the person we advise. 
 Counsel, tho' ask'd, may very oft offend, 
 When it insults th' opinion of my friend. 
 Men frequent wish another's judgment known, 
 Not to destroy, but to confirm their own. 
 With feign' d suspense for our advice they sue, 
 On what they've done, or are resolv'd to do. 
 The favour'd scheme should we by chance oppose, 
 Henceforth they see us in the light of foes. 
 For could mankind th' advice they ask receive, 
 Most to themselves might wholesome counsel give. 
 Men in the beaten track of life's highway, 
 Ofter through passion than through error stray, 
 Wants less advice than firmness to obey. 
 
 Nor can advice an equal hazard prove 
 To what is given in the cause of love ; 
 None ask it here till melting in the flame. 
 If we oppose the now victorious dame, 
 You think her enemy and yours the same. 
 
122 
 
 But yet, tho' hard, tho' dangerous the task, 
 Fidus must grant, if his Alexis ask. 
 Take then the friendly counsels of the muse ; 
 Happy, if what you've chosen she should choose. 
 
 The question's worthy some diviner voice, 
 How to direct a wife's important choice. 
 In other aims if we should miss the white, 
 Eeason corrects, and turns us to the right : 
 But here, a doom irrevocable' s past, 
 And the first fatal error proves the last. 
 Eash were it then, and desperate, to run 
 With haste to do what cannot be undone. 
 Whence comes the woes which we in marriage find, 
 But from a choice too negligent, too blind ? 
 
 Marriage, by heav'n ordain' d is understood, 
 And bounteous heav'n ordain' d but what is good. 
 To our destruction we its bounties turn, 
 In flames, by heav'n to warm us meant, we burn. 
 What draws youth heedless to the fatal gin ? 
 Features well form'd or a well polish' d skin. 
 What can in riper minds a wish create ? 
 Wealth, or alliance with the rich and great : 
 Who to himself, now in his courtship, says, 
 I choose a partner of my future days ; 
 Her face, or pocket seen, her mind they trust ; 
 They wed to lay the fiends of avarice or lust. 
 
 But thou, whose honest thoughts the choice intend 
 Of a companion, and a softer friend ; 
 A tender heart, which while thy soul it shares, 
 Augments thy joys, and lessens all thy cares. 
 
123 
 
 One, who by thee while tenderly caress' d, 
 Shall steal that God-like transport to thy breast, 
 The joy to find you make another blest. 
 Thee in thy choice let other maxims move, 
 They wed for baser passions ; thou for love. 
 
 Of Beauty's subtle poison well beware ; 
 Our hearts are taken e'er they dread the snare : 
 Our eyes, soon dazzled by that glare, grow blind, 
 And see no imperfections in the mind. 
 Of this appris'd, the sex, with nicest art, 
 Insidiously adorn the outward part. 
 But beauty, to a mind deprav'd and ill, 
 Is a thin gilding to a nauseous pill ; 
 A cheating promise of a short-liv'd joy, 
 Time must this idol, chance may soon destroy. 
 See Leda, once the circle's proudest boast, 
 Of the whole town the universal toast ; 
 By children, age, and sickness, now decay' d, 
 What marks remain of the triumphant Maid ? 
 Beauties which nature and which art produce, 
 Are form'd to please the eye, no other use. 
 The husband, sated by possession grown, 
 Or indolent to flatter what's his own; 
 With eager rivals keeps unequal pace : 
 But oh ! no rival flatters like her glass. 
 There still she's sure a thousand charms to see, 
 A thousand times she more admires than he ; 
 Then soon his dulness learns she to despise, 
 And thinks she's thrown away too rich a prize. 
 To please her, try his little arts in vain ; 
 His very hopes to please her move disdain. 
 The man of sense, the husband, and the friend, 
 Cannot with fools and coxcombs condescend 
 
124 
 
 To such vile terms of tributary praise, 
 
 As tyrants scarce on conquer' d countries raise. 
 
 Beauties think Heav'n they in themselves bestow, 
 
 All we return is gratitude too low. 
 
 A gen'ral beauty wisely then you shun ; 
 
 But from a wit, as a contagion, run. 
 
 Beauties with praise if difficult to fill ; 
 
 To praise a wit enough, is harder still. 
 
 Here with a thousand rivals you'll contest ; 
 
 He most succeeds, who most approves the jest. 
 
 Ill-nature too with wit's too often joined; 
 
 Too firm associates in the human mind. 
 
 Oft may the former for the latter go, 
 
 And for a wit we may mistake a shrew. 
 
 How seldom burns this fire, like Sappho's, bright ! 
 
 How seldom gives an innocent delight ! 
 
 Flavians a wit at modesty's expence ; 
 
 Iris to laughter sacrifices sense. 
 
 Hard labour undergo poor Delia's brains, 
 
 While ev'ry joke some mystery contains ; 
 
 No problem is discuss' d with greater pains. 
 
 Not Lais more resolv'd, through thick and thin, 
 
 Will plunge to meet her ever-darling sin, 
 
 Than Myrrha, through ingratitude and shame, 
 
 To raise the laugh, or get a witty fame. 
 
 No friendship is secure from Myrrha's blows ; 
 
 For wits, like gamesters, hurt both friends and foes 
 
 Besides, where'er these shining flowers appear, 
 
 Too nice the soil more useful plants to bear ; 
 
 Her house, her person, are below her care. 
 
 In a domestic sphere she scorns to move, 
 
 And scarce accepts the vulgar joys of love. 
 
 But while your heart to wit's attacks is cool, 
 
 Let it not give admission to a fool. 
 
125 
 
 He who can folly in a wife commend, 
 
 Proposes her a servant, not a friend. 
 
 Thou, too, whose mind is generous and brave, 
 
 Would' st not become her master, but her slave ; 
 
 For fools are obstinate, advice refuse, 
 
 And yield to none but arts you'd scorn to use. 
 
 When passion grows, by long possession dull, 
 
 The sleepy flame her folly soon must lull ; 
 
 Tho' now, perhaps, those childish airs you prize, 
 
 Lovers and husbands see with diff 'rent eyes. 
 
 A rising passion will new charms create ; 
 
 A falling seeks new causes for its hate. 
 
 Wisely the bee, while teeming summer blooms, 
 
 Thinks of the dearth which with cold winter glooms, 
 
 So thou should' st, in thy love's serener time, 
 
 When passion reigns, and Flora's in her prime, 
 
 Think of that winter which must sure ensue, 
 
 When she shall have no charms, no fondness you. 
 
 How then shall friendship to fond love succeed ? 
 
 What charms shall serve her then in beauty's stead ? 
 
 What then shall bid the passion change, not cool ? 
 
 No charm's in the possession of a fool. 
 
 Next for the all-attracting power of gold, 
 
 That as a thing indifferent you hold. 
 
 I know thy am'rous heart, whose honest pride 
 
 Is still to be on the obliging side, 
 
 Would wish the fair one, who your soul allures, 
 
 Enjoy'd a fortune rather less than yours. 
 
 Those whom the dazzling glare of fortune strikes, 
 
 Whom gold allures to what the soul dislikes ; 
 
 If counterfeit affection they support, 
 
 Strict penance do, and golden fetters court. 
 
 But if ungrateful for the boon they grow, 
 
 And pay the bounteous female back with woe, 
 
126 
 
 These are the worst of robbers in their wills, 
 Whom laws prevent from doing lesser ills. 
 
 Many who profit in a match intend, 
 Find themselves clearly losers in the end, 
 Fulvius, who basely from Melissa broke, 
 With richer Chloe to sustain the yoke, 
 Sees, in her vast expence, his crimes repaid, 
 And oft laments the poor forsaken maid. 
 And say, what soul, that's not to slavery born, 
 Can bear the taunts, th' upbraidings, and the scorn, 
 Which women with their fortunes oft bestow ? 
 Worse torments far than poverty can know. 
 
 Happy Alexis, sprung from such a race, 
 Whose blood would no nobility disgrace. 
 But prefer some tender of a flock, 
 Who scarce can graft one parson on her stock. 
 To a fair branch of Churchill's noble line, 
 If thou must often hear it match' d with thine. 
 Hence should, I say, by her big taunts compell'd, 
 With Tallard taken, Villars forc'd to yield, 
 And all the glories of great Blenheim's field. 
 While thus secure from what too frequent charms, 
 Small force against the rest your bosom arms. 
 Ill-nature, pride, or a malicious spleen, 
 To be abhorr'd, need only to be seen ; 
 But to discover 'em may ask some art : 
 Women to lovers seldom faults impart. 
 She's more than woman, who can still conceal 
 Faults from a lover, who will watch her well. 
 The dams of art may Nature's stream oppose, 
 It swells at last, and in a torrent flows. 
 
r J 
 
 127 
 
 But men, too partial, think, when they behold 
 
 A mistress rude, vain, obstinate, or bold, 
 
 That she to others who a demon proves, 
 
 May be an angel to the man she loves. 
 
 Mistaken hope, that can expect to find 
 
 Pride ever humble, or ill-nature kind. 
 
 No, rest assur'd, the ill which now you see 
 
 Her act to others, she will act to thee. 
 
 Shun then the serpent, when the sting appears, 
 
 Nor think a hurtful nature ever spares. 
 
 Two sorts of women never should be woo'd, 
 
 The wild coquette, and the censorious prude : 
 
 From love both chiefly seek to feed their pride, 
 
 Those to affect it strive, and these to hide. 
 
 Each gay coquette would be admir'd alone 
 
 By all, each prude be thought to value none. 
 
 Flaretta so weak vanities enthrall, 
 
 She'd leave her eager bridegroom for a ball. 
 
 Chloe, the darling trifle of the town, 
 
 Had ne'er been won but by her wedding gown ; 
 
 While in her fond Myrtillo's arms caress'd, 
 
 She doats on that, and wishes to be dress' d. 
 
 Like some poor bird, just pent within the cage, 
 
 Whose rambling heart in vain you would engage, 
 
 Cold to your fondness, it laments its chain, 
 
 And wanton longs to range the fields again. 
 
 But prudes, whose thoughts superior themes employ, 
 
 Scorn the dull transports of a carnal joy : 
 
 With screw'd-up face, confess they suffer raptures, 
 
 And marry only to obey the Scriptures. 
 
 But if her constitution take the part 
 
 Of honest Nature 'gainst the wiles of art ; 
 
 If she gives loose to love, she loves indeed ; 
 
 Then endless fears and jealousies succeed. 
 
128 
 
 If fondness e'er abate, you're weary grown, 
 
 And doat on some lewd creature of the town. 
 
 If any beauty to a visit come ; 
 
 Why can't these gadding wretches stay at home ? 
 
 They think each compliment conveys a flame, 
 
 You cannot both be civil to the same. 
 
 Of all the plagues with which a husband's curst, 
 
 A jealous prude's, my friend sure knows, the worst. 
 
 Some sterner foes to marriage bold aver, 
 That in this choice a man must surely err : 
 Nor can I to this lottery advise, 
 A thousand blanks appearing to a prize. 
 Women by nature form'd too prone to ill, 
 By education are made proner still ; 
 To cheat, deceive, conceal each genuine thought, 
 By mothers and by mistresses are taught. 
 The face and shape are first the mother's care ; 
 The dancing-master next improves the air. 
 To these perfections add a voice most sweet ; 
 The skill' d musician makes the nymph complete. 
 Thus with a person well equipp'd, fyer mind 
 Left, as when first created, rude and blind, 
 She's sent to make her conquests on mankind. 
 But first inform' d the studied glance to aim, 
 Where riches shew the profitable game : 
 How with unequal smiles the jest to take, 
 When princes, lords, or squires, or captains speak ; 
 These lovers careful shun, and those create, 
 And merit only see in an estate. 
 But tho' too many of this sort we find, 
 Some there are surely of a nobler kind. 
 Nor can your judgment want a rule to chose, 
 If by these maxims guided you refuse. 
 
129 
 
 His wishes then give Fidus to declare, 
 And paint the chief perfections of the fair. 
 May she then prove, who shall thy lot befall, 
 Beauteous to thee, agreeable to all. 
 Nor wit, nor learning proudly may she boast ; 
 No low-bred girl, nor gay fantastic toast : 
 Her tender soul, good-nature must adorn, 
 And vice and meanness be alone her scorn. 
 Fond of thy person, may her bosom glow 
 With passions thou hast taught her first to know. 
 A warm partaker of the genial bed, 
 Thither by fondness, not by lewdness led. 
 Superior judgment may she own thy lot ; 
 Humbly advise, but contradict thee not. 
 Thine to all other company prefer ; 
 May all thy troubles find relief from her. 
 If fortune gives thee such a wife to meet, 
 Earth cannot make thy blessing more complete. 
 
130 
 
 TO JOHN HAYES, ESQ. 
 
 That Varius huffs, and fights it out to-day, 
 Who ran last week so cowardly away, 
 In Codrus may surprise the little skill, 
 Who nothing knows of humankind, but ill : 
 Confining all his knowledge, and his art, 
 To this, that each man is corrupt at heart. 
 
 But thou who Nature thro' each maze canst trace, 
 Who in her closet forcest her embrace ; 
 Canst with thy Horace see the human elves 
 Not differ more from others than themselves : 
 Canst see one man at several times appear, 
 Now gay, now grave, now candid, now severe ; 
 Now save his friends, now leave 'em in the lurch ; 
 Now rant in brothels, and now cant in church. 
 
 Yet farther with the muse pursue the theme, 
 And see how various men at once will seem ; 
 How passions blended on each other fix, 
 How vice with virtues, faults with graces mix; 
 How passions opposite, as sour to sweet, 
 Shall in one bosom at one moment meet, 
 With various luck for victory contend, 
 And now shall carry, and now lose their end. 
 The rotten beau, while smell' d along the room, 
 Divides your nose 'twixt stenches and perfume : 
 
131 
 
 So vice and virtue lay such equal claim, 
 
 Your judgment knows not when to praise or blame. 
 
 Had Nature actions to one source confin'd, 
 
 Ev'n blundring Codrus might have known mankind. 
 
 But as the difFring colours blended lie 
 
 When Titian variegates his clouded sky ; 
 
 Where white and black, the yellow and the green, 
 
 Unite and undistinguish'd form the scene. 
 
 So the great artist difFring passions joins, 
 
 And love with hatred, fear with rage combines. 
 
 Nor Nature this confusion makes alone, 
 She gives us often half, and half s our own. 
 
 Men what they are not struggle to appear, 
 And Nature strives to shew them as they are ; 
 While Art, repugnant thus to Nature, fights, 
 The various man appears in different lights. 
 The sage or hero on the stage may shew 
 Behind the scenes the blockhead or the beau. 
 For tho' with Quins or GarricMs matchless art, 
 He acts ; my friend, he only acts a part : 
 For Quin himself, in a few moments more, 
 Is Quin again, who Goto was before. 
 Thus while the courtier acts the patriot's part, 
 This guides his face and tongue, and that his heart. 
 Abroad the patriot shines with artful mien, 
 The naked courtier glares behind the scene. 
 What wonder then to-morrow if he grow 
 A courtier good, who is a patriot now. 
 
 p 2 
 
132 
 
 A DESCRIPTION 
 
 U n G , (alias New Hog's Norton) in Com. Hants. 
 
 AVRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY IN THE YEAR 1728. 
 
 To Rosalinda, now from town retir'd, 
 Where noblest hearts her brilliant eyes have fir'd ; 
 Whom nightingales in fav'rite bow'rs delight, 
 Where sweetest flow'rs perfume the fragrant night ; 
 Where music's charms enchant the fleeting hours, 
 And wit transports with all llialids pow'rs ; 
 Alexis sends : Whom his hard fates remove 
 From the dear scenes of poetry and love, 
 To barren climates, less frequented plains, 
 Unpolish'd nymphs, and more unpolish'd swains. 
 In such a place how can Alexis sing ? 
 An air ne'er beaten by the muse's wing ! 
 In such a place what subject can appear ? 
 What not unworthy Rosalinda s ear ? 
 Yet if a charm in novelty there be, 
 Sure it will plead to Rosalind for me ? 
 Whom courts or cities nought unknown can shew, 
 Still U G presents a prospect new. 
 
133 
 
 As the daub'd scene, that on the stage is shewn, 
 Where this side canvas is, and that a town ; 
 Or as that lace which Paxton half lace calls, 
 That decks some beau apprentice out for balls ; 
 Such our half house erects its mimic head, 
 This side an house presents, and that a shed. 
 Nor doth the inward furniture excel, 
 Nor yields it to the beauty of the shell : 
 Here Roman triumphs plac'd with awkward art, 
 A cart its horses draws, an elephant the cart, 
 On the house-side a garden may be seen, 
 Which docks and nettles keep for ever green. 
 Weeds on the ground, instead of flow'rs, we see, 
 And snails alone adorn the barren tree. 
 Happy for us, had Eves this garden been ; 
 She'd found no fruit, and therefore known no sin. 
 Nor meaner ornament the shed-side decks, 
 With hay-stacks, faggot piles, and bottle-ricks ; 
 The horses stalls, the coach a barn contains ; 
 For purling streams, we've puddles filFd with rains. 
 What can our orchard without trees surpass? 
 What, but our dusty meadow without grass ? 
 I've thought (so strong with me burlesque prevails,) 
 This place design' d to ridicule Versailles ; 
 Or meant, like that, art's utmost pow'r to shew, 
 That tells how high it reaches, this how low. 
 Our conversation does our palace fit, 
 We've ev'rything but humour, except wit. 
 
 O then, when tir'd with laughing at his strains, 
 Give one dear sigh to poor Alexis pains *, 
 Whose heart this scene would certainly subdue, 
 But for the thoughts of happier days, and you; 
 With whom one happy hour makes large amends 
 For ev'ry care his other hours attends. 
 
134 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 SIR ROBERT WALPOLE, 
 
 (NOW EAEL OF OEFORD). 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1730. 
 
 
 SIR, 
 
 While at the helm of state you ride, 
 Our nation's envy, and its pride ; 
 While foreign courts with wonder gaze, 
 And curse those councils which they praise ; 
 Would you not wonder, sir, to view 
 Your bard a greater man than you ? 
 Which that he is, you cannot doubt, 
 When you have read the sequel out. 
 
 You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, 
 Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, 
 No great analogy between 
 Greatness and happiness is seen. 
 If then, as it might follow straight, 
 Wretched to be, is to be great. 
 Forbid it, Gods, that you should try 
 What 'tis to be so great as I. 
 
 The family that dines the latest, 
 Is in our street esteem' d the greatest ; 
 But latest hours must surely fall 
 Before him who ne'er dines at all. 
 
135 
 
 Your taste in architect, you know, 
 Hath been admir'd by friend and foe : 
 But can your earthly domes compare 
 To all my castles- in the air ? 
 
 We're often taught it doth behove us 
 To think those greater who're above us. 
 Another instance of my glory, 
 Who live above you twice two story, 
 And from my garret can look down 
 On the whole street of Arlington* 
 
 Greatness by poets still is painted 
 With many followers acquainted ; 
 This too doth in my favour speak, 
 Your levee is but twice a week ; 
 From mine I can exclude but one day, 
 My door is quiet on a Sunday, 
 
 Nor in the manner of attendance 
 Doth your great bard claim less ascendance. 
 Familiar you to admiration, 
 May be approach' d by all the nation : 
 While I, like the Mogul in Indo, 
 Am never seen but at my window. 
 If with my greatness you're offended, 
 The fault is easily amended, 
 For I'll come down with wondrous ease, 
 Into whatever place you please. 
 
 I'm not ambitious ; little matters 
 Will serve us great, but humble creatures. 
 Suppose a secretary o' this isle, 
 Just to be doing with a while ; 
 
 * Where Lord Orford then lived. 
 
136 
 
 Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop ; 
 Or I can foreign treaties dish up. 
 If the good genius of the nation 
 Should call me to negotiation ; 
 Tuscan and French are in my head ; 
 Latin I write, and Greek I read. 
 
 If you should ask, what pleases best ? 
 To get the most, and do the least ; 
 
 What fittest for ? you know, I'm sure, 
 
 I'm fittest for a sinecure. 
 
 TO THE SAME. Anno 1731. 
 
 Great sir, as on each lev£e day 
 I still attend you — still you say 
 I'm busy now, to-morrow come ; 
 To-morrow, sir, you're not at home, 
 So says your porter, and dare I 
 Give such a man as him the lie ? 
 
 In imitation, sir, of you, 
 I keep a mighty levee too ; 
 Where my attendants, to their sorrow, 
 Are bid to come again to-morrow. 
 To-morrow they return, no doubt, 
 And then like you, sir, I'm gone out. 
 So says my maid — but they, less civil, 
 Give maid and master to the devil ; 
 And then with menaces depart, 
 Which could you hear would pierce your heart. 
 
 Good sir, or make my levee fly me, 
 Or lend your porter to deny me. 
 
137 
 
 WRITTEN EXTEMPOEE ON A HALFPENNY, 
 
 Which a young lady gave a beggar, and the author redeemed for 
 half-a-crown. 
 
 Dear little, pretty, fav'rite ore, 
 That once increased Gloriand s store ; 
 That lay within her bosom bless' d, 
 Gods might have envied thee thy nest. 
 I've read, imperial Jove of old 
 For love transform' d himself to gold : 
 And why, for a more lovely lass, 
 May he not now have lurk'd in brass ; 
 Oh ! rather than from her he'd part, 
 He'd shut that charitable heart, 
 That heart whose goodness nothing less 
 Than his vast pow'r, could dispossess. 
 
 From Gloriand s gentle touch 
 Thy mighty value now is such, 
 That thou to me art worth alone 
 More than his medals are to Sloan, 
 
 Not for the silver and the gold 
 Which Corinth lost should' st thou be sold: 
 Not for the envied mighty mass 
 
 Which misers wish, or M h has : 
 
 Not for what India sends to Spain, 
 Nor all the riches of the Main. 
 
 While I possess thy little store, 
 Let no man call, or think, me poor ; 
 Thee, while alive, my breast shall have, 
 My hand shall grasp thee in the grave : 
 
138 
 
 Nor shalt thou be to Peter giv'n, 
 
 * Tho' he should keep me out of heav'n. 
 
 THE B E G G A K. 
 
 A SONG. 
 I. 
 
 While cruel to your wishing slave, 
 You still refuse the boon I crave, 
 Confess, what joy that precious pearl 
 Conveys to thee, my lovely girl? 
 
 II. 
 
 Dost thou not act the miser's part, 
 Who with an aching lab' ring heart, 
 Counts the dull joyless shining store, 
 Which he refuses to the poor ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Confess then, my too lovely maid, 
 Nor blush to see thy thoughts betray'd ; 
 What, parted with, gives heav'n to me ; 
 Kept, is but pain and grief to thee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be charitable then, and dare 
 Bestow the treasure you can spare ; 
 And trust the joys which you afford 
 Will to vourself be sure restor'd. 
 
 * In allusion to the custom of Peter-Pence, used by the Roman 
 Catholics. 
 
139 
 
 AN EPIGRAM. 
 
 When Jove with fair Alcmena lay, 
 He kept the sun a-bed all day ; 
 That he might taste her wond'rous charms, 
 Two nights together in her arms. 
 Were I of Celiacs charms possess' d, 
 Melting on that delicious breast, 
 And could, like Jove, thy beams restrain, 
 Sun, thou should' st never rise again ; 
 Unsated with the luscious bliss, 
 I'd taste one dear eternal kiss. 
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 In Gelid s arms while bless' d I lay, 
 My soul in bliss dissolved away : 
 ' Tell me,' the charmer cried, 4 how well 
 ' You love your Gelia ; Strephon, tell.' 
 Kissing her glowing, burning cheek, 
 L I'll tell,' I cried — but could not speak. 
 At length my voice return' d, and she 
 Again began to question me. 
 I pulled her to my breast again, 
 And tried to answer, but in vain : 
 Short fait' ring accents from me broke, 
 And my voice fail'd before I spoke. 
 The charmer, pitying my distress, 
 Gave me the tender est caress, 
 And sighing cried, * You need not tell \ 
 ' Oh ! Strephon, Oh ! I feel how well.' 
 
140 
 
 -N W TS AT A PLAY. 
 
 While hisses, groans, cat-calls thro' the pit, 
 Deplore the hapless poet's want of wit: 
 
 J — n W ts, from silence bursting in a rage, 
 
 Cried, L Men are mad who write in such an age.' 
 1 Not 50,' replied his friend, a sneering blade, 
 ' The poet's only dull, the printer s mad' 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 I hate the town and all its ways ; 
 Bidottos, operas, and plays ; 
 The ball, the ring, the mall, the court ; 
 Wherever the beau-monde resort ; 
 Where beauties lie in ambush for folks, 
 Earl Str affords, and the Duke of Norfolk s ; 
 All coffee-houses, and their praters ; 
 All courts of justice, and debaters ; 
 All taverns, and the sots within 'em ; 
 All bubbles and the rogues that skin 'em. 
 I hate all critics ; may they burn all, 
 From Bentley to the Grub-street Journal. 
 All bards, as Dennis hates a pun : 
 Those who have wit, and who have none. 
 All nobles, of whatever station ; 
 And all the parsons in the nation. 
 All quacks and doctors read in physic, 
 Who kill or cure a man that is sick. 
 All authors that were ever heard on, 
 From Bavins up to Tommy Gordon ; 
 
141 
 
 Tradesmen with cringes ever stealing, 
 And merchants, whatsoe'er they deal in. 
 I hate the blades professing slaughter, 
 More than the devil holy water. 
 I hate all scholars, beaus, and squires ; 
 Pimps, puppies, parasites, and liars. 
 All courtiers, with their looks so smooth ; 
 And players, from Boheme to Booth. 
 I hate the world, cramm'd all together, 
 From beggars, up the Lord knows whither. 
 
 Ask you then, Celia, if there be 
 The thing I love? my charmer, thee. 
 Thee more than light, than life adore, 
 Thou dearest, sweetest creature more 
 Than wildest raptures can express ; 
 Than I can tell, — or thou canst guess. 
 
 Then tho' I bear a gentle mind, 
 Let not my hatred of mankind 
 Wonder within my Gelia move, 
 Since she possesses all my love. 
 
 ON A LADY, 
 
 COQUETTING WITH A VERY SILLY FELLOW. 
 
 Corinna's judgment do not less admire, 
 That she for Oulus shews a gen'rous fire ; 
 Lucretia toying thus had been a fool, 
 But wiser Helen might have us'd the tool. 
 Since Oulus for one use alone is fit, 
 With charity judge of Corinna's wit. 
 
142 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 While men shun Oulus as a fool, 
 Dames prize him as a beau ; 
 
 What judgment form we by this rule ? 
 Why this it seems to shew. 
 
 Those apprehend the beau's a fool, 
 These think the fool's a beau. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 BUTLER'S MONUMENT. 
 
 What tho' alive neglected and undone, 
 O let thy spirit triumph in this stone. 
 No greater honour could men pay thy parts, 
 For when they give a stone, they give their hearts. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 ON A WICKED FELLOW, WHO WAS A GREAT BLUNDERER. 
 
 Interr'd by blunder in this sacred place, 
 Lies William's wicked heart, and smiling face. 
 Full forty years on earth he blunder'd on, 
 And now the L — d knows whither he is gone. 
 But if to heav'n he stole, let no man wonder, 
 For if to hell he'd gone, he'd made no blunder. 
 
143 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON ONE WHO INVITED MANY GENTLEMEN TO A SMALL 
 
 DINNER. 
 
 Peter (says Pope) won't poison with his meat ; 
 'Tis true, for Peter gives you nought to eat. 
 
 A SAILOR'S SONG. 
 
 DESIGNED FOR THE STAGE. 
 
 Come, let's aboard, my jolly blades, 
 
 That love a merry life ; 
 To lazy souls leave home-bred trades, 
 
 To husbands home-bred strife ; 
 Through Europe we will gaily roam, 
 And leave our wives and cares at home. 
 
 With a Fa la, &c. 
 
 If any tradesman broke should be, 
 
 Or gentleman distress' d, 
 Let him away with us to sea, 
 
 His fate will be redress' d : 
 The glorious thunder of great guns, 
 Drowns all the horrid noise of duns. 
 
 With a Fa la, &c. 
 
144 
 
 And while our ships we proudly steer 
 
 Through all the conquered seas, 
 Well shew the world that Britons bear 
 
 Their empire where they please : 
 Where'er our sails are once unfurl' d, 
 Our king rules that part of the world. 
 
 With a Fa la, &c. 
 
 The Spaniard with a solemn grace 
 
 Still marches slowly on, 
 We'd quickly make him mend his pace, 
 
 Desirous to be gone : 
 Or if we bend our course to France, 
 We'll teach Monsieur more brisk to dance. 
 
 With a Fa la, &c. 
 
 At length, the world subdu'd, again 
 
 Our course we'll homeward bend ; 
 In women, and in brisk champagne, 
 
 Our gains we'll freely spend : 
 How proud our mistresses will be 
 To hug the men that fought as we. 
 
 With a Fa la, &c. 
 
145 
 
 ADVICE 
 
 TO THE 
 
 NYMPHS OF NEW S M. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1730. 
 
 Cease, vainest nymphs, with Celia to contend, 
 And let your envy and your folly end. 
 With her almighty charms when yours compare, 
 When your blind lovers think you half so fair, 
 Each Sarum ditch, like Helicon shall flow, 
 And Harnam Hill, like high Parnassus, glow ; 
 The humble daisy, trod beneath our feet, 
 Shall be like lilies fair, like violets sweet ; 
 Winter's black nights outshine the summer's noon, 
 And farthing candles shall eclipse the moon : 
 T- — b-ld shall blaze with wit, sweet Pope be dull, 
 And German princes vie with the Mogul. 
 Cease, then, advis'd, cease th' unequal war, 
 'Tis too much praise to be o'ercome by her. 
 With the sweet nine so the Pierians strove ; 
 So poor Arachne with Minerva wove : 
 Till of their pride just punishment they share ; 
 Those fly and chatter, and this hangs in air. 
 Unhappy nymphs ! O may the powers above, 
 Those powers that form'd this second Queen of Lo^e, 
 Lay all their wrathful thunderbolts aside, 
 And rather pity than avenge your pride ; 
 Forbid it, heaven, you should bemoan too late 
 The sad Pierians or Araclme's fate ; 
 
 Q 
 
146 
 
 That hid in leaves, and perch' d upon a bough, 
 You should o'erlook those walks you walk in now ; 
 The gen'rous maid's compassion, others joke, 
 Should chatter scandal which you once have spoke ; 
 Or else in cobwebs hanging from the wall, 
 Should be condemn' d to overlook the ball : 
 To see, as now, victorious Celia reign, 
 Admir'd, ador'd by each politer swain. 
 shun a fate like this, be timely wise, 
 And if your glass be false, if blind your eyes, 
 Believe and own what all mankind aver, 
 And pay with them the tribute due to her. 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 Occasioned by her apprehending her house would be broke open, and having 
 an old fellow to guard it, who sect up all night, with a gun without any\ 
 ammunition. 
 
 CUPID CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 
 
 Last night, as my unwilling mind 
 To rest, dear Celia, I resign' d ; 
 For how should I repose enjoy, 
 While any fears your breast annoy ? 
 Forbid it, heav'n, that I should be 
 From any of your troubles free. 
 ! would kind Fate attend my pray'r, 
 Greedy, I'd give you not a share. 
 
 Last night, then, in a wretched taking, 
 My spirits toss'd 'twixt sleep and waking, 
 
147 
 
 I dreamt (ah ! what so frequent themes 
 As you and Venus of my dreams !) 
 That she, bright glory of the sky, 
 Heard from below her darling's cry : 
 Saw her cheeks pale, her bosom heave, 
 And heard a distant sound of u thieve I" 
 Not so you look when at the ball, 
 Envied you shine, outshining all. 
 Not so at church, when priest perplex' d, 
 Beholds you, and forgets the text. 
 
 The goddess frighten' d, to her throne 
 Summon' d the little god her son, 
 And him in passion thus bespoke ; 
 ' Where, with that cunning urchin's look, 
 4 Where from thy colours hast thou stray' d ? 
 1 Unguarded left my darling maid ? 
 4 Left my lov'd citadel of beauty, 
 4 With none but Sancho upon duty ! 
 4 Did I for this a num'rous band 
 4 Of loves send under thy command ! 
 4 Bid thee still have her in thy sight, 
 4 And guard her beauties day and night ! 
 4 Were not th' Hesperian gardens taken ? 
 4 The hundred eyes of Argus shaken ? 
 4 What dangers will not men despise, 
 4 T' obtain this much superior prize ? 
 4 And didst thou trust what Jove hath charm'd. 
 4 To a poor sentinel unarmed ? 
 4 A gun indeed the wretch had got, 
 4 But neither powder, ball, nor shot. 
 4 Come tell me, urchin, tell no lies ; 
 4 Where was you hid, in Vinces eyes ? 
 4 Did you fair Bennefs breast importune ? 
 4 (I know you dearly love a fortune.) ' 
 
 Q 2 
 
148 
 
 Poor Cupid now began to whine ; 
 
 4 Mamma, it was no fault of mine. 
 
 4 I in a dimple lay perdue, 
 
 4 That little guard-room chose by you. 
 
 4 A hundred Loves (all arm'd) did grace 
 
 4 The beauties of her neck and face ; 
 
 4 Thence, by a sigh I dispossessed, 
 
 4 Was blown to Harry Fielding's breast ; 
 
 4 Where I was forc'd all night to stay, 
 
 4 Because I could not find my way. 
 
 4 But did mamma know there what work 
 
 4 I've made, how acted like a Turk ; 
 
 4 What pains, what torment he endures, 
 
 4 Which no physician ever cures, 
 
 4 She would forgive.' The goddess smil'd, 
 
 And gently chuck' d her wicked child, 
 
 Bid him go back, and take more care, 
 
 And give her service to the fair. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 ON HER WISHING TO HAVE A LILLIPUTIAN TO PLAY WITH. 
 
 Is there a man who would not be, 
 My Celia, what is priz'd by thee ? 
 A monkey beau, to please thy sight, 
 Would wish to be a monkey quite. 
 Or (couldst thou be delighted so) 
 Each man of sense would be a beau. 
 Courtiers would quit their faithless skill, 
 To be thy faithful dog Quadrille. 
 
 P — It y, who does for freedom rage, 
 
 Would sing confin'd within thy cage ; 
 
149 
 
 And W — Ip-le, for a tender pat, 
 
 Would leave his place to be thy cat. 
 
 May I, to please my lovely dame, 
 
 Be five foot shorter than I am ; 
 
 And, to be greater in her eyes, 
 
 Be sunk to Lilliputian size. 
 
 While on thy hand I skipp'd the dance, 
 
 How I'd despise the king of France ! 
 
 That hand ! which can bestow a store 
 
 Eicher than the Peruvian ore, 
 
 Eicher than India, or the sea 
 
 (That hand will give yourself away). 
 
 Upon your lap to lay me down, 
 
 Or hide in plaitings of your gown ; 
 
 Or on your shoulder sitting high, 
 
 What monarch so enthron'd as I ? 
 
 Now on the rosy bud I'd rest, 
 
 Which borrows sweetness from thy breast. 
 
 Then when my Celia walks abroad, 
 
 I'd be her pocket's little load: 
 
 Or sit astride, to frighten people, 
 
 Upon her hat's new-fashioned steeple. 
 
 These for the day ; and for the night, 
 
 I'd be a careful, watchful sprite. 
 
 Upon her pillow sitting still, 
 
 I'd guard her from th' approach of ill. 
 
 Thus (for afraid she could not be 
 
 Of such a little thing as me) 
 
 While I survey her bosom rise, 
 
 Her lovely lips, her sleeping eyes, 
 
 While I survey, what to declare 
 
 Nor fancy can, nor words must dare, 
 
 Here would begin my former pain, 
 
 And wish to be myself again. 
 
150 
 
 SIMILES. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 As wildest libertines would rate, 
 Compared with pleasure, an estate ; 
 Or as his life a hero'd prize, 
 When honour claim' d the sacrifice ; 
 Their souls as strongest misers hold, 
 When in the balance weigh'd with gold ; 
 Such, was thy happiness at stake, 
 My fortune, life, and soul, I ? d make. 
 
 THE PRICE. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Can there on earth, my Celia, be 
 A price I would not pay for thee ? 
 Yes, one dear precious tear of thine 
 Should not be shed to make thee mine. 
 
 HEE CHRISTIAN NAME. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 A veey good fish, very good way of selling 
 A very bad thing, with a little bad spelling, 
 Make the name by the parson and godfather giv'n, 
 When a Christian was made of an angel from heav'n. 
 
151 
 
 TO THE SAME; 
 
 HAVING BLAMED MR. GAY FOR HIS SEVERITY ON HER 
 
 SEX. 
 
 Let it not Gelia 1 s gentle heart perplex 
 That Gay severe hath satiriz'd her sex ; 
 Had they, like her, a tenderness but known, 
 Back on himself each pointed dart had flown. 
 But blame thou last, in whose accomplish' d mind 
 The strongest satire on thy sex we find. 
 
 AN EPIGRAM. 
 
 That Kate weds a fool what wonder can be, 
 Her husband has married a fool great as she. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Miss Molly lays down as a positive rule, 
 That no one should marry for love, but a fool : 
 Exceptions to rules even Lilly allows ; 
 Moll has sure an example at home in her spouse. 
 
 TO THE MASTER OP TJiE 
 
 SALISBURY ASSEMBLY. 
 
 Occasioned by a dispute whether the company should have fresh candles. 
 
 Take your candles away, let your music be mute, 
 My dancing, however, you shall not dispute ; 
 Jenny s eyes shall find light, and I'll find a flute. 
 
152 
 
 THE CAT AND FIDDLE. 
 
 FAVOURITE CAT OF A FIDDLING MISER. 
 
 Thrice happy cat, if, in thy A House, 
 
 Thou luckily shouldst find a half-starved mouse ; 
 The mice, that only for his music stay, 
 Are proofs that Orpheus did not better play. 
 Thou too, if danger could alarm thy fears, 
 Hast to this Orpheus strangely tied thy ears : 
 For oh ! the fatal time will come, when he, 
 Prudent, will make his fiddle-strings of thee. 
 
 The Queen of Beauty, t'other day 
 (As the Elysian journals say), 
 To ease herself of all her cares, 
 And better carry on affairs ; 
 By privy-council mov'd above, 
 And Cupid minister of love, 
 To keep the earth in due obedience, 
 Eesolv'd to substitute vice-regents ; 
 To canton out her subject lands, 
 And give the fairest the commands. 
 
 She spoke, and to the earth's far borders 
 Young Cupid issued out his orders, 
 That every nymph in its dimensions 
 Should bring or send up her pretensions. 
 Like lightning swift the order flies, 
 Or swifter glance from Celiacs eyes : 
 
153 
 
 Like wit from sparkling W iley s tongue ; 
 
 Or harmony from Pope, or Young. 
 Why should I sing what letters came ; 
 Who boasts her face, or who her frame ? 
 From black and brown, and red, and fair, 
 With eyes and teeth, and lips and hair. 
 One, fifty hidden charms discovers ; 
 A second boasts as many lovers : 
 This beauty all mankind adore ; 
 And this all women envy more. 
 This witnesses, by billets doux, 
 A thousand praises, and all true ; 
 While that by jewels makes pretences 
 To triumph over kings and princes 5 
 Bribing the goddess by that pelf, 
 By which she once was brib'd herself. 
 So borough towns, election brought on, 
 E'er yet corruption bill was thought on. 
 Sir Knight, to gain the voters' favour, 
 Boasts of his former good behaviour ; 
 Of speeches in the Senate made ; 
 Love for its country, and its trade. 
 And, for a proof of zeal unshaken, 
 Distributes bribes he once had taken. 
 What matters who the prizes gain, 
 In India, Italy, or Spain; 
 Or who requires the brown commanders 
 Of Holland, Germany, and Flanders, 
 Thou, Britain, on my labours smile, 
 The Queen of Beauty's favour' d isle ; 
 Whom she long since hath priz'd above 
 The Paphian, or the Cyprian grove. 
 And here, who ask the muse to tell, 
 
 That the court lot to R ckmond fell ? 
 
 Or who so ignorant as wants 
 
 To know that 8 per s chose for Hants. 
 
154 
 
 Saruni, thy candidates be nam'd, 
 Sarum, for beauties ever fam'd, 
 Whose nymphs excel all beauty's flowers, 
 As thy high steeple doth all towers. 
 The court was plac'd in manner fitting ; 
 Venus upon the bench was sitting ; 
 Gujpid was secretary made. 
 The crier an Yes display 'd; 
 Like mortal crier's loud alarum, 
 Bring in petitions from New Sarum. 
 * When lo, in bright celestial state, 
 Jove came and thunder' d at the gate. 
 4 And can you, daughter, doubt to whom 
 4 (He cried) belongs the happy doom, 
 
 4 While G cks yet make bless' d the earth, 
 
 4 C cks, who long before their birth, 
 
 4 I, by your own petition mov'd, 
 4 Decreed to be by all belov'd. 
 
 4 C cks, to whose celestial dower 
 
 4 I gave all beauties in my power ; 
 4 To form whose lovely minds and faces, 
 4 I stripp'd half heaven of its graces. 
 4 Oh let them bear an equal sway, 
 4 So shall mankind well-pleas' d obey.' 
 The god thus spoke, the goddess bow'd ; 
 Her rising blushes strait avow'd 
 Her hapless memory and shame, 
 And Cupid glad writ down their name. 
 
 * The middle part of this poem (which was written when the author 
 was very young) was filled with the names of several young ladies, who 
 might perhaps be uneasy at seeing themselves in print, that part therefore 
 is left out ; the rather, as some freedoms, though gentle ones, were taken 
 with little foibles in the amiable sex, whom to affront in print, is, we con- 
 ceive, mean in any man, and scandalous in a gentleman. 
 
 
155 
 A PARODY, 
 
 FEOM THE FIRST .ENEID. 
 
 Dixit ; et avertens rosea cervice refulsit, 
 Ambrosiaaque comas divinum vertice odorem 
 Spiravere : pedes vestis defluxit ad imos, 
 Et vera incessu patuit Dea. 
 
 She said; and turning, shew'd her wrinkled neck, 
 In scales and colour like a roach's back. 
 Forth from her greasy locks such odours flow, 
 As those, who've smelt Dutch coffee-houses, know. 
 To her mid-leg her petticoat was rear'd, 
 And the true slattern in her dress appear' d. 
 
 SIMILE, 
 
 FROM SILIUS ITALICUS. 
 
 Aut ubi cecropius formidine nubis aquosas 
 Sparsa super flores examina tollit Hymettos ; 
 Ad dulces ceras et odori corticis antra, 
 Mellis apes gravidas properant, densoque volatu 
 Eaucum connexae glomerant ad limina murmur. 
 
 Or when th' Hymettian shepherd, struck with fear 
 Of wat'ry clouds thick gathered in the air, 
 Collects to waxen cells the scatter'd bees 
 Home from the sweetest flowers, and verdant trees ; 
 Loaded with honey to the hive they fly, 
 And humming murmurs buzz along the sky. 
 
156 
 TO EUTHALIA. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1728. 
 
 Burning with love, tormented with despair 
 Unable to forget or ease his care ; 
 In vain each practis'd art Alexis tries ; 
 In vain to books, to wine or women flies ; 
 Each brings Euthalids image to his eyes. 
 In Lock's or Newton s page her learning glows ; 
 Dryden the sweetness of her numbers shews ; 
 In all their various excellence I find 
 The various beauties of her perfect mind. 
 How vain in wine a short relief I boast ! 
 Each sparkling glass recalls my charming toast. 
 To women then successless I repair, 
 Engage the young, the witty, and the fair. 
 When Sappho's wit each envious breast alarms, 
 And Rosalinda looks ten thousand charms ; 
 In vain to them my restless thoughts would run ; 
 Like fairest stars, they show the absent sun. 
 
PART OF 
 
 JUVENAL'S SIXTH SATIRE, 
 
 MODEENISED IN 
 
 BUELESQUE VERSE. 
 
158 
 
 JUVENALIS SATYEA SEXTA. 
 
 Credo pudicitiam Saturno rege* moratam 
 In terris, visamque diu ; cum frigida parvas 
 Praeberet spelunca domos, ignemque, Laremque, 
 Et peeus, et dominos communi clauderet umbra : 
 Silvestrem montana torum cum sterner et uxor 
 Frondibus et culmo, vicinarumquef ferarum 
 
 * Aureo scilicet sseculo ; quod viguisse Saturno, Coeli et Vestae filio, in ] 
 Latio regnante a poetis fingitur. Regem hunc eleganter satis poeta pro- 
 fert, cum de moribus in Latio muatis agitur. 
 
 f Contubernalium. Vel forsan non longe petitarum sicut nunc ; et ex-j 
 probrare vult sui temporis Romanis, qui ex longinquo, mollitiei vel odoris 
 causa, ferarum pelles maximo cum pretio comparabant. 
 
159 
 
 JUVENAL'S SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 MODERNIZED IN 
 
 BURLESQUE VERSE. 
 
 Dame Chastity, without dispute, 
 Dwelt on the earth with good King Brute ; * 
 When a cold hut of modern Greenland 
 Had been a palace for a Queen Anne ; 
 When hard and frugal temperance reign 'd, 
 And men no other house contain' d 
 Than the wild thicket, or the den ; 
 When household goods, and beasts, and men, 
 Together lay beneath one bough, 
 Which man and wife would scarce do now ; 
 The rustic wife her husband's bed 
 With leaves and straw, and beast-skin made. 
 
 * The Roman poet mentions Saturn, who was the first King of Italy; 
 we have therefore rendered Brute the oldest to be found in our Chronicles, 
 and whose history is as fabulous as that of his Italian brother. 
 
160 
 
 Pellibus, hand similis tibi,* Cynthia, nee tibi, cujus 
 Turbavit nitidos extinctus passer ocellos ; 
 Sed potanda ferens infantibus ubera magnis,t 
 Et saepe horridior glandem ructante marito. 
 Quippe aliter tunc orbe novo, ooeloque recenti 
 Vivebant homines ; qui rupto robore nati, 
 Compositique luto nullos habuere parentes, 
 Multa pudicitise veteris vestigia forsan, 
 
 * Cynthia propertii, Lesbia Catulli arnica. Quarum quidem hanc 
 ineptain, illam delicatulam fuisse innuit noster. 
 
 f Grangaeum quendam hie refutat Lubinus. Qui per magnos, adultae 
 vel saltern provectioris iEtatis pueros, intelligit. Ego tamen cum Grangaeo 
 sentio. Nam delicatulis et nobilissimis matronis consuetudinem pueros a 
 matris mammis arcendi objicere vult poeta, ob quam Eomanas mulieres, 
 Juvenalis temporibus, sicut et nostrae, infames et reprehensione dignas 
 fuisse ne minimum quidem dubito. 
 
 Rupto robore nati. Sic Virgilius. 
 
 Gensque virum truncis, et rupto robore nati. 
 
 Hanc fabulam ex eo natam fuisse volunt, quod habitantes in arborum 
 cavitibus exinde egredi solebant. Ridicula sane conjectura, et quae criti- 
 culorum homunculorum hallucinantem geniunculum satis exprimit. Haec 
 fabula et alise quae de hominis origine extiterunt, ab uno et eodem fonte 
 effluxisse videntur, ab ignorantia scilicet humana cum vanitate conjuncta. 
 Homines enim cum sui generis originem prorsus ignorarent, et hanc igno- 
 rantiam sibi probro verterent, causas varias genitivas, ad suam cujusque 
 regionem accommodatas invenerunt et tradiderunt ; alii ab arboribus, alii a 
 luto, alii a lapidibus originem suam ducentes. 
 
161 
 
 Not like Miss Cynthia^ nor that other, 
 
 Who more bewail'd her bird than mother ; 
 
 But fed her children from her hubbies, 
 
 Till the j were grown up f to great loobies 
 
 Herself an ornament less decent 
 
 Than spouse, who smell' d of acorn recent. 
 
 For, in the infancy of nature, 
 
 Man was a different sort of creature ; 
 
 When dirt-engender' d % offspring broke 
 
 From the ripe womb of mother oak. 
 
 Ev'n in the reign of Jove, perhaps, 
 
 * This is the first satirical stroke, in which the poet inveighs against an 
 over affectation of delicacy and tenderness in women. 
 
 | Here the poet slily objects to the custom of denying the mother's 
 breast to the infant : there are among us truly conscientious persons, who 
 agree with his opinion. 
 
 { We have here varied a little from the original, and put the two causes 
 of generation together. 
 
 R 
 
162 
 
 Aut aliqua extiterant, et sub Jove,* sed Jove nondum 
 Barbato, nondum Grsecis jurare paratis | 
 Per caput alterius ; cum furem nemo timeret 
 Caulibus, aut pomis, sed aperto viveret horto. 
 Paulatim deinde ad superos Astrgea recessit 
 Hac comite ; atque duee pariter fugere sorores. 
 Antiquum et vetus est, alienum, Posthume, lectum 
 Concutere, atque sacri genium contemnere fulcri. 
 Omne aliud crimen mox ferrea protulit setas : 
 Viderunt primos argentea secula moechos. 
 Conventum tamen, et pactum, et sponsalia nostra 
 Tempestate paras ; jamque a tonsore magistro J 
 Pecteris, et digito pigDus fortasse dedisti. 
 Certe sanus eras: uxorem, Posthume, ducis? 
 Die, qua Tisiphone ? quibus exagitare colubris ? 
 Ferre potes dominam sal vis tot restibus ullam ? 
 
 * Argenteo saeculo, Jove Satnrni filio regnante. Miram hujus loci ele- 
 gantiam nimine praetereundam censeo. Quanta enim acerbitate in vitia 
 humana insurgit poeta noster, qui non nisi vestigia pudicitiae argenteo 
 s33culo attribuit, neque haec asserit, se&forscm extitisse saeculo hoc ineunte 
 dicit ; mox Jove pubescente ad superos avolasse. 
 
 | Apud Romanos Punica fides, et apud Graecos, ut liquet ex Demosthene 
 in 1 Olynth. Macedonica fides, proverbio locum tribuerunt : Asiaticos 
 etiam ob perjuriam insectatur noster Sat. sequente vers. 14. Sed hie 
 originem perjurii Graecis attribuere videtur. 
 
 J Adprime docto. Hie et ad vers. 78, 79. Ritus nuptiales exhibet poeta. 
 
163 
 
 The goddess may have shewn her chaps ; 
 
 But it was sure in its beginning, 
 
 E'er Jwpiter had beard to grin in. 
 
 Not yet the Greeks ° made truth their sport, 
 
 And bore false evidence in court ; 
 
 Their truth was yet become no adage ; 
 
 Men fear'd no thieves of pears and cabbage. 
 
 By small degrees Astrea flies, 
 
 With her two sisters f to the skies. 
 
 O 'tis a very ancient custom, 
 
 To taint the genial bed, my Posthum ! 
 
 Fearless lest husband should discover it, 
 
 Or else the Genius that rules over it. 
 
 The iron age gave other crimes, 
 
 Adult'ry grew in silver times. 
 
 But you, in this age, boldly dare 
 
 The marriage settlements prepare ; 
 
 Perhaps have bought the wedding garment, 
 
 And ring too, thinking there's no harm in't. 
 
 Sure you was in your senses, honey. 
 
 You marry. Say, what Tisvphone\ 
 
 Possesses you with all her snakes, 
 
 Those curls which in her pole she shakes ? 
 
 -3a- 
 
 * They were so infamous for perjury, that to have regard to an oath 
 was a great character among them, and sufficient to denote a gentleman. 
 See our Notes on the Plutus of Aristophanes, 
 
 "f Truth and modesty. 
 
 \ One of the Furies. We have presumed to violate the quantity of this 
 word. 
 
 R 2 
 
164 
 
 Cum pateant altae, caligantesque fenestras ? 
 Cum tibi viciimm se prasbeat JEmilius pons ? 
 Aut si de multis nullus placet exitus ; illud 
 Nonne putas melius, quod tecum pusio dormit ? 
 Pusio qui noctu non litigat : exigit a te 
 Nulla jacens illic munuscula, nee queritur quod 
 Et lateri parcas, nee, quantum jussit, anheles. 
 Sed placet Ursidio lex Julia : * tollere dulcem 
 Cogitat haeredem, cariturus turture magno, 
 Mullorumque jubis,")" et captatore macello. 
 Quid fieri non posse putes, si jungitur ulla 
 Ursidio ? si inoechorum notissimus J olim 
 Stulta maritali jam porrigit ora capistro, 
 Quern toties texit periturum cista Latini ? 
 
 * De adulteriis ; qua lata est poena adulterii, ideoque ad matrimonium viri 
 ab ea lege impelluntur. 
 
 •f I.e. Mullatis jubis. Sic Phsedrus : aviditas canis pro avido cane, et. 
 etiam apud Grsecus Bcrj Upta/xoLo pro Btatos Hpta/Mos. 
 
 J Al. Turpissimus, perperain : nam si ita legas diminuitur hujus loci 
 vis ; quo quis enim majorem adulterarum habuit notitiam, eo magis 
 maritali capistro porrecturus, ora exemplum prsebet ridiculum. 
 
165 
 
 What, wilt thou wear tlie marriage chain, 
 While one whole halter doth remain ; 
 When open windows death present ye, 
 And Thames hath water in great plenty ? 
 
 But verdicts of ten thousand pound 
 Most sweetly to Ursidius sound. 
 4 We'l] all (he cries) be cuckolds nem. con. 
 L While the rich action lies of crim. con. 1 
 And who would lose the precious joy 
 Of a fine thumping darling boy ? 
 Who, while you dance him, calls you daddy 
 (So he's instructed by my lady). 
 What tho' no yen' son, fowl, or fish, 
 Presented, henceforth grace the dish : 
 Such he hath had, but dates no merit hence 5 
 He knows they came for his inheritance.* 
 What would you say, if this Ursidius, 
 A man well known among the widows, 
 First of all rakes, his mind should alter, 
 And stretch his simple neck to th' halter ? f 
 Often within Latinus closet,:); 
 (The neighbours, nay, the whole town knows it,) 
 
 * This custom of making presents to rich men who had no children, in 
 order to become their heirs, is little known to us. Mr. Ben Johnson, 
 indeed, hath founded a play on it, but he lays the scene in Venice. 
 
 "f" We have endeavoured to preserve the beauty of this line in the 
 original. The metaphor is taken from the posture of a horse holding 
 forth his neck to the harness. 
 
 J We have here a little departed from the Latin. This Latinus was a 
 player, and used to act the part of the gallant ; in which, to avoid the dis- 
 covery of the husband, he used to be hid in a chest, or clothes-basket, as 
 Falstaff is concealed in the Merry Wives of Windsor. The poet there- 
 fore here alludes to that custom. 
 
166 
 
 Quid, quod et antiquis uxor de moribus illi 
 Quasritur ? O medici mediam pertundite venam : 
 Delicias hominis ! e Tarpeium limen adora 
 Pronus, et auratam Junoni caede juvencam, 
 Si tibi contigerit capitis matrona pudici. 
 Paucae adeo Cereris vittasf contingere dignas; 
 Quarum non timeat pater oscula, necte coronam 
 Postibus, et densos per limina tende corymbos. 
 Unus Iberinae vir sufficit ? ocyus illud 
 Extorquebis, ut haec oculo contenta sit uno. 
 Magna tamen fama est cujusdam rure paterno 
 Viventis : vivat Gabiis, ut vixit in agro ; 
 Vivat Fidenis, et agello cedo paterno. 
 Quis tamen affirmat nil actum in montibus, aut in 
 Speluncis ? adeo senuerunt Jupiter et Mars ? 
 
 * Delicatum liominem. Sic monstrum hominis, pro monstrosus homo. 
 
 ■f Mysteria eleusynia hie respicit. Qua3 quidem a Warburtono illo doc- 
 tissimo in libro suo de Mosaica legatione accuratissime nunc demum expli- 
 cantur. 
 
167 
 
 He hath escap'd the cuckold's search; 
 Yet now he seeks a wife most starch ; 
 With good old-fashion' d morals fraught. 
 Physicians give him a large draught, 
 And surgeons ope his middle vein. 
 O delicate taste ! go, prithee strain 
 Thy lungs to Heav'n, in thansgivings ; 
 Build churches, and endow with livings. 
 If a chaste wife thy lot befall, 
 'Tis the great prize drawn in Guildhall. 
 
 Few worthy are to touch those mysteries, * 
 Of which we lately know the histories, 
 To Geres sacred, who requires 
 Strict purity from loose desires. 
 Whereas at no crime now they boggle, 
 Ev'n at their grandfathers they ogle. 
 
 But come, your equipage make ready, 
 And dress your house out for my lady. 
 Will one man Iberine supply ? 
 Sooner content her with one eye. 
 
 But hold ; there runs a common story 
 Of a chaste country virgin's glory. 
 
 * Which the reader may see explained in a most masterly style, and with 
 the profoundest knowledge of antiquity, by Mr. Warburton, in the first 
 volume of his Divine Legation of Moses vindicated. 
 
168 
 
 Porticibusne tibi monstratur foemina voto 
 Digna tuo ? cuneis an habent spectacula totis 
 Quod securus ames, quodque inde excerpere possis ? 
 Chironomon Ledam molli saltante Bathyllo, 
 Tuccia vesicae non imperat ; Appula gannit 
 (Sicut in amplexu) subitum, et niiserabile longum : * 
 Attendit Thymele ; Thymele tunc rustica discit. 
 Ast alias, quoties aulaea recondita cessant, 
 Et vacuo clausoque sonant fora sola theatro, 
 Atque a plebeiis longe Megalesia ; tristes 
 Personam, thyrsumque tenent, et subligar Acci. 
 
 * Haec et sequentia ut minus a castis intelligenda, sic ab interpretibus 
 minime intellecta yidentur. Omnes quos unquam vidi, Codd. ita se 
 habent. 
 
 Appula gannit 
 
 Sicut in amplexu ; subitum, et miserabile longum : 
 
 Attendit Thymele. 
 Quid sibi vult haec lectio, me omnino latere fateor ; sin vero nobiscum 
 legas, tribus illis verbis parenthesi inclusis, invenies planam quidem (licet 
 castiore musa indignam) sententiam. 
 
169 
 
 At Bath and Tunbridge let her be ; 
 If there she's chaste, I will agree. 
 And will the country yield no slanders ? 
 Is all our army gone to Flanders ? * 
 
 Can the full Mall\ afford a Spouse, 
 Or boxes, worthy of your vows ? 
 While some soft dance Bathyllus dances, 
 Can Tuccy regulate her glances ? 
 Apjpula chuckles, and poor Thomyly 
 Gapes, like a matron at a homily. 
 
 But others, when the house is shut up, 
 Nor play-bills by Desire.X are put up ; 
 When players cease, § and lawyer rises 
 To harangue jury at assizes ; 
 When drolls at Bartholomew begin, 
 A feast day after that of Trin. 
 
 -^^f^^m^^m 
 
 * As the patron of these gentlemen is mentioned in the original, we 
 thought his votaries might be pleased with being inserted in the 
 imitation. 
 
 f The portico's in the original ; where both sexes used to assemble. 
 
 J A constant puff at the head of our play-bills ; designed to allure 
 persons to the house, who go thither more for the sake of the company 
 than of the play ; but which has proved so often fallacious (plays having been 
 acted at the particular desire of several ladies of quality, when there hath 
 not been a single lady of quality in the house) that at present it hath very 
 little signification. 
 
 § Viz. in the vacation. In the original, As the Megalesian festival is 
 so long distant from the plebeian. The latter being celebrated in the 
 calends of December, the former in the nones of April. 
 
170 
 
 Urbicus exodio risum movet Attellanse 
 Gestibus Autonoes ; hunc diligit ^Elia pauper. 
 Solvitur his magno comoedi fibula ; sunt quae 
 Chrysogonum can tare vetent ; Hispulla tragoedo 
 Gaudet ; an expectas, ut Quintilianus ametur ? 
 Accipis uxorem, de qua citharoedus Echion 
 Aut Glaphyrus fiat pater, Ambrosiusve choraules, 
 Longa per angustos figamus pulpita vicos : 
 Ornentur postes, et grandi janua lauro, 
 Ut testudineo tibi, Lentule, conopeo 
 Nobilis Euryalum mirmillonem exprimat infans. 
 Nupta senatori comitata est Hippia ludium.* 
 
 * Salmas. ludum mavult, et hoc pro ludio, ut regna pro regibus, positum 
 eenset : sed synaeresis haec frequenter occurrit apud poetas. Sic to omnia 
 apud Virgilium dissyllabum est. 
 
171 
 
 Others, I say, themselves turn players, 
 
 "With Clive and Wojfingtori s gay airs ; 
 
 Paint their fair faces out like witches, 
 
 And crarn their thighs in Fie — w — d's breeches. 
 
 Italian measures while Fausan 
 Mov'cl, what a laugh thro' gall'ry ran ? 
 Poor JElia languishes in vain ; 
 Fausan is bought with greater gain. 
 
 Others make B — rd their wiser choice, 
 And wish to spoil his charming voice. 
 Hisjpulla sighs for Buskin's wit, 
 Cou'd she love Lyt n or P 1 ? 
 
 Choose you a wife, whom the blind harper, 
 Or any fiddler else, or sharper, 
 Fine rivals ! might with ease enjoy, 
 And make thee father of a boy ? 
 
 Come then, prepare the nuptial feast, 
 Adorn the board, invite the guest *, 
 That madam may, in time, be big, 
 And bring an heir resembling Fig* 
 Hippia^ to Parl'ment man was wed, 
 But left him for a fencer's bed : 
 
 * A celebrated prize fighter. 
 
 j - She was wife to Fabricius Vejento, a noble rich Roman, who was 
 infamous for his luxury and pride. This last quality was so eminent in 
 him, that he scorned to salute any almost of his fellow citizens ; for 
 which he is lashed by our poet, Sat. III. v. 185. He is likewise intro- 
 duced in the fourth satire. His wife Hippia ran away to Egypt with the 
 Gladiator Sergius. 
 
172 
 
 Ad Pharon et Niluni, famosaque nioenia Lagi; 
 Prodigia, et mores urbis damnante Canopo.* 
 Immemor ilia domus, et conjugis, atque sororis, 
 Nil patriae indulsit ; plorantesque improba gnatos, 
 Utque magis stupeas, ludos, Paridemque reliquit. 
 Sed quanquam in magnis opibus, plumaque paterna, 
 Et segmentatis dormisset parvula cunis, 
 Contempsit pelagus ; famam contempserat olim, 
 Cujus apud molles minima est jactura catliedras. 
 Tyrrhenos igitur fluctus, lateque sonantem 
 Pertulit Ionium constanti pectore, quamvis 
 Mutandum toties esset mare. Justa pericli 
 Si ratio est, et honesta, timent ; pavidoque gelantur 
 Pectore, nee tremulis possunt insistere plantis : 
 Fortem animum prsestant rebus, quas turpiter audent. 
 Sijubeat conjux, durum est conscendere navim; 
 
 ^» 
 
 * Urbs erat iEgyptiaca ad ostium Nili, sed hie pro tota iEgypto usur- 
 patur. Hujus populi mores tarn apud Grsecos quam Eomanos maxime 
 infames fuere, adeo ut aiyvirTiavrL perinde valeat ac turpiter. His duobus 
 versibus nihil acerbius esse potest. 
 
173 
 
 With him she went to some plantation, 
 Which damn'd the morals of our nation ; 
 Forgetful of her house and sister, 
 And spouse and country too, which miss'd her 
 Her brawling brats ne'er touch' d her mind*, 
 Nay more, young C — r's* left behind. 
 
 Nor was this nymph bred up to pattins, 
 But swaddled soft in silks and satins ; 
 Yet she despis'd the sea's loud roar ; 
 Her fame she had despis'd before : 
 For that's a jewel, in reality, 
 Of little value 'mongst the quality.")" 
 Nor Bay of Biscay rais'd her fears, 
 Nor all the Spanish privateers. 
 But should a just occasion call 
 To danger, how the charmers squall ! 
 Cold are their breasts as addled eggs, 
 Nor can they stand upon their legs, 
 More than an infant that is ricketty ; 
 But they are stronger in iniquity. 
 
 Should spouse decoy them to a ship, 
 Good heavens ! how they'd have the hip ! 
 
 * In the original Paris, a player of whom Domitian was so fond, that 
 our author was banished for his abusing him. He afterwards was put to 
 death for an amour with the empress, 
 
 •f We have inserted this rather to stick as close to the original as pos- 
 sible, than from any conceit that it is justly applicable to our own people 
 of fashion. 
 
174 
 
 Tunc sentina gravis ; tunc summus vertitur aer. 
 Quae mcechum sequitur, stomacho valet : ilia maritum 
 Convomit : heec inter nautas et prandet, et errat 
 Per puppim, et duros gaudet tractare rudentes. 
 Qua tamen exarsit forma? qua capta juventa 
 Hippia ? Quid vidit, propter quod ludia dici 
 Sustinuit? nam Sergiolus* jam radere guttur 
 Cceperat, et secto requiem sperare lacerto. j" 
 Praeterea multa in facie deformia ; sicut 
 Attritus galea, medijsque in naribus ingens 
 Gibbus ; et acre malum semper stillantis ocelli. 
 Sed gladiator erat ; facit hoc illos Hyacinthos : 
 Hoc pueris, patriseque, hoc praetulit ilia sorori, 
 Atque viro : ferrum est, quod amant : hie Sergius idem 
 Accepta rude, coepisset Veiento videri. 
 
 * Diminutive* blandulo quam facete utitur poeta ! 
 
 •f Missionem impetrabant gladiatores, Brachio, vel aliquo alio membro 
 mutilato. Vide ut Sergii laudes enumeret noster ; eum nempe formae 
 decorem, propter quern Hippia, famse fuae oblita, ludia dici sustinuib. 
 Senex erat, mutilatus, et forma turpissima. Hsec omnia munere suo 
 gladiatorio compensavit. 
 
175 
 
 L 1 
 
 Tis hard to clamber up the sides ; 
 4 filthy hold ! and when she rides, 
 ' It turns one's head quite topsy-turvy, 
 4 And makes one sicker than the scurvy/ 
 Her husband is the nauseous physic, 
 With her gallant she's never sea-sick. 
 To dine with sailors then she's able, 
 And even bears a hand to cable. 
 But say, what youth or beauty warm'd thee, 
 What, Hippia, in thy lover charm' d thee ? 
 For little Sergy, like a goat, 
 Was bearded down from eyes to throat : 
 Already had he done his best ; 
 Fit for an hospital, and rest.* 
 His face wore many a deformity, 
 Upon his nose a great enormity. 
 His eyes distill' d a constant stream ; 
 In matter not unlike to cream. 
 But he was still of the bear-garden, 
 Hence her affection fond he shar'd in: 
 This did, beyond her children, move ; 
 Dearer than spouse or country prove ; 
 In short, 'tis iron which they love. 
 Dismiss this Sergius from the stage ; 
 Her husband could not less engage. 
 
 * The gladiators, when they were maimed, received their dismission ; as 
 a token of which a wand was presented to them. Sergius had not, how- 
 ever, yet obtained this favour ; our poet hints only, that he was entitled 
 to it. 
 
176 
 
 Quid privata domus, quid fecerit Hippia, curas ? 
 
 Bespice ri vales Divorum : Claudius audi 
 
 Quae tulerit : dormire virum cum senserat uxor, 
 
 (Ausa Palatino tegetem prgeferre cubili, 
 
 Sumere nocturnos meretrix Augusta cucullos,) 
 
 Linquebat, comite ancilla non amplius una ; 
 
 Et nigrum flavo crinem abscondente galero, 
 
 Intravit calidum veteri centone lupanar, 
 
 Et cellam vacuam, atque suam : tunc nuda papillis 
 
 Constitit auratis, titulum mentita Ljciscae, 
 
 Ostenditque tuum, generose Britannice, ventrem. 
 
 Excepit blanda intrantes, atque aera poposcit. 
 
177 
 
 But say you, if each private family 
 Doth not produce a perfect Pamela; 
 Must ev'ry female bear the blame 
 Of one low, private, strumpet's shame ? 
 
 See then a dignified example, 
 And take from higher life a sample ; 
 How horns have sprouted on heads royal, 
 And Harry's wife* hath been disloyal. 
 When she perceiv'd her husband snoring, 
 Th' imperial strumpet went a whoring : 
 Daring with private rakes to solace, 
 She preferr'd Ch-rl-s Street to the Palace : 
 Went with a single maid of honour, 
 And with a capuchin upon her, 
 Which hid her black and lovely hairs ; 
 
 At H d's f softly stole up stairs : 
 
 There at receipt of custom sitting, 
 She boldly call'd herself the Kitten; t 
 SnnTd, and pretended to be needy, 
 And ask'd men to come down the ready. § 
 
 * This may be, perhaps, a little applicable to one of Henry VIII. 's 
 wives. 
 
 •f A useful woman in the parish of Covent Garden. 
 
 J A young lady of pleasure. 
 
 § This is a phrase by which loose women demand money of their 
 gallants. 
 
 S 
 
178 
 
 Mox, lenone suas jam dimittente puellas, 
 Tristis abit ; sed, quod potuit, tauien ultima cellam 
 Clausit, adhuc ardens rigidaa tentigine vulvas ; 
 Et lassata viris, nondum satiata recessit : 
 Obscurisque genis turpis, fumoque lucernae 
 Foeda, lupanaris tulit ad pulvinar odorem. 
 Hippomanes, carmenque loquar, coctumque venerium, 
 Privignoque datum? faciunt graviora eoactae 
 Imperio sexus, minimumque libidine peccant. 
 
 Optima sed quare Cesennia teste marito ? 
 Bis quingenta dedit ; tanti vocat ille pudicam : 
 Nee Veneris pharetris macer est ; aut lampade fervet : 
 Inde faces ardent ; veniunt a dote sagittal. 
 Libertas emitur : coram licet innuat, atque 
 Eescribat ; vidua est, locuples quae nupsit avaro. 
 
 Cur desiderio Bibulae Sertorius ardet ? 
 Si verum excutias, facies, non uxor amatur. 
 
 
 -^i 
 
179 
 
 But when for fear* of justice' warrants, 
 The bawd dismiss' d her whores on errands, 
 
 She stayed the last then went, they say, 
 
 Unsatisfied, tho' tir'd, away. 
 
 Why should I mention all their magic 
 Poison, and other stories tragic ? 
 Their appetites are all such rash ones, 
 Lust is the least of all their passions. 
 
 Cesennid s husband call, you cry, 
 He lauds her virtues to the sky. 
 She brought him twice ten thousand pounds, 
 With all that merit she abounds. 
 Venus ne'er shot at him an arrow, 
 Her fortune darted through his marrow : 
 She bought her freedom, and before him 
 May wink, forgetful of decorum, 
 And lovers billet-doux may answer : 
 For he who marries wives for gain, sir, 
 A widow's privilege must grant 'em, 
 And suffer captains to gallant 'em. 
 
 But Bibula doth Sertorius move : 
 I'm sure he married her for love. 
 Love I agree was in the case ; 
 Not of the woman, but her face. 
 
 * In Rome, the keepers of evil houses used to dismiss their girls at 
 midnight; at which time those who follow the same trade in this city 
 first light up their candles. 
 
 s 2 
 
180 
 
 Fiant obscuri dentes, oculique minores 5 
 Collige sarcinulas, dicet libertus, ° et exi ; 
 Jam gravis es nobis, et ssepe emungeris ; exi 
 Ocyus, et propera ; sicco venit altera naso. 
 Interea calet, et regnat, poscitque maritum 
 Pastores, et ovem Canusinam, ulmosque Falernas. 
 Quantulum in hoc ? pueros omnes, ergastula tota, 
 
 * Sensus hujus loci non subolet interpretibus. Divitem maritum e 
 libertino genere hie ostendi volunt : cum poeta plane serviim manumissum, 
 vel primi ordinis servum intendifc : quern nos anglice, the gentleman, the 
 steward, &c, nominamus. 
 
181 
 
 Let but one wrinkle spoil her forehead ; 
 Or should she chance to have a sore head ; 
 Her skin grow flabby, or teeth blacken, 
 She quickly would be sent a packing. 
 " Be gone ! " — (the gentleman* would cry) 
 " Are those d — n'd nostrils never dry ? 
 " Defend me, Heav'n, from a strumpet, 
 " Who's always playing on a trumpet." 
 
 But while her beauteous youth remains, 
 With power most absolute she reigns. 
 Now rarities she wants ; no matter 
 What price they cost — they please the better. 
 Italian vines, and Spanish sheep.")* 
 But these are trifles — you must keep 
 An equipage of six stout fellows ; \ 
 Of no use to 'em, as they tell us, 
 
 * That is, her husband's gentleman. The commentators have wretchedly- 
 blundered here, in their interpretation of the Latin. 
 
 •f In the original, Falemian vines and Canusian sheep : for Falernia pro- 
 duced the most delicious wine, and the sheep which came from Canusium, 
 a town or village of Apulia, the finest wool. I know not whether either 
 of the instances by which I have attempted to modernize this passage be at 
 present in fashion, but if they are not, it is probable the only reason is, 
 that we forget Italian vines, as they would require the assistance of artificial 
 heat ; and Spanish sheep, as they are to be fetched a great way by sea, 
 would be extremely expensive, and consequently well worth our having. 
 
 | The Latin hath it — All the fellows in the workhouse : but this is an 
 instance that our luxury is not yet so extravagant as that of the Romans 
 was in Juvenal's days. 
 
182 
 
 Qu6dq ; domi non est, et habet vicinus, ematur. 
 Mense quidem brumse, cum jam mercator Iason 
 Clausus, et armatis obstat casa Candida nautis, 
 Grandia tolluntur crystallina, maxima rursus 
 Myrrhina, deinde adamas notissimus, et Berenices 
 In digito factus pretiosior : hunc dedit olim 
 Barbaras incestae ; dedit hunc Agrippa sorori ; ° 
 Observant ubi festa mero pede sabbata reges, 
 Et vetus indulget senibus dementia porcis. 
 
 Nullane de tantis gregibusf tibi digna videtur ? 
 Sit formosa, decens, dives, foecunda, vetustos 
 Porticibus disponat avos, intactior omni 
 Crinibus effusis bellum dirimente Sabina : 
 (Kara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.) 
 Quis feret uxorem, cui constant omnia ? malo, 
 Malo Venusinam, quam te, Cornelia, J mater 
 Gracchorum, si cum magnis virtutibus afFers 
 Grande supercilium, et numeras in dote triumphos. 
 
 * Eepetitionem liujus vocis dedit sunt qui conantur abjicere, licet ele- 
 gantissimam ; ideoque interpretum gustui minus gratam. 
 
 j* Ambiguitatem qua greges refert tarn ad mulieres quam ad porcos 
 miratur lubinus, et queritur quod ab aliis non animadvertatur. Sed 
 nescio annon inurbanus potius quam argutus hie dicendus sit poeta. 
 
 \ Scipionis Africani filia, Oornelio Graccho nupta, et Caii et Tiberii 
 mater, hie maximae laudis, non vituperationis causa, memorata. 
 
183 
 
 Unless to walk before their chairs,, 
 When they go out to show their airs. 
 However liberal your grants, 
 Still what her neighbour hath she wants ; 
 Even Pit's precious diamond — that 
 Which Lewis Fifteen wears in's hat ; 
 Or what Agrippa gave his sister. 
 Incestuous bride ! for which he kiss'd her. 
 (Sure with less sin a Jew might dine, 
 If hungry, on a herd of swine.) 
 
 But of this herd, I mean of women, 
 Will not an individual do, man ? 
 No, none my soul can e'er inflame, 
 But the rich, decent, lovely dame : 
 Her womb with fruitfulness attended ; 
 Of a good ancient house descended : 
 A virgin too, untouch' d, and chaste, 
 Whom man ne'er took about the waist. 
 She's a rare bird ! find her who can, 
 And much resembling a black swan. 
 
 But who could bear a wife's great merit, 
 Who doth such qualities inherit? 
 I would prefer some country girl 
 To the proud daughter of an earl ; 
 If my repose must still be hindered 
 With the great actions of her kindred. 
 
 * Berenice. 
 
184 
 
 Tolle tuum, precor, Hannibalem, victumque Syphacem 
 In castris, et cum tota Carthagine migra. 
 
 Parce, precor, Paean •, et tu, Dea, pone sagittas ; 
 Nil pueri faciunt ; ipsam configite matrem ; 
 Amphion clamat: sed Paean contrahit arcum. 
 Extulit ergo gregem natorum, ipsumque parentem, 
 Dum sibi nobilior Latonae gente videtur, 
 Atque eadem scrofa Niobe foecundior alba. 
 Quae tanti gravitas ? quae forma, ut se tibi semper 
 Imputet ? hujus enim rari, summique voluptas 
 Nulla boni, quoties animo corrupta superbo 
 Plus aloes, quam mellis, habet. Quis deditus autem 
 
185 
 
 Go to the devil, should I say, 
 With the West Indies ta'en — away.° 
 4 Hold, Pcean, hold ; thou goddess, spare 
 4 My children/ was AmpMons pray'r. 
 4 They have done nought to forfeit life ; 
 4 shoot your arrows at my wife." 
 His pray'r nor god nor goddess heard, 
 Nor child, nor ev'n the mother spar'd. 
 For why, the vixen proudly boasted,*)" 
 More than Latona she was toasted ; 
 And had been oft'ner in the straw, 
 Than the white sow:): JEneas saw. 
 
 But say, though Nature should be lavish, 
 Can any mien or beauty ravish, 
 Whose mind is nothing but inanity, 
 Mere bladder blown with wind of vanity ? 
 Trust, if for such you give your money, 
 You buy more vinegar than honey. 
 
 * Juvenal here mentions Cornelia, the daughter of Scipio Africanus, 
 wife of Cornelius Gracchus, and mother of the Gracchi, Caius and Tiberius. 
 The beauty of the original here is inimitable. 
 
 ■f Our poet here alludes to the story of Niobe, wife of Amphion, king of 
 Thebes, who affronted Latona, in preferring her own fruitfulness to that of 
 the goddess ; for which reason Apollo and Diana destroyed all her 
 children ; the number of which authors report variously. 
 x % Which produced thirty pigs at a litter. 
 
186 
 
 Usque adeo est, ut non illam, quam laudibus effort, 
 Horreat ? inque diem septenis oderit horis ? 
 Quaedam parva quidem; sed non toleranda maritis. 
 Nam quid raneidius, quam quod se non putat ulla 
 Formosam, nisi quae de Thusca Graecula facta est ? 
 De Sulmonensi mera Cecropis omnia Greece ; 
 Cum sit turpe minus nostris nescire Latine. 
 Hoc sermone pavent ; hoc iram, gaudia, curas, 
 Hoc cuncta effundunt animi secreta. Quid ultra? 
 Concumbunt Graece, dones tamen ista puellis : 
 Tiine etiam, quam sextus et octogesimus annus 
 Pulsat, adhuc Graece ? non est hie sermo pudicus 
 In vetula, quoties lascivum intervenit illud, 
 Z12H KM ^YXH, modo sub lodice relectis 
 Uteris in turba, quod enim non excitat inguen 
 Vox blanda et nequam ? digitos habet : ut tamen omnes 
 Subsidant pennae : dicas haec mollius iEnio 
 Quanquam, et Carpophoro ; facies tua computat annos. 
 
187 
 
 Who is there such a slave in Nature, 
 That while he praises would not hate her ? 
 
 Some smaller crimes, which seem scarce nominable, 
 Are yet to husbands most abominable : 
 For what so fulsome — if it were new t' ye, 
 That no one thinks herself a beauty, 
 'Till Frenchified® from head to foot, . 
 A mere Parisian dame throughout. 
 She spells not English, who will blame her ? 
 But French not understood would shame her. 
 
 This language 'tis in which they tremble, 
 Quarrel, are happy, and dissemble ; 
 Tell secrets to some other Miss ; 
 What more ? — 'tis this in which they kiss. 
 
 But if to girls we grant this leav e ; 
 You, Madam, whom fast by your sleeve 
 Old age hath got — must you still stammer 
 Soft phrases out of Bowyers grammar? 
 Mon ame, mon Mignon! how it comes 
 Most graceful from your toothless gums ! 
 Tho' softer spoke than by Lord Fanny, 
 Can that old face be lik'd by any ? 
 
 * The Romans were (if I may be allowed such a word) Greecified, at 
 this time, in the same manner as we are Frenchified. 
 
188 
 
 Si tibi legitimis pactam, junctamque tabellis 
 Non es amaturus, ducendi nulla videtur 
 Causa ; nee est quare coenam et mustacea perdas, 
 Labente officio, crudis donanda, nee illud, 
 Quod prima pro nocte° datur; cum lance beata 
 Dacicus, et scripto radiat Germanicus auro. 
 Si tibi simplicitas uxoria, deditus uni 
 Est animus ; submitte caput cervice parata 
 Ferre jugum : nullam invenies, quae parcat amanti. 
 Ardeat ipsa licet, tormentis gaudet amantis, 
 Et spoliis, igitur longe minus utilis illi 
 Uxor, quisquis erit bonus, optandusque niaritus. 
 Nil unquam invita donabis conjuge : vendes 
 Hac obstante nihil : nihil, haec si nolit, emetur. 
 Efec dabit affectus : ille excludetur amicus 
 Jam senior,- cujus barbam tua janua yidit. 
 Testandi cum sit lenonibus, atque lanistis 
 Libertas, et juris idem contingat arense, 
 Non unus tibi rivalis dictabitur hseres. 
 Pone crucem servo: meruit quo crimine servus 
 Supplicium ? quis testis adest ? quis detulit ? audi : 
 
 * Mos erat prsemium aliquod novae nuptse donandi, quasi virginitatis 
 depositas pretium : Hasc est autem hujus loci vis. Si non amaturus es 
 nuplam quam clucis, ne nox prima quidem grata erit; quam solam in 
 matrimonio jucundam esse expectare debes. 
 
189 
 
 If love be not your cause of wedding, 
 There is no other for your bedding : 
 All the expense of wedding-day 
 Would then, my friend, be thrown away. 
 
 If, on the contrary, you doat, 
 And are of the uxorious note, 
 For heavy yoke your neck prepare ; 
 None will the tender husband spare: 
 E'en when they love they will discover 
 Joys in the torments of a lover: 
 The hope to govern them by kindness 
 Argues, my friend, a total blindness. 
 For wives most useless ever prove 
 To those most worthy of their love. 
 
 Before you give, or sell, or buy, 
 She must be courted to comply: 
 She points new friendships out — and straight 
 1 Gainst old acquaintance shuts your gate. 
 
 The privilege which at their birth 
 Our laws bequeath the scum o' th' earth, 
 Of making wills, to you's denied; 
 You for her fav'rites must provide; 
 Those your sole heirs creating, who 
 Have laboured to make heirs for you. 
 
 Now come, sir, take your horsewhip down, 
 And lash your footman there, Tom Brown. 
 What hath Tom done? or who accuses him? 
 Perhaps some rascal, who abuses him. 
 
190 
 
 Nulla unquam de morte hominis cunctatio longa est, 
 demens, ita servus homo est? nil fecerit, esto: 
 Hoc volo, sic jubeo, sit pro ratione voluntas. 
 Imperat ergo viro: sed mox hsec regna relinquit, 
 Permutatque domos, et flammea content: inde 
 Avolat, et spreti repetit vestigia lecti ; 
 Ornatas paulo ante fores, pendentia linquit 
 Vela domus, et adhuc virides in limine ramos. 
 Sic crescit numerus; sic fiunt octo mariti* 
 Quinque per autumnos: titulo res digna sepulchri. 
 Desperanda tibi salva concordia socru : 
 Ilia docet spoliis nudi gaudere mariti: 
 Ilia docet, missis a corruptore tabellis, 
 Nil rude, nil simplex rescribere: decipit ilia 
 Custodes, aut sere domat: tunc corpore sano 
 Advocat Archigenem, onerosaque pallia jactat. 
 Abditus interea latet accersitus adulter, 
 Impatiensque morse silet, et praeputia ducit. 
 
 * Quot nempe a lege permissi sunt. Nam prohibitum erat mulieribus, 
 pluribus quam octo maritis nubere, cum hunc numerum ergo minime 
 liceret transire, necessitate coacta uxor ab octavo marito redit iterum ad 
 primum. 
 
191 
 
 Let us examine first — and then — * 
 Tis ne'er too late to punish men. 
 Men! Do you call this abject creature 
 A man? He's scarce of human nature.* 
 What hath he done? — no matter what — 
 If nothing — lash him well for that: 
 My will is a sufficient reason 
 To constitute a servant's treason. 
 
 Thus she commands: but straight she leaves 
 This slave, and to another cleaves ; 
 Thence to a third and fourth, and then 
 Eeturns, perhaps, to you again. 
 Thus in the space of seven short years 
 Possessing half a score of dears. 
 
 Be sure, no quiet can arrive 
 To you while her mamma's alive: 
 She'll teach her how to cheat her spouse, 
 To pick his pocket, strip his house : 
 Answers to love-letters indite, 
 And make her daughter's style polite- 
 With cunning she'll deceive your spies, 
 Or bribe with money to tell lies. 
 
 Then, tho' health swells her daughter's pulse, 
 She sends for Wasey, Hoadley, Hulse. 
 So she pretends, — but in their room, 
 Lo, the adulterer is come. 
 
 * The Romans derived from the Greeks an opinion, that their slaves 
 were of a species inferior to themselves. As such a sentiment is incon- 
 sistent with the temper of Christianity, this passage loses much of its 
 force by being modernized. 
 
192 
 
 Scilicet expectas, ut tradat mater honestos, 
 Aut alios mores, quam quos habet ? utile porro 
 Filiolam turpi vetulae producere turpem. 
 
 Nulla fere causa est, in qua non foemina litem 
 Moverit. Accusat Manilia, si rea non est.* 
 Componunt ipsse per se, formantque libellos, 
 Principium atque locos Celso dictare paratae. 
 
 Endromidas Tyrias, et foemineum ceroma 
 Quis nescit ? vel quis non vidit vulnera pali ? 
 Quern cavat assiduis sudibus, scutoque lacessit, 
 Atque omnes implet numeros; dignissima prorsus 
 Florali matrona tuba ; f nisi si quid in illo 
 Pectore plus agitet, vereeque paratur arenas. 
 Quern prgestare potest mulier galeata pudorem? 
 Quae fugit a sexu, vires amat; J haec tamen ipsa 
 Vir nollet fieri ; nam quantula nostra voluptas ? 
 Quale decus rerum, si conjugis auctio fiat, 
 
 * Accusator et reus eandem habent quam in lege nostra querens et 
 defendens, significationem. 
 
 f Tuba ad impudicos ludos vocante. Hos a Flora meretrice quadam in 
 honorem Florae Deae institutos docet Ovid fast : acerbius quideni hoc in 
 matronas a poeta dictum. 
 
 J Ita prorsus legendum existimo, finita interrogatione ad vocem pudorem ? 
 sensus turn erit. Quamquam amat vires mulier quce fugit a sexu, tamen 
 omnino vir fieri nolit, quia, fyc. — Multo elegantior ita net sententia. Alii 
 legunt Quw fugita sexu et vires amat. — Sed minus recte. 
 
193 
 
 Do you expect, you simple elf, 
 That she who hath them not herself, 
 Should teach good manners to your lady, 
 And not debauch her for the ready ? 
 
 In courts of justice what transactions ? 
 Manilla s never without actions : 
 No forms of litigation 'scape her, 
 In special pleading next to Dr-jper. 
 
 Have you not heard of fighting females, 
 Whom you would rather think to be males ? 
 Of Madam Sutton, Mrs. Stokes, 
 Who give confounded cuts and strokes ? 
 They fight the weapons through complete, 
 Worthy to ride along the street.* 
 
 Can female modesty so rage, 
 To draw a sword, and mount the stage ? 
 Will they their sex entirely quit ? 
 No, they have not so little wit : 
 Better they know how small our shares 
 Of pleasure — how much less than theirs. 
 
 But should your wife by auction sell, 
 (You know the modern fashion well) 
 
 * Prize-fighters, on the day of battle, ride through the streets with a 
 trumpet before them. 
 
 T 
 
194 
 
 Balteus, et manicae, et cristas, crurisque sinistri 
 Dimidium tegmen ! vel si diversa movebit 
 Praelia, tu felix, ocreas vendente puella. 
 Hae sunt, quae tenui sudant in cyclade, quarum 
 Delicias et panniculus bombycinus urit. 
 Aspice, quo fremitu monstratos perferat ictus, 
 Et quanto galeae curvetur ponder e ; quanta 
 Poplitibus sedeat ; quam denso fascia libro : 
 Et ride, scaphium positis cum sumitur armis. 
 Dicite vos neptes Lepidi, caecive Metelli, 
 Gurgitis aut Fabii, quae ludia sumpserit unquam 
 Hos habitus ? quando ad palum gemat uxor Asylli ? 
 
 Semper habet lites, alternaque jurgia lectus, 
 In quo nupta jacet : minimum dormitur in illo. 
 Tunc gravis ilia viro, tunc orba tigride pejor, 
 Ciim simulat gemitus occulti conscia facti, 
 Aut odit pueros, aut ficta pellice plorat 
 Uberibus semper lachrymis, semperque paratis 
 
195 
 
 Should Cock aloft his pulpit mount, 
 And all her furniture recount, 
 Sure you would scarce abstain from oaths, 
 To hear, among your lady's clothes, 
 Of those superb fine horseman's suits, 
 And those magnificent jack-boots. 
 
 And yet, as often as they please, 
 Nothing is tenderer than these. 
 A coach ! — gad ! they cannot bear 
 Such jolting ! — John, go fetch a chair. 
 Yet see, through Hyde Park how they ride ! 
 How masculine ! almost astride ! 
 Their hats fierce cock'd up with cockades, 
 Eesembling dragoons more than maids. 
 
 Knew our great-grandmothers these follies ? 
 Daughters of Hampden, Baynton, Hollis ? * 
 More modesty they surely had, 
 Decently ambling on a pad. 
 
 Sleep never shows his drowsy head 
 Within the reach of marriage-bed : 
 The wife thence frightens him with. scolding. 
 — Then chiefly the attack she's bold in, 
 When, to conceal her own amours, 
 She falls most artfully on yours : 
 Pretends a jealousy of some lady, 
 With tears in plenty always ready ; 
 
 * These, according to Sidney, are some of the best families in England, 
 and superior to many of our modern nobility. 
 
196 
 
 In statione sua, atque expectantibus illam, 
 Quo jubeat manare modo : tu credis amorem ; 
 Tu tibi tunc, curruca, places, fletumque labellis 
 Exorbes ; quae scripta, et quas lecture tabellas, 
 Si tibi zelotypae retegantur scrinia moachse ! 
 Sed jacet in servi complexibus, aut equitis : die, 
 Die aliquem, sodes hie, Quintiliane, colorem. 
 Hseremus : die ipsa : olim convenerat, inquit, 
 Ut faceres tu quod velles ; necnon ego possem 
 Indulgere mihi : clames licet, et mare coelo 
 Confundas,* homo sum. Nihil est audacius illis 
 Deprensis : iram atque animos a crimine sumunt. 
 Unde hsec monstra tamen, vel quo de fonte requiris ? 
 Prsestabat castas humilis fortuna Latinas 
 Quondam, nee vitiis contingi parva sinebat 
 
 * Exclamando scilicet, ut apud terentium,, Coelum ! O Terra ! 
 Maria ' 
 
197 
 
 Which on their post true sent'nels stand, 
 The word still waiting of command, 
 How she shall order them to trickle. 
 — Thou thinkest love her soul doth tickle. 
 Poor hedge-sparrow — with fifty dears, 
 Lickest up her fallacious tears. 
 Search her scrutoire, man, and then tell us 
 Who hath most reason to be jealous. 
 
 But, in the very fact she's taken ; 
 Now let us hear, to save her bacon, 
 What Murray, or what Henley can say ; 
 Neither proof positive will gainsay : 
 It is against the rules of practice ; 
 Nothing to her the naked fact is. 
 4 You know ' (she cries) L ere I consented 
 4 To be, what I have since repented, 
 4 It was agreed between us, you 
 4 Whatever best you lik'd should do ; 
 ' Nor could I, after a long trial, 
 4 Persist myself in self-denial/ 
 You at her impudence may wonder, 
 Invoke the lightning and the thunder : 
 4 You are a man ' (she cries) 4 'tis true ; 
 4 We have our human frailties too.' 
 
 Nought bold is like a woman caught, 
 They gather courage from the fault. 
 
 Whence come these prodigies ? what fountain, 
 You ask, produces them ? I'th' mountain 
 The British dames were chaste, no crimes 
 The cottage stain' d in elder times ; 
 
198 
 
 Tecta labor, somnique breves, et vellere Thusco 
 Vexatae, duraeque manus, ac proximus urbi 
 Hannibal, et stantes Collina in turre mariti. 
 Nunc patimur longae pacis mala : saevior armis 
 Luxuria incubuit, victumque ulciscitur orbem.° 
 Nullum crimen abest, facinusque libidinis, ex quo 
 Paupertas Eomana perit : hinc fluxit ad istos 
 Et Sybaris colles, hinc et Khodos, atque Miletos, 
 Atque coronatum, et petulans, madidumque Tarentum. 
 Prima peregrinos obscoena pecunia mores 
 Intulit, et turpi fregerunt secula luxu 
 Divitias molles. 
 
 * Eximise sunt hi versus notse, et vix satis laudandi. 
 
199 
 
 When the laborious wife slept little, 
 
 Spun wool, and boil'd her husband's kettle ; 
 
 When the Armada frighten' d Kent, 
 
 And good Queen Bessy pitch' d her tent. 
 
 Now from security we feel 
 
 More ills than threaten' d us from steel ; 
 
 Severer luxury abounds, 
 
 Avenging France of all her wounds. 
 
 When our old British plainness left us, 
 
 Of ev'ry virtue it bereft us : 
 
 And we've imported from all climes. 
 
 All sorts of wickedness and crimes : 
 
 French finery, Italian meats, 
 
 With German drunkenness, Dutch cheats, 
 
 Money's the source of all our woes ; 
 
 Money ! whence luxury o'erflows, 
 
 And in a torrent, like the Nile, 
 
 Bears off the virtues of this isle. 
 
 We shall here close our translation of this satire ; for as the remainder 
 is in many places too obscene for chaste ears ; so, to the honour of the 
 English ladies, the Latin is by no means applicable to them, nor indeed 
 capable of being modernized. 
 
/ 
 
 200 
 
 TO MISS H AND AT BATH. 
 
 WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN THE PUMP-ROOM, 1742. 
 
 Soon shall these bounteous springs thy wish bestow, 
 Soon in each feature sprightly health shall glow ; 
 Thy eyes regain their fire, thy limbs their grace, 
 And roses join the lilies in thy face. 
 But say, sweet maid, what waters can remove 
 The pangs of cold despair, of hopeless love ? 
 The deadly star which lights th' autumnal skies 
 Shines not so bright, so fatal as those eyes. 
 The pains which from their influence we endure, 
 Not Brewster, glory of his art, can cure. 
 
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