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<h2> To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon. </h2>
<h3> DEAR KNIGHT, </h3>
<p>I think those people are unreasonable, who complain that Bath is a
contracted circle, in which the same dull scenes perpetually revolve,
without variation—I am, on the contrary, amazed to find so small a
place so crowded with entertainment and variety. London itself can hardly
exhibit one species of diversion, to which we have not something analogous
at Bath, over and above those singular advantages that are peculiar to the
place. Here, for example, a man has daily opportunities of seeing the most
remarkable characters of the community. He sees them in their natural
attitudes and true colours; descended from their pedestals, and divested
of their formal draperies, undisguised by art and affectation—Here
we have ministers of state, judges, generals, bishops, projectors,
philosophers, wits, poets, players, chemists, fiddlers, and buffoons. If
he makes any considerable stay in the place, he is sure of meeting with
some particular friend, whom he did not expect to see; and to me there is
nothing more agreeable than such casual reencounters. Another
entertainment, peculiar to Bath, arises from the general mixture of all
degrees assembled in our public rooms, without distinction of rank or
fortune. This is what my uncle reprobates, as a monstrous jumble of
heterogeneous principles; a vile mob of noise and impertinence, without
decency or subordination. But this chaos is to me a source of infinite
amusement.</p>
<p>I was extremely diverted last ball-night to see the Master of the
Ceremonies leading, with great solemnity, to the upper end of the room, an
antiquated Abigail, dressed in her lady's cast-clothes; whom he (I
suppose) mistook for some countess just arrived at the Bath. The ball was
opened by a Scotch lord, with a mulatto heiress from St Christopher's; and
the gay colonel Tinsel danced all the evening with the daughter of an
eminent tinman from the borough of Southwark. Yesterday morning, at the
Pump-room, I saw a broken-winded Wapping landlady squeeze through a circle
of peers, to salute her brandy-merchant, who stood by the window, propped
upon crutches; and a paralytic attorney of Shoe-lane, in shuffling up to
the bar, kicked the shins of the chancellor of England, while his
lordship, in a cut bob, drank a glass of water at the pump. I cannot
account for my being pleased with these incidents, any other way, than by
saying they are truly ridiculous in their own nature, and serve to
heighten the humour in the farce of life, which I am determined to enjoy
as long as I can.</p>
<p>Those follies, that move my uncle's spleen, excite my laughter. He is as
tender as a man without a skin; who cannot bear the slightest touch
without flinching. What tickles another would give him torment; and yet he
has what we may call lucid intervals, when he is remarkably facetious—Indeed,
I never knew a hypochondriac so apt to be infected with good-humour. He is
the most risible misanthrope I ever met with. A lucky joke, or any
ludicrous incident, will set him a-laughing immoderately, even in one of
his most gloomy paroxysms; and, when the laugh is over, he will curse his
own imbecility. In conversing with strangers, he betrays no marks of
disquiet—He is splenetic with his familiars only; and not even with
them, while they keep his attention employed; but when his spirits are not
exerted externally, they seem to recoil and prey upon himself—He has
renounced the waters with execration; but he begins to find a more
efficacious, and, certainly, a much more palatable remedy in the pleasures
of society. He has discovered some old friends, among the invalids of
Bath; and, in particular, renewed his acquaintance with the celebrated
James Quin, who certainly did not come here to drink water. You cannot
doubt, but that I had the strongest curiosity to know this original; and
it was gratified by Mr Bramble, who has had him twice at our house to
dinner.</p>
<p>So far as I am able to judge, Quin's character is rather more respectable
than it has been generally represented. His bon mots are in every
witling's mouth; but many of them have a rank flavour, which one would be
apt to think was derived from a natural grossness of idea. I suspect,
however, that justice has not been done the author, by the collectors of
those Quiniana; who have let the best of them slip through their fingers,
and only retained such as were suited to the taste and organs of the
multitude. How far he may relax in his hours of jollity, I cannot pretend
to say; but his general conversation is conducted by the nicest rules of
Propriety; and Mr James Quin is, certainly, one of the best bred men in
the kingdom. He is not only a most agreeable companion but (as I am
credibly informed) a very honest man; highly susceptible of friendship,
warm, steady, and even generous in his attachments, disdaining flattery,
and incapable of meanness and dissimulation. Were I to judge, however,
from Quin's eye alone, I should take him to be proud, insolent, and cruel.
There is something remarkably severe and forbidding in his aspect; and, I
have been told, he was ever disposed to insult his inferiors and
dependants.—Perhaps that report has influenced my opinion of his
looks—You know we are the fools of prejudice. Howsoever that may be,
I have as yet seen nothing but his favourable side, and my uncle, who
frequently confers with him, in a corner, declares he is one of the most
sensible men he ever knew—He seems to have a reciprocal regard for
old Squaretoes, whom he calls by the familiar name of Matthew, and often
reminds of their old tavern-adventures: on the other hand, Matthew's eyes
sparkle whenever Quin makes his appearance—Let him be never so
jarring and discordant, Quin puts him in tune; and, like treble and bass
in the same concert, they make excellent music together—. T'other
day, the conversation turning upon Shakespeare, I could not help saying,
with some emotion, that I would give an hundred guineas to see Mr Quin act
the part of Falstaff; upon which, turning to me with a smile, 'And I would
give a thousand, young gentleman (said he) that I could gratify your
longing.' My uncle and he are perfectly agreed in their estimate of life;
which Quin says, would stink in his nostrils, if he did not steep it in
claret.</p>
<p>I want to see this phenomenon in his cups; and have almost prevailed upon
uncle to give him a small turtle at the Bear. In the mean time, I must
entertain you with an incident, that seems to confirm the judgment of
those two cynic philosophers. I took the liberty to differ in opinion from
Mr Bramble, when he observed, that the mixture of people in the
entertainments of this place was destructive of all order and urbanity;
that it rendered the plebeians insufferably arrogant and troublesome, and
vulgarized the deportment and sentiments of those who moved in the upper
spheres of life. He said such a preposterous coalition would bring us into
contempt with all our neighbours; and was worse, in fact, than debasing
the gold coin of the nation. I argued, on the contrary, that those
plebeians who discovered such eagerness to imitate the dress and equipage
of their superiors, would likewise, in time, adopt their maxims and their
manners, be polished by their conversation, and refined by their example;
but when I appealed to Mr Quin, and asked if he did not think that such an
unreserved mixture would improve the whole mass? 'Yes (said he) as a plate
of marmalade would improve a pan of sirreverence.'</p>
<p>I owned I was not much conversant in high-life, but I had seen what were
called polite assemblies in London and elsewhere; that those of Bath
seemed to be as decent as any; and that, upon the whole, the individuals
that composed it, would not be found deficient in good manners and
decorum. 'But let us have recourse to experience (said I)—Jack
Holder, who was intended for a parson, has succeeded to an estate of two
thousand a year, by the death of his elder brother. He is now at the Bath,
driving about in a phaeton and four, with French horns. He has treated
with turtle and claret at all the taverns in Bath and Bristol, till his
guests are gorged with good chear: he has bought a dozen suits of fine
clothes, by the advice of the Master of the Ceremonies, under whose
tuition he has entered himself. He has lost hundreds at billiards to
sharpers, and taken one of the nymphs of Avon-street into keeping; but,
finding all these channels insufficient to drain him of his current cash,
his counsellor has engaged him to give a general tea-drinking to-morrow at
Wiltshire's room. In order to give it the more eclat, every table is to be
furnished with sweet-meats and nosegays; which, however, are not to be
touched till notice is given by the ringing of a bell, and then the ladies
may help themselves without restriction. This will be no bad way of trying
the company's breeding.'</p>
<p>'I will abide by that experiment (cried my uncle) and if I could find a
place to stand secure, without the vortex of the tumult, which I know will
ensue, I would certainly go thither and enjoy the scene.' Quin proposed
that we should take our station in the music-gallery, and we took his
advice. Holder had got thither before us, with his horns perdue, but we
were admitted. The tea-drinking passed as usual, and the company having
risen from the tables, were sauntering in groupes, in expectation of the
signal for attack, when the bell beginning to ring, they flew with
eagerness to the dessert, and the whole place was instantly in commotion.
There was nothing but justling, scrambling, pulling, snatching,
struggling, scolding, and screaming. The nosegays were torn from one
another's hands and bosoms; the glasses and china went to wreck; the
tables and floors were strewed with comfits. Some cried; some swore; and
the tropes and figures of Billingsgate were used without reserve in all
their native zest and flavour; nor were those flowers of rhetoric
unattended with significant gesticulation. Some snapped their fingers;
some forked them out; some clapped their hands, and some their back-sides;
at length, they fairly proceeded to pulling caps, and every thing seemed
to presage a general battle; when Holder ordered his horns to sound a
charge, with a view to animate the combatants, and inflame the contest;
but this manoeuvre produced an effect quite contrary to what he expected.
It was a note of reproach that roused them to an immediate sense of their
disgraceful situation. They were ashamed of their absurd deportment, and
suddenly desisted. They gathered up their caps, ruffles, and
handkerchiefs; and great part of them retired in silent mortification.</p>
<p>Quin laughed at this adventure; but my uncle's delicacy was hurt. He hung
his head in manifest chagrin, and seemed to repine at the triumph of his
judgment—Indeed, his victory was more complete than he imagined;
for, as we afterwards learned, the two amazons who singularized themselves
most in the action, did not come from the purlieus of Puddle-dock, but
from the courtly neighbourhood of St James's palace. One was a baroness,
and the other, a wealthy knight's dowager—My uncle spoke not a word,
till we had made our retreat good to the coffee-house; where, taking off
his hat and wiping his forehead, 'I bless God (said he) that Mrs Tabitha
Bramble did not take the field today!' 'I would pit her for a cool hundred
(cried Quin) against the best shake-bag of the whole main.' The truth is,
nothing could have kept her at home but the accident of her having taken
physic before she knew the nature of the entertainment. She has been for
some days furbishing up an old suit of black velvet, to make her
appearance as Sir Ulic's partner at the next ball.</p>
<p>I have much to say of this amiable kinswoman; but she has not been
properly introduced to your acquaintance. She is remarkably civil to Mr
Quin; of whose sarcastic humour she seems to stand in awe; but her caution
is no match for her impertinence. 'Mr Gwynn (said she the other day) I was
once vastly entertained with your playing the Ghost of Gimlet at
Drury-lane, when you rose up through the stage, with a white face and red
eyes, and spoke of quails upon the frightful porcofine—Do, pray,
spout a little the Ghost of Gimlet.' 'Madam (said Quin, with a glance of
ineffable disdain) the Ghost of Gimlet is laid, never to rise again'—
Insensible of this check, she proceeded: 'Well, to be sure, you looked and
talked so like a real ghost; and then the cock crowed so natural. I wonder
how you could teach him to crow so exact, in the very nick of time; but, I
suppose, he's game—An't he game, Mr Gwynn?' 'Dunghill, madam.'—'Well,
dunghill, or not dunghill, he has got such a clear counter-tenor, that I
wish I had such another at Brambleton-hall, to wake the maids of a
morning. Do you know where I could find one of his brood?' 'Probably in
the work-house at St Giles's parish, madam; but I protest I know not his
particular mew!' My uncle, frying with vexation, cried, 'Good God, sister,
how you talk! I have told you twenty times, that this gentleman's name is
not Gwynn.'—'Hoity toity, brother mine (she replied) no offence, I
hope—Gwynn is an honorable name, of true old British extraction—I
thought the gentleman had been come of Mrs Helen Gwynn, who was of his own
profession; and if so be that were the case, he might be of king Charles's
breed, and have royal blood in his veins.'—'No, madam (answered
Quin, with great solemnity) my mother was not a whore of such distinction—True
it is, I am sometimes tempted to believe myself of royal descent; for my
inclinations are often arbitrary—If I was an absolute prince, at
this instant, I believe I should send for the head of your cook in a
charger—She has committed felony, on the person of that John Dory,
which is mangled in a cruel manner, and even presented without sauce—O
tempora! O mores!'</p>
<p>This good-humoured sally turned the conversation into a less disagreeable
channel—But, lest you should think my scribble as tedious as Mrs
Tabby's clack, I shall not add another word, but that I am as usual</p>
<p>Yours, J. MELFORD BATH, April 30.</p>
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