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<h2> To Dr LEWIS. </h2>
<h3> DEAR DOCTOR, </h3>
<p>London is literally new to me; new in its streets, houses, and even in its
situation; as the Irishman said, 'London is now gone out of town.' What I
left open fields, producing hay and corn, I now find covered with streets
and squares, and palaces, and churches. I am credibly informed, that in
the space of seven years, eleven thousand new houses have been built in
one quarter of Westminster, exclusive of what is daily added to other
parts of this unwieldy metropolis. Pimlico and Knightsbridge are now
almost joined to Chelsea and Kensington; and if this infatuation continues
for half a century, I suppose the whole county of Middlesex will be
covered with brick.</p>
<p>It must be allowed, indeed, for the credit of the present age, that London
and Westminster are much better paved and lighted than they were formerly.
The new streets are spacious, regular, and airy; and the houses generally
convenient. The bridge at Blackfriars is a noble monument of taste and
public-spirit.—I wonder how they stumbled upon a work of such
magnificence and utility. But, notwithstanding these improvements, the
capital is become an overgrown monster; which, like a dropsical head, will
in time leave the body and extremities without nourishment and support.
The absurdity will appear in its full force, when we consider that one
sixth part of the natives of this whole extensive kingdom is crowded
within the bills of mortality. What wonder that our villages are
depopulated, and our farms in want of day-labourers? The abolition of
small farms is but one cause of the decrease of population. Indeed, the
incredible increase of horses and black cattle, to answer the purposes of
luxury, requires a prodigious quantity of hay and grass, which are raised
and managed without much labour; but a number of hands will always be
wanted for the different branches of agriculture, whether the farms be
large or small. The tide of luxury has swept all the inhabitants from the
open country—The poorest squire, as well as the richest peer, must
have his house in town, and make a figure with an extraordinary number of
domestics. The plough-boys, cow-herds, and lower hinds are debauched and
seduced by the appearance and discourse of those coxcombs in livery, when
they make their summer excursions. They desert their dirt and drudgery,
and swarm up to London, in hopes of getting into service, where they can
live luxuriously and wear fine clothes, without being obliged to work; for
idleness is natural to man—Great numbers of these, being
disappointed in their expectation, become thieves and sharpers; and London
being an immense wilderness, in which there is neither watch nor ward of
any signification, nor any order or police, affords them lurking-places as
well as prey.</p>
<p>There are many causes that contribute to the daily increase of this
enormous mass; but they may be all resolved into the grand source of
luxury and corruption—About five and twenty years ago, very few,
even of the most opulent citizens of London, kept any equipage, or even
any servants in livery. Their tables produced nothing but plain boiled and
roasted, with a bottle of port and a tankard of beer. At present, every
trader in any degree of credit, every broker and attorney, maintains a
couple of footmen, a coachman, and postilion. He has his town-house, and
his country-house, his coach, and his post-chaise. His wife and daughters
appear in the richest stuffs, bespangled with diamonds. They frequent the
court, the opera, the theatre, and the masquerade. They hold assemblies at
their own houses: they make sumptuous entertainments, and treat with the
richest wines of Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Champagne. The substantial
tradesman, who wont to pass his evenings at the ale-house for fourpence
half-penny, now spends three shillings at the tavern, while his wife keeps
card-tables at home; she must likewise have fine clothes, her chaise, or
pad, with country lodgings, and go three times a week to public
diversions. Every clerk, apprentice, and even waiter of tavern or
coffeehouse, maintains a gelding by himself, or in partnership, and
assumes the air and apparel of a petit maitre—The gayest places of
public entertainment are filled with fashionable figures; which, upon
inquiry, will be found to be journeymen taylors, serving-men, and
abigails, disguised like their betters.</p>
<p>In short, there is no distinction or subordination left—The
different departments of life are jumbled together—The hod-carrier,
the low mechanic, the tapster, the publican, the shopkeeper, the
pettifogger, the citizen, and courtier, all tread upon the kibes of one
another: actuated by the demons of profligacy and licentiousness, they are
seen every where rambling, riding, rolling, rushing, justling, mixing,
bouncing, cracking, and crashing in one vile ferment of stupidity and
corruption—All is tumult and hurry; one would imagine they were
impelled by some disorder of the brain, that will not suffer them to be at
rest. The foot-passengers run along as if they were pursued by bailiffs.
The porters and chairmen trot with their burthens. People, who keep their
own equipages, drive through the streets at full speed. Even citizens,
physicians, and apothecaries, glide in their chariots like lightening. The
hackney-coachmen make their horses smoke, and the pavement shakes under
them; and I have actually seen a waggon pass through Piccadilly at the
hand-gallop. In a word, the whole nation seems to be running out of their
wits.</p>
<p>The diversions of the times are not ill suited to the genius of this
incongruous monster, called the public. Give it noise, confusion, glare,
and glitter; it has no idea of elegance and propriety—What are the
amusements of Ranelagh? One half of the company are following at the
other's tails, in an eternal circle; like so many blind asses in an
olive-mill, where they can neither discourse, distinguish, nor be
distinguished; while the other half are drinking hot water, under the
denomination of tea, till nine or ten o'clock at night, to keep them awake
for the rest of the evening. As for the orchestra, the vocal music
especially, it is well for the performers that they cannot be heard
distinctly. Vauxhall is a composition of baubles, overcharged with paltry
ornaments, ill conceived, and poorly executed; without any unity of
design, or propriety of disposition. It is an unnatural assembly of
objects, fantastically illuminated in broken masses; seemingly contrived
to dazzle the eyes and divert the imagination of the vulgar—Here a
wooden lion, there a stone statue; in one place, a range of things like
coffeehouse boxes, covered a-top; in another, a parcel of ale-house
benches; in a third, a puppet-show representation of a tin cascade; in a
fourth, a gloomy cave of a circular form, like a sepulchral vault half
lighted; in a fifth, a scanty flip of grass-plat, that would not afford
pasture sufficient for an ass's colt. The walks, which nature seems to
have intended for solitude, shade, and silence, are filled with crowds of
noisy people, sucking up the nocturnal rheums of an aguish climate; and
through these gay scenes, a few lamps glimmer like so many farthing
candles.</p>
<p>When I see a number of well dressed people, of both sexes, sitting on the
covered benches, exposed to the eyes of the mob; and, which is worse, to
the cold, raw, night-air, devouring sliced beef, and swilling port, and
punch, and cyder, I can't help compassionating their temerity; white I
despise their want of taste and decorum; but, when they course along those
damp and gloomy walks, or crowd together upon the wet gravel, without any
other cover than the cope of Heaven, listening to a song, which one half
of them cannot possibly hear, how can I help supposing they are actually
possessed by a spirit, more absurd and pernicious than any thing we meet
with in the precincts of Bedlam? In all probability, the proprietors of
this, and other public gardens of inferior note, in the skirts of the
metropolis, are, in some shape, connected with the faculty of physic, and
the company of undertakers; for, considering that eagerness in the pursuit
of what is called pleasure, which now predominates through every rank and
denomination of life, I am persuaded that more gouts, rheumatisms,
catarrhs, and consumptions are caught in these nocturnal pastimes, sub
dio, than from all the risques and accidents to which a life of toil and
danger is exposed.</p>
<p>These, and other observations, which I have made in this excursion, will
shorten my stay at London, and send me back with a double relish to my
solitude and mountains; but I shall return by a different route from that
which brought me to town. I have seen some old friends, who constantly
resided in this virtuous metropolis, but they are so changed in manners
and disposition, that we hardly know or care for one another—In our
journey from Bath, my sister Tabby provoked me into a transport of
passion; during which, like a man who has drank himself pot-valiant, I
talked to her in such a stile of authority and resolution, as produced a
most blessed effect. She and her dog have been remarkably quiet and
orderly ever since this expostulation. How long this agreeable calm will
last, Heaven above knows—I flatter myself, the exercise of
travelling has been of service to my health; a circumstance which
encourages me to-proceed in my projected expedition to the North. But I
must, in the mean time, for the benefit and amusement of my pupils,
explore the depths of this chaos; this misshapen and monstrous capital,
without head or tail, members or proportion.</p>
<p>Thomas was so insolent to my sister on the road, that I was obliged to
turn him off abruptly, betwixt Chippenham and Marlborough, where our coach
was overturned. The fellow was always sullen and selfish; but, if he
should return to the country, you may give him a character for honesty and
sobriety; and, provided he behaves with proper respect to the family, let
him have a couple of guineas in the name of</p>
<p>Yours always, MATT. BRAMBLE LONDON, May 20.</p>
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