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the tone of an educated and reflecting man. It is curious to read, in this work, of great men going after dinner to attend a council of state, or the business of their particular offices, or the bowling-green, or even the church; of an hour's sermon being of moderate length; of ladies painting their faces being a novelty; or of their receiving visits from gentlemen whilst dressing, after having just risen out of bed; of the female attendant of a lady of fashion travelling on a pillion behind one of the footmen, and the footmen riding with swords. The impression conveyed of the reign of Charles II. is, upon the whole, unexpected, leading to the conviction, that the dissoluteness of manners attributed to it affected a narrower circle of society than is usually supposed; and that even in the court there were many bright exceptions from it. Of the following extracts from the Diary, the first is given in the original spelling:

[The Great Fire in London.]

1666. 2d Sept. This fatal night about ten began that deplorable fire near Fish Streete in London.

3d. The fire continuing, after dinner I took coach with my wife and sonn and went to the Bank side in Southwark, where we beheld that dismal spectacle, the whole citty in dreadful flames near ye water side; all the houses from the Bridge, all Thames Street, and upwards towards Cheapeside, downe to the Three Cranes, were now consum'd.

The fire having continu'd all this night (if I may call that night which was light as day for 10 miles round about, after a dreadful manner), when conspiring with a fierce eastern wind in a very drie season, I went on foote to the same place, and saw the whole south part of ye citty burning from Cheapside to ye

Thames, and all along Cornehill (for it kindl'd back against ye wind as well as forward), Tower Streete, Fenchurch Streete, Gracious Streete, and so along to Bainard's Castle, and was now taking hold of St Paule's church, to which the scaffolds contributed exceedingly. The conflagration was so universal, and the people so astonish'd, that from the beginning, I know not by what despondency or fate, they hardly stirr'd to quench it, so that there was nothing heard or seene but crying out and lamentation, running about like distracted creatures, without at all attempting to save even their goods, such a strange consternation there was upon them, so as it burned both in breadth and length, the churches, publiq halls, exchange, hospitals, monuments, and ornaments, leaping after a prodigious manner from house to house and streete to streete, at greate distances one from ye other; for ye heate with a long set of faire and warme weather had even ignited the air, and prepar'd the materials to conceive the fire, which devour'd, after an incredible manner, houses, furniture, and everything. Here we saw the Thames cover'd with goods floating, all the barges and boates laden with what some had time and courage to save, as, on ye other, ye carts, &c. carrying out to the fields, which for many miles were strew'd with moveables of all sorts, and tents erecting to shelter both people and what goods they could get away. Oh the miserable and calamitous spectacle! such as haply the world had not seene the like since the foundation of it, nor be outdone till the universal conflagration. All the skie was of a fiery aspect, like the top of burning oven, the light seene above 40 miles round about for many nights. God grant my eyes may never behold the like, now seeing above 10,000 houses all in one flame: the noise, and cracking, and thunder of the impetuous flames, ye shrieking of women and children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, houses, and churches, was like an hideous storme, and the aire all about so hot and inflam'd, that at last one was not able to approach it, so that they were fore'd to stand still and let ye flames burn on, wch they did for neere two miles in length and one in bredth. The clouds of smoke were dismall, and reach'd upon computation neer 50 miles in length. Thus I left it this afternoone burning, a resemblance of Sodom or the last day. London was, but is no more!

4th. The burning still rages, and it was now gotten as far as the Inner Temple, all Fleete Streete, the Old Bailey, Ludgate Hill, Warwick Lane, Newgate, Paul's Chain, Watling Streete, now flaming, and most of it reduc'd to ashes; the stones of Paules flew like granados, ye mealting lead running downe the streetes in a streame, and the very pavements glowing with fiery rednesse, so as no horse nor man was able to tread on them, and the demolition had stopp'd all the passages, so that no help could be applied. The eastern wind still more impetuously drove the flames forward. Nothing but ye Almighty power of God was able to stop them, for vaine was ye help of man.

5th. It crossed towards Whitehall: Oh the confusion there was then at that court! It pleased his Maty to command me among ye rest to looke after the quenching of Fetter Lane end, to preserve if possible, that part of Holborn, whilst the rest of ye gentlemen tooke their several posts (for now they began to bestir themselves, and not till now, who hitherto had stood as men intoxicated, with their hands acrosse), and began to consider that nothing was likely to put a stop but the blowing up of so many houses, as might make a wider gap than any had yet ben made by the ordinary method of pulling them down with engines; this some stout seamen propos'd early enough to have sav'd near ye whole citty, but this some tenacious and avaritious men, aldermen, &c., would not permit, because their houses must have ben of the first. It was therefore now commanded to be practis'd, and my con

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The coale and wood wharfes and magazines of oyle, rosin, &c., did infinite mischeife, so as the invective which a little before I had dedicated to his Maty, and publish'd, giving warning what might probably be the issue of suffering those shops to be in the citty, was look'd on as a prophecy.

The poore inhabitants were dispers'd about St George's Fields, and Moorefields, as far as Highgate, and severall miles in circle, some under tents, some under miserable hutts and hovells, many without a rag or any necessary utensills, bed or board, who, from delicatenesse, riches, and easy accommodations in stately and well furnish'd houses, were now reduc'd to extreamest misery and poverty.

cern being particularly for the hospital of St Bartho-plate, &c., mealted; the exquisitely wrought Mercers lomew, neere Smithfield, where I had many wounded Chapell, the sumptuous Exchange, ye august fabriq and sick men, made me the more diligent to promote of Christ Church, all ye rest of the Companies Halls, it, nor was my care for the Savoy lesse. It now pleas'd sumptuous buildings, arches, all in dust; the founGod, by abating the wind, and by the industrie of ye taines dried up and ruin'd, whilst the very waters repeople, infusing a new spirit into them, that the fury main'd boiling; the vorago's of subterranean cellars, of it began sensibly to abate about noone, so as it wells, and dungeons, formerly warehouses, still burncame no farther than ye Temple westward, nor than ing in stench and dark clouds of smoke, so that in 5 ye entrance of Smithfield north. But continu'd all or 6 miles, in traversing about, I did not see one load this day and night so impetuous towards Cripplegate of timber unconsum'd, nor many stones but what were and the Tower, as made us all despaire; it also broke calcin'd white as snow. The people who now walk'd out againe in the Temple, but the courage of the mul- about ye ruines appear'd like men in a dismal desart, titude persisting, and many houses being blown up, or rather in some greate citty laid waste by a cruel such gaps and desolations were soone made, as with enemy; to which was added the stench that came the former three days' consumption, the back fire did from some poore creatures bodies, beds, &c. Sir Tho. not so vehemently urge upon the rest as formerly. Gressham's statute, tho' fallen from its nich in the There was yet no standing neere the burning and Royal Exchange, remain'd intire, when all those of glowing ruines by neere a furlong's space. ye kings since ye Conquest were broken to pieces, also the standard in Cornehill, and Q. Elizabeth's effigies, with some armes on Ludgate, continued with but little detriment, whilst the vast yron chaines of the citty streetes, hinges, barrs, and gates of prisons, were many of them mealted and reduc'd to cinders by ye vehement heate. I was not able to passe through any of the narrow streetes, but kept the widest; the ground and air, smoake and fiery vapour continu'd so intense, that my haire was almost sing'd, and my feete unsufferably sur-heated. The bie lanes and narrower streetes were quite fill'd up with rubbish, nor could one have knowne where he was, but by ye ruines of some church or hall, that had some remarkable tower or pinnacle remaining. I then went towards Islington and Highgate, where one might have seene 200,000 people of all ranks and degrees dispers'd and lying along by their heapes of what they could save from the fire, deploring their losse ; and tho' ready to perish for hunger and destitution, yet not asking one penny for relief, which to me appear'd a stranger sight than any I had yet beheld. His Majesty and Council indeede tooke all imaginable care for their reliefe, by proclamation for the country to come in and refresh them with provisions. In ye midst of all this calamity and confusion, there was, I know not how, an alarme begun that the French and Dutch, with whom we were now in hostility, were not onely landed, but even entering the citty. There was, in truth, some days before, greate suspicion of those 2 nations joining; and now, that they had ben the occasion of firing the towne. This report did so terrifie, that on a suddaine there was such an uproare and tumult, that they ran from their goods, and taking what weapons they could come at, they could not be stopp'd from falling on some of those nations, whom they casualy met, without sense or reason. The clamour and peril grew so excessive, that it made the whole court amaz'd, and they did with infinite paines and greate difficulty reduce and appease the people, sending troops of soldiers and guards to cause them to retire into ye fields againe, where they were watch'd all this night. I left them pretty quiet, and came home sufficiently weary and broken. Their spirits thus a little calmed, and the affright abated, they now began to repaire into ye suburbs about the citty, where such as had friends or opportunity got shelter for the present, to which his Matys proclamation also invited them.

In this calamitous condition, I return'd with a sad heart to my house, blessing and adoring the mercy of God to me and mine, who in the midst of all this ruine was like Lot, in my little Zoar, safe and sound. 7th. I went this morning on foote fm Whitehall as far as London Bridge, thro' the late Fleete Street, Ludgate Hill, by St Paules, Cheapeside, Exchange, Bishopgate, Aldersgate, and out to Moorefields, thence thro' Cornehill, &c., with extraordinary difficulty, clambering over heaps of yet smoking rubbish, and frequently mistaking where I was. The ground under my feete was so hot, that it even burnt the soles of my shoes. In the meantime his Maty got to the Tower by water, to demolish ye houses about the graff, which being built intirely about it, had they taken fire and attack'd the White Tower where the magazine of powder lay, would undoubtedly not only have beaten downe and destroy'd all ye bridge, but sunke and torne the vessells in ye river, and render'd ye demolition beyond all expression for several miles about the countrey.

At my return, I was infinitely concern'd to find that goodly church St Paules, now a sad ruine, and that beautiful portico (for structure comparable to any in Europe, as not long before repair'd by the king) now rent in pieces, flakes of vast stone split asunder, and nothing remaining intire but the inscription in the architrave, showing by whom it was built, which had not one letter of it defac'd. It was astonishing to see what immense stones the heat had in a manner calcin'd, so that all ye ornaments, columns, freezes, and projectures of massie Portland stone flew off, even to ye very roofe, where a sheet of lead covering a great space was totally mealted; the ruines of the vaulted roofe falling broke into St Faith's, which being filled with the magazines of bookes belonging to ye stationers, and carried thither for safety, they were all consum'd, burning for a weeke following. It is also observable, that the lead over ye altar at ye east end was untouch'd, and among the divers monuments, the body of one bishop remain'd intire. Thus lay in ashes that most venerable church, one of the most antient pieces of early piety in ye Christian world, besides neere 100 more. The lead, yron worke, bells,

[A Fortunate Courtier not Envied.]

Sept. 6 [1680].-I dined with Sir Stephen Fox, now one of the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury. This gentleman came first a poor boy from the quire of Salisbury, then was taken notice of by Bishop Duppa, and afterwards waited on my Lord Percy (brother to Algernon, Earl of Northumberland), who procured for him an inferior place amongst the clerks

of the kitchen and green cloth side, where he was found so humble, diligent, industrious, and prudent in his behaviour, that his majesty being in exile, and Mr Fox waiting, both the king and lords about him frequently employed him about their affairs; trusted him both with receiving and paying the little money they had. Returning with his majesty to England, after great wants and great sufferings, his majesty found him so honest and industrious, and withal so capable and ready, that being advanced from Clerk of the Kitchen to that of the Green Cloth, he procured to be paymaster to the whole army; and by his dexterity and punctual dealing, he obtained such credit among the bankers, that he was in a short time able to borrow vast sums of them upon any exigence. The continual turning thus of money, and the soldiers' moderate allowance to him for his keeping touch with them, did so enrich him, that he is believed to be worth at least £200,000, honestly gotten and unenvied, which is next to a miracle. With all this, he continues as humble and ready to do a courtesy as ever he was. He is generous, and lives very honourably; of a sweet nature, well spoken, well bred, and is so highly in his majesty's esteem, and so useful, that, being long since made a knight, he is also advanced to be one of the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury, and has the reversion of the Cofferer's place after Harry Brounker. He has married his eldest daughter to my Lord Cornwallis, and gave her £12,000, and restored that entangled family besides. He matched his eldest son to Mrs Trollope, who brings with her (besides a great sum) near, if not altogether, £2000 per annum. Sir Stephen's lady, an excellent woman, is sister to Mr Whittle, one of the king's chirurgeons. In a word, never was man more fortunate than Sir Stephen; he is a handsome person, virtuous, and very religious.*

which she arrived to that perfection, that of the scholars of those famous two masters, Signors Pietro and Bartholomeo, she was esteemed the best; for the sweetness of her voice and management of it added such an agreeableness to her countenance, without any constraint or concern, that when she sung, it was as charming to the eye as to the ear; this I rather note, because it was a universal remark, and for which so many noble and judicious persons in music desired to hear her, the last being at Lord Arundel of Wardour's. What shall I say, or rather not say, of the cheerfulness and agreeableness of her humour? Condescending to the meanest servant in the family, or others, she still kept up respect, without the least pride. She would often read to them, examine, instruct, and pray with them if they were sick, so as she was exceedingly beloved of everybody. Piety was so prevalent an ingredient in her constitution (as I may say), that even among equals and superiors, she no sooner became intimately acquainted, but she would endeavour to improve them by insinuating something of religious, and that tended to bring them to a love of devotion. She had one or two confidants, with whom she used to pass whole days in fasting, reading, and prayers, especially before the monthly communion and other solemn occasions. She abhorred flattery, and though she had abundance of wit, the raillery was so innocent and ingenious, that it was most agreeable; she sometimes would see a play, but, since the stage grew licentious, expressed herself weary of them; and the time spent at the theatre was an unaccountable vanity. She never played at cards without extreme importunity, and for the company; but this was so very seldom, that I cannot number it among anything she could name a fault. No one could read prose or verse better or with more judgment; and, as she read, so she writ, not only most correct orthography, [but] with that maturity of judgment and exactness of the periods, choice of exMarch 10.-She received the blessed sacrament; hers have astonished me and others to whom she has pressions, and familiarity of style, that some letters of after which, disposing herself to suffer what God occasionally written. She had a talent of rehearsing should determine to inflict, she bore the remainder of any comical part or poem, as, to them she might be her sickness with extraordinary patience and plety, decently free with, was more pleasing than heard on and more than ordinary resignation and blessed frame the theatre. She danced with the greatest grace I of mind. She died the 14th, to our unspeakable sorrow and affliction; and not to ours only, but that of Monsieur Isaac; but she seldom showed that perfechave ever seen, and so would her master say, who was all who knew her, who were many of the best quality, tion, save in gracefulness of her carriage, which was greatest and most virtuous persons. The justness of with an air of sprightly modesty not easily to be deher stature, person, comeliness of countenance, grace-scribed. Nothing affected, but natural and easy in fulness of motion, unaffected though more than ordi- her deportment as in her discourse, which was always narily beautiful, were the least of her ornaments, com- material, not trifling, and to which the extraordinary pared with those of her mind. Of early piety, singu-sweetness of her tone, even in familiar speaking, was larly religious, spending a part of every day in private very charmning. Nothing was so pretty as her descenddevotion, reading, and other virtuous exercises; she ing to play with little children, whom she would caress had collected and written out many of the most useand humour with great delight. But she was most ful and judicious periods of the books she read in a affected to be with grave and sober men, of whom she kind of common-place, as out of Dr Hammond on might learn something and improve herself. I have the New Testament, and most of the best practical been assisted by her in reading and praying by me; treatises. She had read and digested a considerable comprehensive of uncommon notions, curious of knowdeal of history and of places [geography]. The French ing everything to some excess, had I not sometimes tongue was as familiar to her as English; she under-repressed it. Nothing was so delightful to her as to stood Italian, and was able to render a laudable account of what she read and observed, to which assisted a most faithful memory and discernment; and she did make very prudent and discreet reflections upon what she had observed of the conversations among which she had at any time been, which being continually of persons of the best quality, she thereby improved. She had an excellent voice, to which she played a thorough base on the harpsichord, in both * Sir Stephen Fox was the progenitor of the noble house of Holland, so remarkable for the line of distinguished statesmen which it has given to England.

[Evelyn's Account of his Daughter Mary.+]

This young lady died of small-pox, March 1685, in her twentieth year.

go into my study, where she would willingly have dance of history, and all the best poets; even Terence, spent whole days, for, as I said, she had read abunPlautus, Homer, Virgil, Horace, Ovid; all the best romances and modern poems; she could compose happily, as in the Mundus Muliebris, wherein is an enumeration of the immense variety of the modes and trifles to the virtues that adorned her soul; she was ornaments belonging to her sex ; but all these are vain sincerely religious, most dutiful to her parents, whom she loved with an affection tempered with great esteem, so as we were easy and free, and never were so well pleased as when she was with us, nor needed we other conversation. She was kind to her sisters, and

was still improving them by her constant course of piety. Oh dear, sweet, and desirable child! how shall I part with all this goodness and virtue without the bitterness of sorrow and reluctancy of a tender parent? Thy affection, duty, and love to me, was that of a friend as well as a child. Nor less dear to thy mother, whose example and tender care of thee was unparalleled; nor was thy return to her less conspicuous. Oh, how she mourns thy loss! how desolate hast thou left us! to the grave shall we both carry thy memory.

[Fashions in Dress.]

[From Tyrannus, or the Mode.'*]

'Twas a witty expression of Malvezzi, I vestimenti negli animali sono molto sicuri segni della loro natura; negli huomini del lor ceruello,-garments (says he) in animals are infallible signs of their nature; in men, of their understanding. Though I would not judge of the monk by the hood he wears, or celebrate the humour of Julian's court, where the philosophic mantle made all his officers appear like so many conjurors, 'tis worth the observing yet, that the people of Rome left off the toga, an ancient and noble garment, with their power, and that the vicissitude of their habit was little better than a presage of that of their fortune; for the military saga, differencing them from their slaves, was no small indication of the declining of their courage, which shortly followed. And I am of opinion that when once we shall see the Venetian senate quit the gravity of their vests, the state itself will not long subsist without some considerable alteration. I am of opinion that the Swiss had not been now a nation but for keeping to their prodigious breeches.

*

Be it excusable in the French to alter and impose the mode on others, 'tis no less a weakness and a shame in the rest of the world, who have no dependence on them, to admit them, at least to that degree of levity as to turn into all their shapes without discrimination; so as when the freak takes our Monsieurs to appear like so many farces or Jack Puddings on the stage, all the world should alter shape, and play the pantomimes with them.

This

Methinks a French tailor, with his ell in his hand, looks the enchantress Circe over the companions of Ulysses, and changes them into as many forms. One while we are made to be so loose in our clothes * and by and by appear like so many malefactors sewed up in sacks, as of old they were wont to treat a parricide, with a dog, an ape, and a serpent. Now, we are all twist, and at a distance look like a pair of tongs, and anon stuffed out behind like a Dutchman. gallant goes so pinched in the waist, as if he were prepared for the question of the fiery plate in Turkey; and that so loose in the middle, as if he would turn insect, or drop in two; now, the short waists and shirts in Pye-court is the mode; then the wide hose, or a man in coats again. * *Methinks we should learn to handle distaff too: Hercules did so when he courted Omphale; and those who sacrificed to Ceres put on the petticoat with much confidence. *

*

It was a fine silken thing which I spied walking tother day through Westminster Hall, that had as much ribbon about him as would have plundered

as a porter bear it only, was not easily to be resolved.

*

For my part, I profess that I delight in a cheerful gaiety, affect and cultivate variety. The universe itself were not beautiful to me without it; but as that is in constant and uniform succession in the natural, where men do not disturb it, so would I have it also in the artificial. If the kings of Mexico changed four times a-day, it was but an upper vest, which they were used to honour some meritorious servant with. Let men change their habits as oft as they please, so the change be for the better. I would have a summer habit and a winter; for the spring and for the autumn. Something I would indulge to youth; something to age and humour. But what have we to do with these foreign butterflies? In God's name, let the change be our own, not borrowed of others; for why should I dance after a Monsieur's flageolet, that have a set of English viols for my concert? We need no French inventions for the stage, or for the back.

SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE.

the reigns of Charles II. and James VII., great notoSIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE (1616-1704) enjoyed, in riety as an occasional political writer. During the rebellion he had fought as a royalist soldier: being captured by the parliamentary army, he was tried and condemned to die, and lay in prison almost four years, constantly expecting to be led forth to execution. He was at length set free, and lived in almost total obscurity till the Restoration, when he was rewarded with the invidious post of licenser of the press. From this time, till a few years before his death, he was constantly occupied in the editing

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Sir Roger L'Estrange.

six shops, and set up twenty country pedlars. All of newspapers and writing of pamphlets, mostly his body was dressed like a May-pole, or a Tom-a-in behalf of the court, from which he at last reBedlam's cap. A frigate newly rigged kept not half such a clatter in a storm, as this puppet's streamers did when the wind was in his shrouds; the motion was wonderful to behold, and the well-chosen colours were red, orange, blue, and well gummed satin, which argued a happy fancy; but so was our gallant overcharged, [that] whether he did wear this garment, or

A rare pamphlet by Evelyn.

ceived the honour of knighthood. He is generally considered to have been the first writer who sold his services in defence of any measure, good or bad. As a controversialist, he was bold, lively, and vigorous, but coarse, impudent, abusive, and by no means a scrupulous regarder of truth. He is known also as a translator, having produced versions of Æsop's Fables, Seneca's Morals, Cicero's Offices, Erasmus's

Colloquies, Quevedo's Visions, and the works of
Josephus. Sir Roger was so anxious to accommo-
date his style to the taste of the common people, that
few of his works could now be read with any plea-
sure. The class whom he addressed were only begin-
ning to be readers, and as yet relished nothing but
the meanest ideas, presented in the meanest language.
What immediately follows is a chapter of his life of
Æsop, prefixed to the translation of the Fables.

Esop's Invention to bring his Mistress back again to her
Husband after she had left him.

The wife of Xanthus was well born and wealthy, but so proud and domineering withal, as if her for

lowing of execrations and revenge against the accursed bloody papists. It was imputed at first, and in the general, to the principles of the religion; and a Roman Catholic and a regicide were made one and the same thing. Nay, it was a saying frequent in some of our great and holy mouths, that they were confident there was not so much as one soul of the whole party, within his majesty's dominions, that was not either an actor in this plot, or a friend to't. In this heat, they fell to picking up of priests and Jesuits as fast as they could catch 'em, and so went on to consult their oracles the witnesses (with all formalities of sifting and examining) upon the particulars of place, time, manner, persons, &c.; while Westminster Hall and the Court of Requests were kept warm, and ringing still of new men tune and her extraction had entitled her to the come in, corroborating proofs, and further discoveries, breeches. She was horribly bold, meddling and ex- &c. Under this train and method of reasoning, the pensive (as that sort of women commonly are), easily managers advanced, decently enough, to the finding put off the hooks, and monstrous hard to be pleased out of what they themselves had laid and concerted again; perpetually chattering at her husband, and beforehand; and, to give the devil his due, the whole upon all occasions of controversy threatening him to story was but a farce of so many parts, and the noisy be gone. It came to this at last, that Xanthus's informations no more than a lesson that they had much stock of patience being quite spent, he took up a ado to go through with, even with the help of diligent resolution of going another way to work with her, and careful tutors, and of many and many a prompter, and of trying a course of severity, since there was to bring them off at a dead lift. But popery was so nothing to be done with her by kindness. But this dreadful a thing, and the danger of the king's life and experiment, instead of mending the matter, made it of the Protestant religion so astonishing a surprise, worse; for, upon harder usage, the woman grew des- that people were almost bound in duty to be inconsiperate, and went away from him in earnest. She derate and outrageous upon 't; and loyalty itself was as bad, 'tis true, as bad might well be, and yet would have looked a little cold and indifferent if it Xanthus had a kind of hankering for her still; beside had not been intemperate; insomuch that zeal, fiercethat, there was matter of interest in the case; and a ness, and jealousy were never more excusable than pestilent tongue she had, that the poor husband upon this occasion. And now, having excellent matter dreaded above all things under the sun. But the to work upon, and the passions of the people already man was willing, however, to make the best of a bad disposed for violence and tumult, there needed no game, and so his wits and his friends were set at more than blowing the coal of Oates's narrative, to work, in the fairest manner that might be, to get her put all into a flame: and in the mean time, all arts home again. But there was no good to be done in it, and accidents were improved, as well toward the enit seems; and Xanthus was so visibly out of humour tertainment of the humour, as to the kindling of it. upon it, that Esop in pure pity bethought himself The people were first haired out of their senses with immediately how to comfort him. Come, master,' tales and jelousies, and then made judges of the says he, pluck up a good heart, for I have a project danger, and consequently of the remedy; which upon in my noddle, that shall bring my mistress to you the main, and briefly, came to no more than this: The back again, with as good a will as ever she went from plot was laid all over the three kingdoms; France, you.' What does my sop, but away immediately Spain, and Portugal, taxed their quotas to't; we were to the market among the butchers, poulterers, fish- all to be burnt in our beds, and rise with our throats mongers, confectioners, &c., for the best of everything cut; and no way in the world but exclusion and that was in season. Nay, he takes private people in union to help us. The fancy of this exclusion spread his way too, and chops into the very house of his mis-immediately, like a gangrene, over the whole body of tress's relations, as by mistake. This way of proceeding set the whole town agog to know the meaning of all this bustle; and sop innocently told everybody that his master's wife was run away from him, and he had married another; his friends up and down were all invited to come and make merry with him, and this was to be the wedding feast. The news flew like lightning, and happy were they that could carry the first tidings of it to the run-away lady (for everybody knew Æsop to be a servant in that family). It gathered in the rolling, as all other stories do in the telling, especially where women's tongues and passions have the spreading of them. The wife, that was in her nature violent and unsteady, ordered her chariot to be made ready immediately, and away she posts back to her husband, falls upon him with outrages of looks and language; and after the easing of her mind a little, 'No, Xanthus,' says she, do not you flatter yourself with the hopes of enjoying another woman while I am alive.' Xanthus looked upon this as one of Æsop's masterpieces; and for that bout all was well again betwixt master and mistress.

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[The Popish Plot.]

At the first opening of this plot, almost all people's hearts took fire at it, and nothing was heard but the bel

the monarchy; and no saving the life of his majesty without cutting off every limb of the prerogative: the device of union passed insensibly into a league of conspiracy; and, instead of uniting protestants against papists, concluded in an association of subjects against their sovereign, confounding policy with religion.

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I shall now pass some necessary reflections upon the whole. There never was, perhaps, since the creation of the world, so much confusion wrought by so mean, so scandalous, so ridiculous instruments; lousy, greasy rogues, to be taken into the hands of princes; porters, and the coarsest of letter-carriers, to be made the confidants of public ministers; starving indigent varlets, that had not credit in the world for a Brumigen groat, and lived upon the common charity of the basket, to be a matter of seven hundred pound out of pocket in his majesty's service, as Oates and Bedloe pretended; sots, to find treason in words, at length in common post-letters. The four ruffians to have but twenty pound a man for murdering the king by assault, and Sir George Wakeman fifteen thousand pound only for poisoning him, without running the fifteenth part of the risk; nay, and Bedloe fifteen hundred pound for

*The exclusion of the heir-presumptive, the Duke of York, who was a Catholic, from the throne.-Ed.

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