Thus far the intellect of an organized being may reason safely on the mechanical relations of inorganic masses, because an unequal balance of forces produces their motions, and from combined motions result the phenomena; but, in the principle of organic life, and in the duration and final purpose of the powers of vegetables and animals, there are mysteries which baffle the penetration of limited observation and reason. I behold VEGETABLES with roots fixed in the ground, and through them raising fluids mechanically; but my understanding is overpowered with unsatisfied wonder, when I consider the animating principle of the meanest vegetable, which constitutes a selfish individuality, and enables it to give new qualities to those fluids by peculiar secretions, and to appropriate them to its own nourishment and growth. My ambition after wisdom is humbled in the dust, whenever I inquire how the first germ of every species came into existence; whenever I consider the details of the varied powers in the energizing agency which originates each successive germ; and the independent, but coincident, passive receptacle which nurtures those germs, and, correcting aberrations, secures the continuity of every species—both acting as joint secondary causes; and whenever I reflect on the growth, maturity, beauty, and variety, of the vegetable kingdom! On these several subjects, my mind renders the profoundest homage to the MYSTERIOUS POWER which created and continues such miracles; and, being unable to reason upon them from the analogy of other experience, I am forced to refer such sublime results to agency not mechanical; or, if in any sense mechanical, so arranged and so moved as to exceed my means of conception.

Looking once more upon the volume of nature which lay before me, I behold a superior class of organized beings, each individual of which, constituting an independent microcosm, is qualified to move from place to place, by bodily adaptation and nervous sensibility. This kingdom of LOCO-MOTIVE BEINGS ascends, in gradations of power and intellect, from the hydatid to the sympathetic and benevolent philosopher; and rises in the scale of being as much above the organization of vegetables, as vegetables themselves are superior to the inorganic particles in which they flourish. That they may subsist while they move, their roots, instead of being fixed in the soil, are turned within a cavity, or receptacle, called the stomach, into which, appropriate soil, or aliment, is introduced by the industry of the creature; and, that their powers of loco-motion may be exerted with safety and advantage, they are provided with senses for smelling, tasting, feeling, and seeing their food; and with a power of hearing dangers which they cannot see. They are, for the same purpose, enabled to profit by experience in powers of association, of reasoning by analogy, and of willing according to their judgments; and they are governed by an habitual desire to associate in species, accompanied by moral feelings, resulting from obligations of mutual deference and convenience. Here again, humanly speaking, we have a series of natural miracles—a permanent connexion between external objects and the sensations, reasoning, and conduct of the organized being. We trace the animal frame to two constituent parts—the one mechanical, the other sensitive; the mechanical consisting of bones, skin, stomach, blood-vessels, glands, and intestines, provided with muscles and sinews for voluntary motion; and the sensitive, consisting of nerves and brain, which direct the motions by the feelings of the organs of sense—the results of the union constituting creatures whose essence is perception, springing from a system of brain and nerves, which, being nourished by the energies of circulating fluids, moved by a contrivance of muscles, and strengthened by an apparatus of bones, produce all those varieties of feeling, durable, moving, and powerful beings, whose functions continue as long as the original expansive powers balance the unceasing inertia of their materials. But, of that SUBTLE PRINCIPLE which distinguishes organic life from inert matter—of that principle of individuality which generates the passion of self-love, and leads each individual to preserve and sustain its own existence—of that principle which gives peculiar powers of growth, and maturity, to germs of vegetables and animals—and of that principle which, being stopped, suspended, or destroyed, in the meanest or greatest of them, produces the awful difference between the living and the dead—we have no knowledge, and we seem incapable of acquiring any, by the limited powers of our senses. Whether this principle of vitality is a principle of its own kind, imparted from parent plants and animals to their germs; or whether it is the result of the totality of the being, like the centre of a sphere,—are questions which must perhaps for ever remain undetermined by the reasoning powers of man.

The creature of an hour, whose chief care it is to live and indulge his self-love, who cannot see without light, nor distinctly above a few inches from the eye, is wholly incompetent to determine those questions which have so long agitated philosophy; as, Whether the phenomena of the creation could be made to exist without action and re-action, and without space?—Whether, consequently, there are THREE Eternals, or ONE Eternal?—Whether the SUPREME INTELLIGENCE, MATTER void of form, and SPACE containing it, were all eternal—or whether the supreme intelligence alone was eternal, and matter and space created?—Whether the supreme intelligence has only been exerted proximately or remotely on inorganic matter; space being the necessary medium of creation, and organization being the result?—Whether the globe of the earth, in form, is eternal, or, according to Herschel, the effect of "a clustering power" in the matter of space, beginning and ending, according to the general analogy of organized beings?—Whether the earth was a comet, the ellipticality of whose orbit has been reduced; and, if so, what was the origin of the comet?—How the secondary mountains were liquefied—whether by fire or by water—and what were the then relations of the earth to the sun?—How and when that liquefaction ceased; and how, and when, and in what order of time, the several organizations arose upon them?—How those organizations, at least those now existing, received the powers of secondary causes for continuing their kind?—How every species now lives, and grows, and maintains an eternal succession of personal identities?—How these things were before we were, and how they now are on every side of us—are topics which have made so much learning ridiculous, that, if I were to discuss them, in the best forms prescribed by the schools, I might but imitate in folly the crawling myriads, who luxuriate for an hour on a ripening peach; and who, like ourselves, may be led by their vanity to discuss questions in regard to the eternity, and other attributes, of the prodigious globe, which they have inherited from their remote ancestry, and of which the early history is lost in the obscure traditions of their countless generations!

Without presuming, however, to argue on premises which finite creatures cannot justly estimate, we may safely infer, in regard to the world in which we are placed, that all things which DO EXIST, owe their existence to their COMPATIBILITY with other existences; to the necessary FITNESS of all existing things; and to the HARMONY which is essential to the existence of any thing in the form and mode in which it does exist: for, without reciprocal COMPATIBILITY, without individual FITNESS, and without universal HARMONY, nothing could CONTINUE TO EXIST which DOES EXIST; and, therefore, what does exist, is for the time NECESSARILY COMPATIBLE with other existences, FIT or NOT INCOMPATIBLE, and in HARMONY with the whole of CO-EXISTENT BEING. Every organized EXISTENCE affords, therefore, indubitable evidence of FINAL CAUSES or PURPOSES, competent to produce and sustain it; of certain relations of FITNESS to other beings; of COMPATIBILITY with other existences; and of HARMONY in regard to the whole. And every case of DESTRUCTION affords evidence, that certain FINAL CAUSES have become unequal to their usual office; that the being is UNFIT to exist simultaneously with some other beings; that its existence is INCOMPATIBLE with certain circumstances, or that it is contrary to the general HARMONY of co-existent being. May not the fifty thousand species of beings now discoverable, be all the species whose existences have continued to be fit, compatible, and harmonious? May not the known extinction of many species be received as evidence, therefore, of the gradual decay of the powers which sustain organized being on our planet? May not the extinction of one species render the existence of others more unfit, by diminishing the number of final causes? And, may not the successive breaking or wearing out of these links of final causes ultimately lead to the end of all organized being, or to what is commonly called, THE END OF OUR WORLD?

As I approached a sequestered mansion-house, and some other buildings, which together bear the name of Brick-stables, I crossed a corner of the meadow towards an angle formed by a rude inlet of the Thames, which was running smoothly towards the sea at the pace of four miles an hour. The tide unites here with the ordinary current, and, running a few miles above this place, exhibits twice a day the finely-reduced edge of that physical balance-wheel or oscillating fluid-pendulum which creates the earth's centrifugal power, varies the centre of its forces, and holds in equilibrium that delicately adjusted pressure of the medium of space, which pressure, without such balance, would, by its clustering power, drive together the isolated masses of suns and planets.—In viewing the beautiful process of Nature, presented by a majestic river, we cease to wonder that priestcraft has often succeeded in teaching nations to consider rivers as of divine origin, and as living emblems of Omnipotence. Ignorance, whose constant error it is to look only to the last term of every series of causes, and which charges Impiety on all who venture to ascend one term higher, and Atheism on all who dare to explore several terms (though every series implies a first term), would easily be persuaded by a crafty priesthood to consider a beneficent river as a tangible branch of the Godhead. But we now know that the waters which flow down a river, are but a portion of the rains and snows which, having fallen near its source, are returning to the ocean, there to rise again and re-perform the same circle of vapours, clouds, rains, and rivers. What a process of fertilization, and how still more luxuriant would have been this vicinity, if man had not levelled the trees and carried away the crops of vegetation! What a place of shelter would thus have been afforded to tribes of amphibiae, whose accumulated remains often surprise geologists, though necessarily consequent on the fall of crops of vegetation on each other, near undisturbed banks of rivers. Happily, in Britain, our coal-pits, or mineralized forests, have supplied the place of our living woods; or man, regardless of the fitness of all the parts to the perfection of every natural result, might here, as in other long-peopled countries, ignorantly have thwarted the course of Nature by cutting down the timber, which, acting on the electricity of the clouds, affects their density, and causes them to fall in fertilizing showers. Such has been the fate of all the countries famous in antiquity. Persia, Syria, Arabia, parts of Turkey, and the Barbary coast, have been rendered arid deserts by this inadvertency. The clouds from the Western Ocean would long since have passed over England without disturbance from the conducting powers of leaves of trees, or blades of grass, if our coal-works had not saved our natural conductors; while this Thames, the agent of so much abundance and so much wealth, might, in that case, have become a shallow brook, like the once equally famed Jordan, Granicus, or Ilyssus.

The dingy atmosphere of London smoke, which I had measured so accurately on Putney Heath, presented itself again over the woods of Chiswick Grove, reminding me of the cares of the busy world, and producing a painful contrast to the tranquillity of nature, to the silently gliding Thames, and to the unimpassioned simplicity of the vegetable creation. Man, I reflected, brings upon himself a thousand calamities as consequences of his artifices and pride, and then, overlooking his own follies, gravely investigates the origin of what he calls EVIL:—He compromises every natural pleasure, to acquire fame among transient beings, who forget him nightly in sleep, and eternally in death; and seeks to render his name celebrated among posterity, though it has no identity with his person, and though posterity and himself can have no contemporaneous feeling—HE deprives himself, and all around him, of every passing enjoyment, to accumulate wealth, that he may purchase other men's labour, in the vain hope of adding their happiness to his own—HE omits to make effective laws to protect the poor against the oppressions of the rich, and then wears out his existence under the fear of becoming poor, and being the victim of his own neglect and injustice—HE arms himself with murderous weapons, and on the lightest instigations practises murder as a science, follows this science as a regular profession, and honours its chiefs above benefactors and philosophers, in proportion to the quantity of blood they have shed, or the mischiefs they have perpetrated—HE disguises the most worthless of the people in showy liveries, teaches them the use of destructive weapons, and then excites them to murder men whom they never saw, by the fear of being killed if they will not kill, or of being shot for cowardice—HE revels in luxury and gluttony, and then complains of the diseases which result from repletion—HE tries in all things to counteract, or improve, the provisions of nature, and then afflicts himself at his disappointments—HE multiplies the chances against his own health and life, by his numerous artifices, and then wonders at the frequency of their fatal results—HE shuts his eyes against the volume of truth, presented by nature, and, vainly considering that all was made for him, founds on this false assumption various doubts in regard to the justice of eternal causation—HE interdicts the enjoyments of all other creatures, and, regarding the world as his property, in mere wantonness destroys myriads on whom have been lavished beauties and perfections—HE is the selfish and merciless tyrant of all animated nature, no considerations of pity or sympathy restraining, or even qualifying, his antipathies, his caprices, or his gluttonies; while, more unhappy than his victims, he is constantly arraigning that system in which he is the chief cause of more misery than all other causes joined together—HE forgets, that to live and let live, is a maxim of universal justice, extending not only to all man's relations with his fellow-men, but to inferior creatures, to whom his moral obligations are the greater, because their lives and happiness are often within his power—HE is the patient of the unalterable progress of universal causation, yet makes a difficulty of submitting to the impartial distribution of the provisions which sustain all other beings—HE afflicts himself that he cannot live for ever, though he sees all organized being decay around him, and though his forefathers have successively died to make room for him—HE repines at the thought of losing that life, the use of which he so often perverts; and, though he began to exist but yesterday, thinks the world was made for him, and that he ought to continue to enjoy it for ever—HE sees no benevolence in the scheme of Nature which provides eternal youth to partake of the pleasures of existence; and which, destroying those pleasures by satiety of enjoyment, produces the blunted feelings of disease and old age—HE mars all his perceptions of well-being by anticipating the cessation of his vital functions, though, before that event, he necessarily ceases to be conscious or to suffer—HE seeks indulgences unprovided for by the course of Nature, and then anxiously employs himself in endeavouring to cheat others of the labour requisite to procure them—HE desires to govern others, but, regardless of their dependence on his benevolence, is commonly gratified in displaying the power entrusted to him, by a tyrannical abuse of it—HE professes to love wisdom, yet in all his establishments for promoting it he sets up false standards of truth; and persecutes, even with religious intolerance, all attempts to swerve from them—HE makes laws, which, in the hands of mercenary lawyers, serve as snares to unwary poverty, but as shields to crafty wealth—HE renders justice unattainable by its costliness; and personal rights uncertain by the intricacy and fickleness of legal decisions—HE possesses means of diffusing knowledge, in the sublime art of Printing; but, by suffering wealth and power to corrupt its agents, he has allowed it to become subservient to the gratification of personal malignity and political turpitude—HE acknowledges the importance of educating youth, yet teaches them any thing rather than their social duties in the political state in which they live—HE adopts the customs of barbarous ages as precedents of practice, and founds on them codes for the government of enlightened nations—in a word, HE makes false and imperfect estimates of his own being, of his duties to his fellow-beings, and of his relations to all being; and then passes his days in questioning the providence of Nature, in ascribing Evil to supernatural causes, and in feverish expectations of results contrary to the necessary harmony of the world!

I was thus employed in drawing a species of Indictment against the errors, follies, selfishness, and vices of my fellow-men, while I passed along a pleasant foot-path, which conducted me from Brick-stables to the carriage-road from Mortlake to Kew. On arriving at the stile, I saw a colony of the people called Gipsies, and, gratified at falling in with them, I seated myself upon it, and, hailing the eldest of the men in terms of civility, he approached me courteously; and I promised myself, from the interview, a fund of information relative to the economy of those people.

Policy so singular, manners so different, and passions so varied, have for so many ages characterized the race of Gipsies, that the incident of meeting with one of their little camps agreeably roused me from that reverie on Matter and its modifications, into which I had fallen. What can be more strongly marked than the gipsy physiognomy? Their lively jet-black eyes—their small features—their tawny skins—their small bones—and their shrill voices, bespeak them to be a distinct tribe of the human race, as different from the English nation as the Chinese, the North-American Indians, or the woolly-headed Africans. They seem, in truth, as different in their bodies, and in their instincts, from the inhabitants of England and other countries in which they live, as the spaniel from the greyhound, or as the cart-horse from the Arabian. Our instincts, propensities, or fit and necessary habits, seem to lead us, like the ant, to lay up stores; theirs, like the grasshopper, to depend on the daily bounties of nature;—we, with the habits of the beaver, build fixed habitations; and they, like the deer, range from pasture to pasture;—we, with an instinct all our own, cultivate arts; they content themselves with picking up our superfluities;—we make laws and arrange governments; they know no laws but those of personal convenience, and no government beyond that of muscular force growing out of the habits of seniority;—and we cherish passions of ambition and domination, consequent on our other arrangements, to which they are utter strangers. Thus, we indulge our propensities, and they indulge theirs. Which are the happiest beings, might be made a question—but I am led to decide in favour of the arts and comforts of civilized life. These people appear to possess the natural feebleness and delicacy of man, without the power of shielding themselves from the accidents of nature. Their darling object appears to be, to enjoy practical personal liberty. They possess less, and they enjoy fewer, luxuries than others; but they escape slavery in all the Protean shapes by which it ensnares the rest of mankind. They do not act as menial servants, and obey the caprice of a master; nor do they work as labourers for a tythe of the advantages of their industry. They do not, as tenants of land, pay half the produce in rentals; nor do they, as anxious traders, pay half their profits to usurers or capitalists. They are not liable to the conscriptions of a militia-ballot; nor to be dragged from their families by the frightful tyranny of the impress. And, in fine, they are not compelled to contribute a large portion of their earnings in taxes to support folly or prodigality; nor are they condemned to pay, through their successive generations, the interest of money lent for the hire of destroyers of men, who were, like themselves, guilty only of resolving to be free. Yet, if they are exempt from the torture of civilized man, of having the comforts he enjoys torn from him by the sophistry of law, or the tyranny of governments; they suffer from hour to hour the torments of want, and the apprehension of not meeting with renewed supplies. If they are gayer than civilized man, it is because their wants are fewer, and therefore fewer of them are unsatisfied; and probably the gaiety which they assume before strangers may result from their constitution, which, under the same circumstances, may render them gayer than others, just as a Frenchman is gayer than an Englishman, or an Englishman than a North-American Indian. In a word, in looking upon this race, and upon the other recorded varieties of our species, from the woolly-headed African to the long-haired Asiatic, from the blue-eyed and white-haired Goth to the black-eyed and black-haired North American, and from the gigantic Patagonian to the dwarfish Laplander; we are led to believe, that the human species must radically have been as various as any other species of animated beings; and it seems as unphilosophical as impious, to limit the powers of creation to pairs of one kind, and to ascribe their actual varieties to the operations of chance.

As I proceeded from the stile towards their tents, the apparent chief of the gang advanced with a firm step, holding a large knife in one hand, and some eatables in the other; and he made many flourishes with his knife, seemingly in the hope of intimidating me, if I proved an enemy. I civilly begged his pardon for intruding upon their camp, and assured him that mine was a mere visit of curiosity; that I was not a justice of the peace, and had no desire to disturb them. He then told me I was very welcome, and I advanced to their chief tent. "But," said I to this man, "you have not the gipsy colour and features?" "O, no," he replied, "I am no gipsy—the people call us all gipsies—but I am by trade a tinker—I live in —— Court, Shoreditch, in the winter; and during the summer I travel the country, and get my livelihood by my trade." Looking at others of the group, who were sitting at the entrance of two tents, I traced two sets of features among them, one plainly English, and the other evidently Gipsy; and, mentioning this circumstance, he replied, "O yes—though I am not a gipsy, my wife is, and so is her old mother there—they are true gipsies, every inch of 'em. This man, my wife's brother, is a gipsy—we are useful to one another in this way of life—and the old woman there is as knowing a gipsy as any in the country, and can tell your fortune, sir, if you like to hear it."—His character of the elder gipsy, who resembled Munden's witch in Macbeth, produced considerable mirth in the whole party; and the old woman, who was engaged in smoking her pipe, took it from her mouth, and said: "I ayn't told so many gentlefolks their fortunes to no purpose, and I'll tell your's, sir, if you'll give me something to fill my pipe." I smiled, and told her I thanked her; but, as I was not in love, I felt no anxiety to hear my fortune.—"Aye, sir," said she, "many's the lover I've made happy, and many's the couple that I've brought together."—Recollecting Farquhar's incident in the Recruiting Officer, I remarked:—"You tell the ladies what their lovers hire you to tell them, I suppose—and the gentlemen what the ladies request you to tell them?"—"Why, yes," said she, "something like it;" and laughing—"aye, sir, I see you're in the secret!"—"And then you touch golden fees, I suppose?"—"Yes," interrupted the first man, "I've known her get five or six guineas on a wedding-day, part from the lady, and part from the gentleman; and she never wants a shilling, and a meal's victuals, when she passes many houses that I could name."—"True," exclaimed the old beldame, "that's all true; and I've made many fine folks happy in my time, and so did my mother before me—she was known far and near!" I had no occasion to remark on the silly dupes on whom they practised these impositions, for the whole party expressed their sentiments by bursts of laughter while the old woman was speaking: but I could not help exclaiming, that I thought she ought to make the fools pay well who gave credit to her prophecies.—"Aye," said she, "I see you don't believe in our art—but we tell all by the hand!"—I felt of course that the hand was as good a key to determine the order of probable events as planets, cards, or tea-sediments; and therefore, concluding that gipsies, like astrologers and other prophets, are imposed on by the doctrine of chances, I dropped the conversation; but felt it my duty to give the old woman a shilling to buy some tobacco for her pipe.

I now surveyed the entire party, and in three tents found there were three men, two women, besides the old woman, four girls, and two boys. One of the tents was placed at a little distance from the others, and in that resided a young married couple.—"And pray," said I, "where and how do you marry?"—"Why," said the first man, "we marry like other folks—they were married at Shoreditch Church—I was married to my old woman here at Hammersmith Church—and my brother-in-law here was married at Acton Church."—"Then," said I, "you call yourselves Christians?"—At this question they all laughed; and the first man said, that, "If it depends on our going to church, we can't say much about it; but, as we do nobody any harm, and work for our living, some in one way, and some in another, we suppose we are as good Christians as many other folks."

While this conversation passed, I heard them speaking to each other in a language somewhat resembling Irish, but it had tones more shrill; and the first man, notwithstanding his English physiognomy, as well as the others, spoke with a foreign accent, not unlike that of half-anglicized Hindoos. I mentioned this peculiarity; but he assured me that neither he nor any of the party had been out of England. I now inquired about their own language, when one of them said it was Maltese; but the other said it was their cant language. I asked their names for various objects which I pointed out; but, after half a dozen words, the first man inquired, if I had "ever heard of one Sir Joseph Banks—for," said he, "that gentleman once paid me a guinea for telling him twenty words in our language." Perceiving, therefore, that he rated this species of information very high, and aware that the subject has been treated at large by many authors, I forbore to press him further.

The ground served them for a table, and the grass for a table-cloth. The mixture of their viands with dirty rags, and other disgusting objects, proved that they possess no sentiment, in regard to cleanliness, superior to lower animals. Like philosophical chemists, they evidently admitted the elementary analogy of what the delicate sense of society classes under contrasted heads of dirty and clean. Necessity, in this respect, has generated fixed habits; and they are, consequently, as great strangers to the refined feeling which actuates cleanly housewives, as lawyers are to a spirit of benevolence, or ministers of state to a passion for reform. Their furniture consisted merely of some dirty rags and blankets, and of two or three bags, baskets, and boxes; while their tents were formed of a pole at each end, with a ridge pole, covered with blanketing, which was stretched obliquely to the ground by wooden pegs. Such rudeness, and such simplicity, afforded a striking contrast to the gorgeous array of oriental splendour in the palaces of Royalty; and to the varied magnificence displayed in those warehouses whence an Oakley, or a Bullock, supplies the mansions of wealth and grandeur.

Indeed, as I stood conversing with these people, how could I help marvelling that, in the most polished district of the most civilized of nations, with the grand pagoda of Kew-Gardens in full view on one hand, and the towers of the new Bastile Palace in sight on the other, I should thus have presented under my eyes a family of eleven persons in no better condition than the Hottentots in their kraals, the Americans in their wigwams, or the Tartars in their equally rude tents. I sighed, however, to think that difference of natural constitution and varied propensities were in England far from being the only causes of the proximity of squalid misery to ostentatious pomp. I felt too that the manners of these gipsies were assimilated to those of the shepherd tribes of the remotest antiquity, and that in truth I saw before me a family of the pastoral ages, as described in the Book of Genesis. They wanted their flocks and herds; but the possession of these neither accorded with their own policy, nor with that of the country in which they reside. Four dogs attached to their tents, and two asses grazing at a short distance, completed such a grouping as a painter would, I have no doubt, have found in the days of Abraham in every part of Western Asia, and as is now to be found among the same people, at this day, in every country in Europe. They exhibit that state of man in which thousands of years might pass away without record or improvement: and, whether they are Egyptians, Arabs, Hindoos, Tartars, or a peculiar variety of our species; whether they exhibit man in the rude state which, according to Lord Montboddo, most nearly approximates to the ourang-outang of the oriental forests; or whether they are considered in their separated character—they form an interesting study for the philosopher, the economist, and the antiquary.

In a few minutes after I had left the gipsy camp, I was overtaken by a girl of fifteen, the quickness of whose breathing indicated excessive alarm. "O, sir," said she, "I'm so glad to come up with you—I'm so frightened—I've been standing this quarter of an hour on the other side of the stile, waiting for somebody to come by."—"And what has so frightened you?" said I.—"O, sir," said the still terrified girl, looking behind her, and increasing her pace, "those gipsies and witches—they frighten every body; and I wo'dn't have come this way for all the world if I'd known they'd been there."—"But," said I, "what are you frightened at? have you heard that they have done harm to any one?"—"O dear! yes, sir, I've heard my mother say they bewitches people; and, one summer, two of them beat my father dreadfully."—"But what did he do to them?"—"Why, he was a little tipsy, to be sure; but he says he only called 'em a pack of fortune-tellers."—"And are all the children in this neighbourhood as much frightened at them as you?"—"O yes, sir; but some of the boys throw stones over the hedge at them, but we girls are afraid they'll bewitch us. Did you see the old hag, sir?" The poor girl asked this question with such simplicity, and with a faith so confirmed, that I had reason once more to feel astonishment at the superstition which infests and disgraces the common people of this generally enlightened nation! Let me hope that the tutors in the schools of Bell and Lancaster will consider it as part of their duties, to destroy the vulgar faith in ghosts, omens, fortune-telling, fatality, and witchcraft.

On my right, my attention was attracted by the battlements of a new Gothic building, which I learnt, from the keeper of an adjoining turnpike, was called Kew Priory, and is a summer retreat of a wealthy Catholic maiden lady, Miss Doughty, of Richmond-Hill; after whom a street has recently been named in London. Learning that the lady was not there, I turned aside to take a nearer view; and, ringing at the gate, in the hope of seeing the interior, a female, who opened it, told me that it was a rule of the place, that no man could be admitted besides the Rev. Mr. ——, the Catholic priest. I learnt that the Priory, a beautiful structure on a lawn, consisted merely of a chapel, a room for refreshments, and a library; and that the lady used it for a change of scene in the long afternoons of the summer season. The enclosed space contained about 24 acres, on the banks of the Thames, and is subdivided by Pilton's invisible fences. Behind the priory, there is a house for the bailiff and his wife, a capacious pheasantry, an aviary, and extensive stables. Nothing can be more tasteful as a place of indulgence for the luxury of wealth; but it is exposed to the inconvenience of floods from the river, which sometimes cover the entire site to a considerable depth.

Another quarter of a mile, along a dead flat, brought me upon Kew-Green. As I approached it, the woods of Kew and Richmond Gardens presented a varied and magnificent foliage, and the pagoda of ten stories rose in splendour out of the woods. Richmond-hill bounded the horizon on the left, and the smoky atmosphere of Brentford obscured the air beyond the houses on Kew-Green.

As I quitted the lane, I beheld, on my left, the long boundary-wall of Kew-Gardens; on which a disabled sailor has drawn in chalk the effigies of the whole British navy, and over each representation appears the name of the vessel, and the number of her guns. He has in this way depicted about 800 vessels, each five or six feet long, and extending, with intervening distances, above a mile and a half. As the labour of one man, the whole is an extraordinary performance; and I was told the decrepit draughtsman derives a competency from passing travellers.

Kew-Green is a triangular area of about thirty acres. Nearly in the centre is the chapel of St. Anne. On the eastern side is a row of family houses; on the north-western side a better row, the backs of which look to the Thames; and on the south side stand the boundary-wall of Kew-Gardens, some buildings for soldiery, and the plain house of Ernest, duke of Cumberland. Among other persons of note and interest who reside here, are the two respectable daughters of Stephen Duck, the poet, who deserve to be mentioned as relics of a former age. In the western corner stand the buildings called Kew Palace, in which George III. passed many of the early years of his reign, and near which he began a new structure a few years before his confirmed malady—which I call the Bastile Palace, from its resemblance to that building, so obnoxious to freedom and freemen. On a former occasion, I have viewed its interior, and I am at loss to conceive the motive for preferring an external form, which rendered it impracticable to construct within it more than a series of large closets, boudoirs, and rooms like oratories. The works have, however, been suspended since the unhappy seclusion of the Royal Architect; and it is improbable, at least in this generation, that they will be resumed. The foundation is in a bog close to the Thames, and the principal object within its view is the dirty town of Brentford, on the opposite side of the river.

I had intended to prolong my route to the western corner of the Green; but, in passing St. Anne's Chapel, I found the pew-openers engaged in wiping the pews and washing the aisles. I knew that that child of Genius, Gainsborough, the painter, lay interred here; and, desirous of paying my homage to his grave, I inquired for the spot. As is usual in regard to this class of people, they could give me no information; yet one of them fancied she had heard such a name before. I was therefore obliged to wait while the sexton or clerk was fetched, and in the interim I walked into the chapel. I was, in truth, well re-paid for the time it cost me; for I never saw any thing prettier, except Lord Le Despencer's exquisite structure at West Wycombe. As the royal family usually attend here when they reside at Kew, it is superbly fitted up, and the architecture is in the best taste. The seats for the family fill the gallery, and on the ground-floor there are forty-eight pews of brown oak, adapted for four and six persons each. Several marble monuments of singular beauty adorn the walls; but the record of a man of genius absorbed every attraction of ordinary rank and title. It was a marble slab, to the memory of Meyer, the painter,—with lines by the amiable poet, Hayley; and I was led, by respect for painter and poet, to copy the whole:—

Jeremiah Meyer, R.A. Painter in Miniature and Enamel to his Majesty Geo. III. Died January 19, 1789.

Meyer! in thy works, the world will ever see How great the loss of Art in losing thee; But Love and Sorrow find the words too weak, Nature's keen sufferings on thy death to speak; Through all her duties, what a heart was thine; In thy cold dust what spirit used to shine! Fancy, and truth, and gaiety, and zeal, What most we love in life, and, losing, feel; Age after age may not one artist yield Equal to thee, in Painting's ample field; And ne'er shall sorrowing Earth to Heaven commend A fonder parent, or a firmer friend.

William Hayley, 1789.

From hence I strolled into the vestry, where I found a table of fees, drawn with a degree of precision which merits imitation. It appears, that the fees for MARRIAGES with a licence are 10s. 6d., and by banns 5s. That those for BURIALS, to the minister, if the prayers are said in the church, are 5s.; if only at the grave, 2s. 6d. The graves are six feet deep; and, in the church, the coffin must be of lead. The clerk is entitled to half, and the sexton to about a third more. A vault in the church is charged 21l., and in the church-yard 10l. 10s.; with 5l. 5s. and 2l.2s. respectively for each time of opening. To non-residents they are double.—I had scarcely finished this extract, when the clerk's or sexton's assistant made his appearance; and on the south side of the church-yard he brought me to the tomb of Gainsborough.

"Ah! friend," said I, "this is a hallowed spot—here lies one of Britain's favoured sons, whose genius has assisted in exalting her among the nations of the earth."—"Perhaps it was so," said the man, "but we know nothing about the people buried, except to keep up their monuments, if the family pay; and, perhaps, Sir, you belong to this family; if so, I'll tell you how much is due."—"Yes, truly, friend," said I, "I am one of the great family bound to preserve the monument of Gainsborough; but, if you take me for one of his relatives, you are mistaken."—"Perhaps, Sir, you may be of the family, but were not included in the Will, therefore are not obligated." I could not now avoid looking with scorn at the fellow; but, as the spot claimed better feelings, I gave him a trifle for his trouble, and mildly told him I would not detain him.

The monument being a plain one, and making no palpable appeal to vulgar admiration, was disregarded by these people; for it is in death as in life, if you would excite the notice of the multitude, you must in the grave have a splendid mausoleum, or in walking the streets you must wear fine clothes. It did not fall in the way of the untaught, on this otherwise polite spot, to know that they have among them the remains of THE FIRST PAINTER OF OUR NATIONAL SCHOOL, in fancy-pictures, and one OF THE FIRST in the classes of landscape and portrait;—a man who recommended himself as much by his superiority, as by his genius; as much by the mode in which his genius was developed, as by the perfection of his works; and as much by his amiable private character as by his eminence in the chief of Fancy's Arts. There is this difference between a poet and a painter—that the poet only exhibits the types of ideas in words, limited in their sense by his views, or his powers of expression; but the painter is called upon to exhibit the ideas themselves in a tangible shape, and made out in all their parts and most beautiful forms. The poet may write with a limited knowledge of his subject, and he may produce any partial view of it which his powers enable him to exhibit in a striking manner; but the successful painter must do all this, and he must execute with his hand as well as conceive with his mind. The poet, too, has the advantage of exhibiting his ideas in succession, and he avails himself of stops and pauses; but the great painter is obliged to set his entire subject before the eye at once, and all the parts of his composition, his imagination, and his execution, challenge the judgment as a whole. A great poet is nevertheless a just object of admiration among ordinary persons—but far more so a great painter, who assumes the power of creation, and of improving on the ordinary combinations of the Creator. Yet such a man was Thomas Gainsborough, before whose modest tomb I stood! The following are the words engraven on the stone:—

Thomas Gainsborough, esq. died August 2, 1788. Also the body of Gainsborough Dupont, esq. who died Jan. 20, 1797, aged 42 years. Also, Mrs. Margaret Gainsborough, wife of the above Thomas Gainsborough, esq, who died Dec. 17, 1798, in the 72d year of her age.

A little to the eastward lie the remains of another illustrious son of art, the modest Zoffany, whose Florence Gallery, Portraits of the Royal Family, and other pictures, will always raise him among the highest class of painters. He long resided on this Green, and, like Michael Angelo, Titian, and our own West, produced master-pieces at four-score. The words on the monument are:

Sacred to the Memory of John Zoffany, R.A. who died Nov. 11, 1810, aged 87 years.

It was a remarkable coincidence, that the bones of Gainsborough and Zoffany should thus, without premeditation, have been laid side by side; and that, but a few weeks before I paid my visit to this spot, delighted crowds had been daily drawn together to view their principal works, combined with those of Wilson and Hogarth, in forming an attractive metropolitan exhibition. On that occasion every Englishman felt proud of the native genius of our Gainsborough. It was ably opposed in one line by a Wilson, and in another by a Zoffany; yet the works of the untutored Gainsborough and Hogarth served to prove that every great artist must be born such; and that superiority in human works is the result of original aptitude, and cannot be produced by any servile routine of education, however specious, imposing, sedulous, or costly.

This valley of the Thames is, however, sanctified every-where by relics which call for equal reverence. But a mile distant on my right, in Chiswick Church-yard, lie the remains of the painting moralist Hogarth; who invented a universal character, or species of moral revelation, intelligible to every degree of intellect, in all ages and countries; who opened a path to the kindred genius of a Burnett and a Wilkie; and who conferred a deathless fame on the manners, habits, and chief characters of his time. And, but a mile on my left, in Richmond Church, lie the remains of Thomson, the poet of nature, of liberty, and of man—who displayed his powers only for noble purposes; who scorned, like the vile herd of modern rhymesters, to ascribe glory to injustice, heroism to the assassins of the champions of liberty, or wisdom to the mischievous prejudices of weak princes; and who, by asserting in every line the moral dignity of his art, became an example of poetical renown, which has been ably followed by Glover, Akenside, Cowper, Robinson, Burns, Barlow, Barbauld, Wolcot, Moore, and Byron.

The fast-declining Sun, and my wearied limbs here reminded me that I was the slave of nature, and of nature's laws; and that I had neither time, nor power, to excurse or go farther. My course, therefore, necessarily terminated on this spot; and here I must take leave of the reader, who has been patient, or liberal enough, to accompany me.

For my own part, I had been highly gratified with the great volume, ten or twelve miles long, by two or three broad, in the study of which I had employed the lengthened morning; though this volume of my brief analysis the reader will doubtless find marked by the short-sightedness and imperfections which attend every attempt of human art to compress an infinite variety into a finite compass.

In looking back at the incidents of the day, which the language of custom has, with reference to our repasts, denominated THE MORNING, I could not avoid feeling the strong analogy which exists between such an excursion as that which I have here described and THE LIFE of MAN. Like that, and all things measured by TIME and SPACE, it had had its BEGINNING—its eventful COURSE—and its END determined by physical causes.

On emerging in the morning, I foresaw as little as the child foresees his future life, what were to be the incidents of my journey. I proceeded in each successive hour even as he proceeds in each year. I jostled no one, and no one disturbed me. My feelings were those of peace, and I suffered from no hostility. My inclinations were virtuous, and I have experienced the rewards of virtue. Every step had therefore been productive of satisfaction, and I had no-where had cause to look behind me with regret.

In this faithful journal, I have ventured to smile at folly; I have honestly reprehended bad passions, and I have sincerely sympathized with their victims. May all my readers be led to smile, reprehend, and sympathize with me; and I solicit this result—for their sakes—for the sake of truth—and in the hope that, if our feelings have been reciprocal, our mutual labours will not have been wasted! At the end of my short career, I conscientiously looked back on the incidents of my course with the complacency with which all may look back in old-age on the incidents of well-spent lives. Let no one sneer at the comparison, for, when human life has passed away, in what degree are its multiplied cares and chequered scenes more important than the simple events which attend a morning's walk? Look on the graves of that church-yard, and see in THEM the representations of hundreds of anxious lives! Are not those graves, then, said I, the end of thousands of busy cares and ambitious projects? Was not life the MERE DREAM of their now senseless tenants—like the trackless path of a bird in the air, or of a fish in the waters? Were they not the Phantasmagoria which, in their day, filled up the shifting scene of the world,—and are we not, in our several days, similar shadows, which modify the light for a season, and then disappear to make room for others like ourselves? May not the events of a morning which slides away, and leaves no traces behind it, be correctly likened therefore to the entire course of human life? The one, like the other, may be well or ill spent—idly dissipated or beneficially employed;—and the chequered incidents will be found to be similar to those which mark the periods of the longest life.

In conclusion, I cannot avoid wishing that my example may be followed, in other situations, by minds variously stored and directed by different inquiries. Like the day which has just been recorded, the incidents of every situation, and the thoughts which pass without intermission through every mind, would, in a similar portion of time, fill similar volumes, which, as indices of man's intellectual machinery, might serve the purpose of the dial of a clock, or the gnomon of a sun-dial, and prove agreeable sources of amusement, as well as efficacious means of disseminating valuable principles and useful instruction.



INDEX.

A.

Accumulation of property, its misery to all Admiralty, British, its characteristics Addington, Mr. his residence ——, political character Almanacks of prognostication, their prodigious sale Alfred the Great, his rare merits American Aloe, reflections on Anne Boleyn, her interview with Henry the Eighth Animal motion, economy of Ancestors, their number ascertained Ancestry, no ground of pride Anglican Church, its true foundation Ant-hill, like the British metropolis Antiquities, folly of the science so called Archbishops of Canterbury, their ancient residence Argument in behalf of poverty Aristocracy of trade characterized Arithmetic, its connexion with nature Articles of faith, necessity of revising Asparagus, its extensive cultivation Assembly, a subscription one described Astrology, its pretensions investigated Author, his feelings on concluding his Walk

B.

Barber, Alderman, his tomb and merit Battersea-bridge, reflections on its toll Ballot, choice by, its pernicious effect and erroneous principle Bakewell, Mr. his mode of riding Barnes Poor-house, libel on political economy —— Common, its geological phenomena —— Church-yard, reflections on Bastile Palace, at Kew Beggars, their habits and gains Bee-hive, its buzz that of a distant town Besborough, Lord, his seal Bells, abuse of them Blenkinsop's steam-engine, its convenient powers Black balls, a majority of, how produced Blair's Universal Preceptor, its merits Box-trees, ancient ones Botanic Garden, at Chelsea Bolingbroke, Lord, his house at Battersea ——, recollections of Book-clubs, a test of intellectual improvement Book of Nature, described British society, its radical diseases Brunell, Mr. his workshops Bramah, Mr. his ingenuity Britain, mistress of imperial Rome Buckingham House, notice of Burke, his bigotry Burial fees, account of

C.

Caesar, his passage of the Thames Causeways, necessity of improving Cards, their absurd prognostics Cause of causes, its instruments ——, its incomprehensibleness Catechism of Social Duties, its importance Causes, physical and mental, defined Causation, original, questions upon Centinarian in Chelsea Hospital Cemeteries, ought to be open Certainty alone necessary Chorus of the eye Chaldeans, their demonology Chances, laws of, govern all prognostication Church, system of attendance ——, National, grounds for its moderation Chabannes, Marquis de, his speculations Chiswick, its bells and Church Charters of Liberty, enumerated Chelsea buns, notice of Christianity, its total failure in preserving peace ——, vulgar definition of Changes, geological, their causes Civilized and savage society contrasted Clerks, their ease of heart Cleanliness, an auxiliary of virtue Courtezans, cause of their turpitude Contentment, its difficult acquisition Commercial enterprise, instance of Commons, their anti-social character Complaints of the poor Cost of the poor at Wandsworth Cottages, mile-stone and marine ones proposed Conch, its sound that of a distant town Cottage ornee described Covent-garden market, mode of supplying Compatibility of relative existences Common Council of London, its patriotic conduct Creation, its never ceasing agents ——, its progress Cuvier, M. his geological discoveries

D.

D'Antraigues, Count and Countess, their horrible assassination Dancing assemblies, their mistaken arrangements Death, how a source of consolation Demon of war described Devonshire, Duchess of, her amiable character Demonology, its absurdities Dead, the sympathy towards Descendants, their numbers ascertained Distilleries, the bad policy of encouraging them Dimsdale, Sir Harry, Mayor of Garrat Don Saltero, his museum Dolland's achromatics, their misapplication Dormitories of avarice described Dreams, no prognostics Dramas of real life Druids, their impostures Drunkenness, its pernicious effects ——, its cause Dundas, his baneful orgies Dunstan, Sir Jeffery, Mayor of Garrat

E.

East-Sheen, its pleasant sights Earth, the, its primative state Economy of a workhouse ——, political, its primary law Education, obligation to make it universal ——, —— to teach public duties Egyptians, their absurd mythology Ellenborough, Lord, his residence Electricity, illustrations of Election at Garrat, described Eloquence of Pitt, recollections of England, its exemplary road system Enclosure Bill proposed Enclosing parks, objections to Entrails of animals, no prognostics End of the world, phenomena leading to it Erasmus, his character Essex, cleanliness of its towns Eternals, what are so External species infinite in number Excise system, its mischievous effects Experience, a transcendent quality in a statesman ——, a chief test of truth Eye, concert played on it

F.

Family group in a workhouse Farming out the poor, its inhumanity Fate and fatality, discussion on Family of man, its necessary co-mixture Fever of the brain, its mental hallucinations Fertility, means of preserving Ferdinand, cost of his restoration Female education, discussion respecting Fear, its operation on the mind Females on fire, mode of extinguishing Ferme ornee, described Final causes, their nature Fitness in nature, the primary law Fires, mode of preventing Fire-house, Hartley's —— ——, interesting prospect from Finance, Pitt's absurd system Flame, when ungovernable Food of a labouring family Foot-paths, necessity for good ones Fortune-telling, its errors exposed Fox, Charles James, his patriotic character —— ——, his death Food distributed from religious houses French Encyclopaedists, their oversight France, its improvements under Napoleon Free agency demonstrated Fruit-trees, their general plantation recommended Franklin, Dr. his electrical rods

G.

Gainsborough, his tomb and character Garrat, mock mayor of Galilean telescopes, preferred for telegraphs Gardeners, their habits and slavery Geometry, its connexion with nature Geocentric phenomena, error relative Generations, the law of their mixture George III. his liberal views on education Geological changes, their causes traced Ghosts, vulgar belief in Gipsies, interview with Gluttony, lesson to Goldsmid, Mr. his seat, character and history Goodbehere, Alderman, his character God, attributes of Greeks, their mythological personification Gravitation, its causes Grief, its luxury described Greatness, how best sustained Grammars of Philosophy, &c. their merits Great buildings, no standard of locality —— men, their opinions no test of truth Griffiths, Dr. anecdote of Gradation of organized beings Guelph, the Second, anecdote of

H.

Happiness, its production the test of worth —— produced by employment Haunted house, anecdotes of one Harmony of relative existences Harper, Sir John, mayor of Garrat Hartley, David, Esq. his fire-house described Hayley, Mr. his epitaph on Meyer Handel and Haydn compared Hamilton, Lady, her distresses Hedge-rows ought to be productive Heat, its causes Heydegger, his entertainment Herschell, Dr. his clustering power Historical justice, no atonement for suffering Hindoos, their absurd mythology Houses, method of securing them against fire Home Tourist, his expected modesty Howard, Mr. his exemplary character Horses, cruelty of tight-reining them House of Commons, character of its majorities Hoare, Mr. his residence Hogarth, Mrs. anecdote of ——, Mr. his tomb and character Horoscope, its supposed powers House of God, its inadequacy

I.

Ignorance, the basis of superstition Impress, its frightful tyranny Infatuated nations characterized Ingenuity superseded by taxation Inclination of roads, determined Instructors, clerical, their errors Intellectual powers, their limited nature —— philosophy, its indestructibility Instincts of men compared Iron-foundery, description of one Isle of St. Peter's, its ancient boundaries and modern splendor

J.

Jews, their superstitious demonology Juries, Special, their disgraceful character

K.

Kelvedon, its cleanliness Kew Priory, described —— Green, ditto Kit-Cat Club, its house at Barnes Elms ——, pictures

L.

Language, its means of improvement Land, the patrimony of man Lancaster, Mr. his system recommended Lakes of North America, their probable fate Law, its malignity and perversion Legislation, summary of its duties Life, compared to a morning's walk Living errors, corrected too late Liberty, taught in popular elections Life of man, described Lincoln, Bishop of, his attendance on Pitt Lightning, destructive effects of ——, means of security from London, its features of ingress and egress ——, reflection suggested by its distant prospect ——, its population characterized —— smoke, described —— ——, its moral suggestions Loco-motion, means of producing Loco-motive beings, their peculiar economy Lovers, the dupes of gipsies Lumber trees, unfit for a civilized country Luck and ill-luck, relative terms

M.

Matron of a workhouse, her character Manners of the Londoners Mall in St. James's Park, its ancient splendor Manufactory of pitch and turpentine Manners, effects of a change of Marsh of Westminster, reflection on Madam and Mistress, distinction between Machinery, ought not to injure workmen Maurice, Mr. his merits as a Poet Manufactory, a country one described Matter, inorganic, laws governing —— ——, whether eternal Manual labour, its economy in manufactories Maternal feelings in a workhouse Man, his false assumption ——, his pride ——, his unsociable character ——, his uncharitableness ——, his numerous wants ——, his vanity ——, his monopolizing spirit ——, opposes himself to Providence ——, his proper employment ——, his true happiness ——, his transitory state ——, his origin, progress, and decay ——, his common nature ——, his definite existence ——, general views of his social state ——, his cruelty to inferior creatures Mercy, an engine of priestcraft Mechanics, their relation to nature Meyer, his tomb Milk-fair, description of Military education reprobated Mile-stone and marine cottages recommended Middleton, Mr. his estimates of Middlesex Misery, dense mass of Ministers of England, their narrow views Monks, disinterment of their bones Morris, Valentine, Esq. his benevolent character Moral deduced from the state of St. James's palace —— rule against great mischiefs More, Sir Thomas, his residence and character Motion, terrestrial, its general cause Mortlake Church-yard, reflections on Moral condition of London Mortlake Church, reflections within Music, its abuse in war Mutilated Soldiers at Chelsea Hospital Mussulmen, their exemplary sobriety Mysteries, religious, their origin Mythology, its origin and progress

N.

Natural feelings violated in workhouses Nature superior to art ——, its operations uncomplicated ——, its governing principle Napoleon, his improvements of France Nell Gwyn, founder of Chelsea Hospital Necessity, doctrine of, investigated Novels, characterized

O.

Obligations of the rich to the poor Oil mills, description of one Organic life, difficulty of conceiving its principle Organized beings, intricacy of the laws governing Origin of organized beings, its philosophical obscurity

P.

Painting and Poetry, compared Palace of the Regent, its costly fitting Partridge, John, his tomb and errors Parks of London, their utility and capability ——, noblemen's, their inutility Patronage, cause of war Parish allowances to the poor Panorama from Wimbledon Common Paper circulation always ruinous Parish poor-houses described Peace, its security Peach, its crawling myriads Peter the Hermit, his fanaticism Perihelion point, importance of its place in producing terrestrial changes Penley, Mr. his garden at Mortlake Philosophy, modern, its divinities ——, address to Philosophical speculations on unseen powers Pilton's fences recommended Pitt, Mr. his death and character Planetary influences, examined Poetry and Painting, compared Poor, diseased, provision for Pottery, observations on its antiquity and application Pope, Mr. his parlour at Battersea Popular elections, their importance Policy, wicked, its features Poverty and wealth, contrasted Priestcraft, its origin and progress Probabilities, their connexion with fortune-telling Productive powers, their intricacy Promenades, evening ones proposed Prosperity, national, its true signs Principals in trade, their cares Promenade in St. James's Park, its ancient splendor Pride, lessons to correct Printing, its abuse Public Debt, how has it been expended Putney-Heath, objects upon it described Public purse, a necessary stimulus to candidates

R.

Ranelagh, its scite described Railways, proposal for extending them Religious houses turned into market-gardens Reformation of Religion Retreats of men of business Repton, Mr. his powers of arrangement Rivers, absurd worship of ——, phenomena of their banks ——, agents of never-ceasing changes Richmond Park, notice of Rights of man, intrigues against Road Police, suggested Royal Family, fond of Chelsea buns Rome sunk and London exalted Roads, principle of constructing them Roehampton, its cheerless aspect Ruins, without antiquity

S.

Saws, circular, their wonderful powers Self-knowledge, neglect of Secondary causes, their general nature Senses, animal, their limited powers Shoe-making machinery, account of Show, policy of, among princes Shropshire girls, their industry and beauty Slavery, its protean shapes Sloane, Sir Hans, his statue—tomb Smoke, improperly emitted —— of London, its remarkable phenomena —— ——, plans for consuming Soldiery, their specious character Society, state of, in England Soldiers, why and for what they are killed and wounded Soldier, who had lost both arms Spontaneous combustion, productive of superstition Spencer, Lord, his park Space, whether eternal Stage-coach horses, mismanagement of Standard of truth defined Sterility of ancient countries, cause of Statesmen, their mistaken policy St. James's palace, its ruined state St. Paul's Cathedral St. Lawrence, the, its probable fate Surfaces, the residence of electric power Surrey, its disgraceful wastes Supernatural appearances, referred to their causes Survivors in regiments, their small numbers Subjects for painters Superstition, instances of ——, its origin and progress Symmachus, his bigotry

T.

Taxes, not the sole business of governments Tart-hall, account of Taxation, its pernicious effects Telegraphs, particulars of ——, their application to domestic purposes Terror, vulgar, instances of Thames, its phenomena and changes Thomson, the Poet, his town and character Tides, their nature explained Time and space characterized Tooke, Mr. Horne, his character Tonson, Jacob, his house at Barnes Elms Trees, their importance in fertilization Treasury, British, its pernicious powers Transitory state of man Treaty-breakers, appeal to them Tragedies, in real life Tybourn, its present course

V.

Vegetables, their organization Vital principle, its incomprehensible nature Virtue, its worth Virtuous exertion entitled to support Village promenades, proposal for Villages round London, their want of society Villas, no signs of public wealth Village bells, cause of their peculiar effect Virtue, promoted by cleanliness Vulcan, his residence

W.

Washington, the great, his character and glory War-office, British, its equivocal merit Water, the cause of change War, its improper duration ——, its horrors, associated with British grandeur Want, the seat of its empire ——, means of extinguishing Wandsworth, its population, &c. —— workhouse, a visit to Wages of labour Walnut-trees, prodigious ones Waithman, Mr. his patriotic character Waste lands, a libel on political economy Wealth, its personal consequences ——, its relative nature Welding Hammer, described Westminster Abbey, characterized Webb, Mr. his benevolent character Wesley, Mr. his godlike zeal —— his mode of riding Webster, Mr. his geological discoveries Welch girls, their industry and beauty Witham, its exemplary cleanliness Winchester palace, notice of Wimbledon Common, its elevation ——, its misuse Workmen, entitled to indemnity on the introduction of machinery Woollet, Mr. his skill as an engraver Workhouses, obligation to visit them World, its end explained Wood, Alderman, his patriotic character Wordsworth, Mr. his poetical merit Women, an employment worthy of them

Y.

York-house, the residence of Wolsey

Z.

Zoffany, Mr. his tomb and character



ERRATA.

At page 65, five lines from bottom, insert three commas after "beastly, vicious, and diseased,"—and at page 168, line 8, for found read formed.



Lately were published,

By the same Author,

I.

A LETTER to the LIVERY of LONDON, on the OFFICE of SHERIFF; price 7s.

II.

A TREATISE on the POWERS and DUTIES of JURIES; price 8s.

III.

In Sheets, for posting in Public Places, price Sixpence each,

1. GOLDEN RULES for JURYMEN.

2. GOLDEN RULES for ELECTORS.

3. GOLDEN RULES for MAGISTRATES and SHERIFFS.

J. Adlard, Printer, 23, Bartholomew Close, London.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

word indicates italic in the original word indicates small capitals in the original Page numbers have been removed from the Contents and the Index Spellings left as found except as noted below: the Apennines (was 'Appenines'); to alarm them by the state of knowledge, in an era (was 'aera') when and Ruins of old buildings, must frequently (was 'frequenty') Hartley, esq. a son of the illustrious (was 'illustrions') writer progressively (was 'progresssively') augmented; and then acting different (was 'differents') parts of the kingdom, taken at A. necessarily and simultaneously (was 'stimultaneously') negative Chelsea buns (was 'bunns') — twice in index only Nell Gwyn (was 'Gwin') — in index only Items noted in the Errata section have been repaired. Index items are in order as printed.

THE END