There was in the town, where they then were, a gay bachelor, who lived with his mother and sisters, and was a great admirer of that order of female travellers called Cousin Betties. Coleman's wife had been with him some months before in that character, was very well entertained, and, amongst other favours, received a present of a silk handkerchief. They therefore dressed up the babe very neatly, wrapped it up exceeding warm, and put it in a hand-basket, taking care to put in the handkerchief Coleman's wife had received from this gay bachelor; then getting a large boar cat, in the dusk of the evening they tied it to the knocker of the door, setting down before it the basket with the helpless infant. The cat, not liking the treatment, made a hideous squalling, and with his struggling, rap, rap, rap, went the knocker of the door; out ran the gentleman, with his mother, sisters, and servants, and the neighbourhood gathered about the door to see what this noise could mean. Mr. Carew and Coleman mingled among them to learn what would be the event of their stratagem. The cat, by long struggling, got free of the knocker, and ran away, only leaving part of the tail behind. The basket alone now engaged the attention of every one, and being delivered to the gentleman to open, the feeble cries of an infant soon reached their ears. The mother and sisters, alarmed at this unexpected salutation, snatched the basket from him, and upon the child's breast found a note in these words:

"Remember, sir, where you last met me, you have not been so kind as you often promised and swore you would: however, it justly belongs to you. I have made bold to send you the fruits of our meeting, and this handkerchief which you made me as a token. Be kind to our infant daughter; and the unfortunate mother on her part, will forgive you.

"Your's, &c."

The horrid squalling of the cat did not grate so disagreeably upon the gentleman's ears, as the reading of these words; so that his hat and wig were flung off, and he ran about stamping and swearing that the child was none of his, neither did he know any thing of the mother. On the other hand, his mother and sisters flew into a violent rage, assailing his ears on every side with reproaches; so that he would at that time have thought deafness preferable to any one of the senses. "Dost thou deny the child to be thine?" cried the mother: "has it not thy very eyes, nose, and mouth? and is this not thy very handkerchief? this thou canst not deny, for I can safely swear it was thine." The poor gentleman, thus beset on all sides, was obliged to quit the field; the child was taken into the house, and brought up and educated there, and is at this day a very accomplished fine lady.

Some time after this adventure, Mr. Carew took passage at Folkstone, in Kent, for Boulogne in France, where he arrived safe, and proceeded to Paris and other cities in that kingdom. His habit was now tolerably good, his countenance grave, his behaviour sober and decent, pretending to be a Roman-catholic, who left England, his native country, out of an ardent zeal of spending his days in the bosom of the catholic church. This story readily gained belief; his zeal was universally applauded, and handsome contributions made for him; but at the same time he was so zealous a Roman-catholic, with a little change of habit, he used to address those English he heard of in any place as a protestant shipwrecked seaman. He had the good fortune, in this character, to meet an English physician at Paris, to whom he told his deplorable tale, who was so much affected by it, that he not only relieved him very handsomely, but, what was more, recommended him to that noble pattern of unexhausted benevolence, Mrs. Horner, who was on her travels, from whom he received ten guineas, and from some other company with her, five more.

Here, reader, if thou hast a good heart, we cannot entertain thee better, than by drawing a true though faint picture of this generous lady; for, were benevolence and generosity real beings, we are persuaded they would act just like her; with such an unsparing hand would they bestow their bounties, and with such magnificence reward desert; with such godlike compassion cheer the afflicted, and just so make happy all around them: but thou canst form no adequate idea, unless thou hast been in the neighbourhood of that noble mansion, the seat of Mrs. Horner, at Mulberry, Dorsetshire, where benevolence has fixed her seat. Permit me, therefore, to transport thee thither, to bless thy sight with the delightful scene. See, already, the parish church, rebuilt at her expense, strikes the eye; it is she that has erected it to the honour of her God. Thou art surprised, I see, to behold an eminent physician, who is allowed a constant salary by her to visit the poor sick in her neighbourhood, coming out of his chariot to enter the wretched huts of poverty; but know, she has already paid his fees: see here another compounding the choicest drugs and medicines for a whole neighbourhood; it is her bounty that has supplied them. Cast your eye the other way, and behold that company of aged and decrepid poor; they are going to receive their daily bread at her table. But let us enter the poor cottage; see, here are the holy Scriptures and other books of pious instruction; and, hark! the lisping child is reading distinctly in one of them; her munificence has bestowed these useful gifts, and instilled instruction into that tender mind. Behold, with how dejected a look and grief-swollen heart, with what a load of care, yon person enters the mansion: but see, he returns—how changed his aspect! joy sparkles in his eye, and thankfulness swells his exulting heart; content sits cheerful upon his brow, and he no longer bends under his care: what wonderful magic has wrought this sudden change?—the opening only of her beneficent hand has done it.

What we are now going to relate will raise an honest indignation in the breast of every true lover of liberty; for all such know that the beauteous flower of liberty sickens to the very root (like the sensitive plant) at the lightest touch of the iron hand of power upon any one of its most distant branches.

Mr. Carew being in the city of Exeter with his wife, and, having visited his old friends there, he walked to Topsham, about three miles distant, leaving his wife in Exeter. Alas! little did he think this walk would end in a long and cruel separation from his friends and country; little did he imagine, that, in the land of freedom and justice, he should be seized upon by the cruel grasp of lawless power: though poor, he thought himself under the protection of the laws, and, as such, liable to no punishment till they inflicted it. How far he thought right in this, let the sequel tell. Going down to Topsham, and walking upon the quay there, enjoying the beauties of a fine evening, meditating no harm, and suspecting no danger, he was accosted by merchant D—-y, accompanied with several captains of vessels, in some such words as these: Ha! Mr. Carew, you are come in a right time! As you came home for your own pleasure you shall go over for mine. They then laid hands on him, who found it in vain to resist, as he was overpowered by numbers; he therefore desired to be carried before some magistrate, but this was not hearkened to, for they forced him on board a boat, without the presence or authority of any officer of justice, not so much as suffering him to take leave of his wife, or acquaint her with his misfortune, though he begged the favour almost with tears. The boat carried him on board the Phillory, Captain Simmonds, bound for America with convicts, which then lay at Powderham-castle waiting for a fair wind. Here, had my pen gall enough, I would put a blot of eternal infamy on that citizen of liberty, who usurped so much power over a fellow-citizen, and those who suffered a brother of liberty, however undeserving, to be dragged to slavery by the lawless hand of power, without the mandate of sovereign justice. Foolish wretch! dost thou not know that thou oughtest to be more careful of keeping all usurping power within its bounds, than thou wouldst the raging sea ready to overflow and overwhelm them all; for thou who hast consented to see power oppress a fellow-heir of glorious liberty, how canst thou complain, if its all-grasping iron hand should seize upon thyself, or whatever thou holdest most dear? then wouldst thou, too late, bewail that thou hadst ever suffered power wantonly to set foot on the neck of liberty.

But to return: Mr. Carew was no sooner put on board, than he was strictly searched, and then taken between decks, where he was ironed down with the convicts. There was at the same time a violent fever raging among them, and Mr. Carew, by being chained with them night and day, was soon infected, and taken very ill; however, he had not the liberty of sending to his wife, nor any of his friends, though they lay three weeks in the roads for a fair wind. In the mean time, his wife, not hearing any thing from him, and uncertain what was become of him, or whether he was alive or dead, abandoned herself to an excess of grief, for he had always been a kind and affectionate husband to her; she therefore sought him up and down, at all the houses of his usual resort, but in vain, for no news could she gain of her beloved husband.

The wind coming fair, they hoisted sail, and soon bid adieu to the English coasts. We need not describe what passed in Mr. Carew's breast at this time; anger and grief prevailed by turns, sometimes resentment, for being thus treated, fired his bosom, and he vowed revenge: at other times the thoughts of his being thus unexpectedly separated from his country and friends, and doomed to an ignominious slavery, filled him with sad and melancholy reflections; however, he had the pleasure, before it was long, of knowing he was not entirely deserted; for Captain Simmonds, the commander of the Phillory, a humane compassionate man, came down to him between decks, soon after they were under sail, and bid him be of good cheer, for he should want for nothing; and though he had strict orders from merchant D—-y never to let him return, yet he would be a friend to him, and provide for him in the best manner he could. Mr. Carew returned thanks to his generous and unexpected benefactor in as handsome a manner as he was able.

Soon after this, he had liberty allowed him of coming upon deck, where the captain entered into conversation with him, and jocosely asked if he thought he could be at home before him. He generously replied he thought he could, at least he would endeavour to be so; which the captain took all in good part.

Thus did Mr. Carew spend his time, in as agreeable a manner as could be expected under his present circumstances: but, alas! all our happiness is too fleeting, and we scarcely taste the pleasure before it is ravished from us: and thus it happened to our hero; for they had scarcely been under sail five weeks before the good Captain Simmonds was taken ill, which increased every day with too many fatal symptoms; till at last death, who regards alike the good and virtuous, and the bad and vicious, struck the fatal blow: but the approaches of the grisly tyrant were not so dreadful to this man, as the distress it would occasion to his wife and family, whom he cried out for during his whole illness. Mr. Carew bewailed the loss of this generous benefactor with more than outward sorrow. Every thing in the vessel was now in confusion by the death of the captain; at length the mate, one Harrison of Newcastle, took charge of the vessel and the captain's effects; but had not enjoyed his new honours before he was taken dangerously ill, so that the vessel was obliged to be left to the care of the common sailors, and was several times in great danger of being lost. At last, after sixteen weeks passage, in the grey of the morning, they made Cape Charles, and then bore away to Cape Henry: at Hampton they took in a pilot. The vessel having several times run upon the sand, and was not got off again without great difficulty; the pilot soon after brought them to Kent-island, where they fired a gun, and Harrison, who was now recovered, went on shore, near Annapolis, and made a bargain with one Mr. Delany of that place, for Mr. Carew, as an expert gardener. He was then sent on shore, and Mr. Delany asked him if he understood gardening. Being willing to get out of Harrison's hands, he replied in the affirmative; but Mr. Delany asking him if he could mow, he replied in the negative. Then you are no gardener, replied Mr. Delany, and so refused to buy him. Then one Hilldrop, who had been transported about three years before from Exeter, for horse stealing, and had married a currier's widow in Annapolis, had a mind to purchase him, but they could not agree about the price, whereupon he was put on board again, and they sailed from Miles-river.

Here they fired a gun, and the captain went on shore; in the mean time the men prisoners were ordered to be close shaved, and the women to have clean caps on: this was scarcely done, before an overseer belonging to Mr. Bennet, in Way-river, and several planters, came up to buy. The prisoners were all ordered upon deck, and Mr. Carew among them: some of the planters knew him again, and cried out, "Is not this the man Captain Froade brought over, and put a pot-hook upon?" Yes, replies Mr. Harrison, the very same: at which they were much surprised, having an account he had been either killed by the wild beasts or drowned in some river. Ay, ay, replied Harrison with a great oath, I'll take care he shall not be at home before me. By this time several of the prisoners were sold, the bowl went merrily round, and many of the planters gave Mr. Carew a glass, but none of them chose to buy him.

During this, Mr. Carew, observing a great many canoes and small boats lying along-side the vessel, thought it not impossible to make himself master of one them, and by that means reach the shore, where he supposed he might conceal himself till he found an opportunity of getting off; though this was a very hazardous attempt, and, if unsuccessful, would expose him to a great deal of hard usage, and probably put it out of his power of ever regaining his liberty, yet he was resolved to venture. He now recollected the common maxim, that 'fortune favours the bold,' and therefore took an opportunity, just as it grew dark, of slipping nimbly down the ship's side into one of the canoes, which he paddled with as much silence and expedition as possible towards the shore: but he had not gone far before the noise he made gave the alarm, that one of the prisoners had escaped. Harrison immediately called out to inquire which of them, and where Carew was; and, being told that he was gone off, swore that he would much rather have lost half of the prisoners than him.

All hands were then called upon to pursue; the captain and planters left their bowl; the river was soon covered with canoes, and every thing was in confusion. Mr. Carew was within hearing of this, but, by plying his canoe well, had the good fortune to get on shore before any of them; he immediately took himself to the woods as soon as he landed, and climbed up into a great tree, where he had not been many minutes before he heard the captain, sailors, and planters, all in pursuit of him; the captain fretted and stormed, the sailors d—-d their blood, and the planters endeavoured to pacify every thing, by telling the captain not to fear his getting off. He heard all this, though not unmoved, yet without taking notice of it: at last, finding their search fruitless, the captain, sailors, and planters returned; the planters still assuring the captain they would have him in the morning.

As soon as they were gone he began to reflect upon his present situation, which, indeed, was melancholy enough, for he had no provisions, was beset on every side, quite incapable of judging what to undertake, or what course to steer: however, he at last resolved to steer farther into the woods, which he accordingly did, and got up into another tree: here he sat all the succeeding day, without a morsel of food; but was diverted with a great multitude of squirrels he saw skipping from tree to tree; and had he had a gun, he could have shot hundreds of pigeons, there was so great a plenty of them. The next day, towards night, hunger became too powerful, and he was almost spent for want of food; in this necessity he knew not what to do; at last, happening to spy a planter's house at a distance, he was resolved to venture down in the night, thinking he might chance to find food of some sort or other, in or about the house: agreeable to this resolution, he came down the tree in the middle of the night, and, going into the planter's yard, to his great joy he found there a parcel of milk cows penned in, which he soon milked in the crown of his hat, making a most delicious feast, and then retired to the woods again, climbing up into a tree, where he passed the day much more easy than he had the preceding one.

Having found out this method of subsisting, he proceeded forwards in the same manner, concealing himself in a tree in the day-time, and travelling all the night, milking the cows as often as he had an opportunity; and steering his course as near as he could guess towards Duck's Creek.

On the fifth night he heard the voices of several people near him in the woods, upon which he stepped on one side, and concealed himself behind a tree, till they had passed by. When he came near enough to distinguish their words, he heard them say, we will make the best of our way to Duck's Creek, and there we shall certainly have him. He now judged that these were some men in pursuit of him, therefore thought himself very happy in having so narrowly escaped them.

On the eighth day, being upon a tree, he discovered a lone house, near the skirts of the woods, and saw all the family (as he supposed) going out to hoe tobacco, and the dog following them; this was a joyful sight to him, for he had not, the two preceding nights, met with any cows, and consequently had been without food. As soon, therefore, as the family were out of sight, he came down from the tree, and ventured in the house, where he found not only enough to satisfy his hunger, but what might be deemed luxury in his present condition: for there was a jolly cake, powell, a sort of Indian corn bread, and good omani, which is kidney-beans ground with Indian corn, sifted, then put into a pot to boil, and eat with molasses. Seeing so many dainties, he did not hesitate long, but, hunger pressing, sat down and ate the omani with as much composure as if he had been invited thereto by the owner of it: and knowing that hunger and necessity are bound by no laws of honour, he took the liberty of borrowing the jolly cake, powell, and a leg of fine pork, then hastened back to the tree with his booty. What the people thought when they returned at night with good appetites, and found their dainty omani, their jolly cake, and their pork, all vanished, we know not, but suppose they were not a little surprised.

Being thus stocked with provisions, he made the best of his way to Ogle-town that night, and so to Old-town. In the dawn of the morning of the eleventh day, he came in sight of Duck's Creek; but being afraid he might fall into the hands of his pursuers, he struck a great way into the woods towards Tuck Hoe; where staying all the day in a tree, he came again in the middle of the night to Duck's Creek. As soon as he came here, he ran to the water side to seek for a canoe, but found them all chained; he immediately set himself about breaking the chain, but found it too strong, and all endeavours to break it were in vain. Never was man more thunder-struck than he was now, just at the time when he expected to be out of danger, to meet with so unforeseen and insurmountable an obstacle. He knew there was no way of escaping, but by passing the river Delaware, and could not think of a method of effecting it. Several hours did he pass in this agitation of mind: sometimes he had a mind to try his strength in swimming, but the river being so wide, he thought he could not reach the opposite shore; at last, reflecting what one of his ancestors had done in swimming a horse over Teignmouth bar, and seeing some horses grazing thereabout, he resolved to attempt passing the Delaware in that manner; for, let the worst happen, he thought death preferable to slavery. Being thus resolved, he soon caught one of the horses, and, making a sort of bridle with his handkerchief, brought the horse to the water side; he walked for some time on the banks, looking for a proper place to enter the horse: at last, espying a little stream, which ran into the great river Deleware, he stripped himself, and, tying his frock and trowsers about his shoulders, mounted the horse, and putting him forward a little, the horse soon lost his footing, and the water came up to Mr. Carew's middle, who kept his legs as near as possible to the horse, and in this manner launched into the great river Delaware.

The horse snorted and neighed to his companions, but made for the opposite shore with all the strength he could. Mr. Carew did not imagine the horse would be able to reach it, but proposed to save himself by swimming when the horse failed, for the river was three miles over: however the horse reached the shore, but finding no place to land, it being a sandy mud, he was obliged to swim him along the shore, till he came to a little creek, which the horse swimming into, soon got sure footing, to the great joy of Mr. Carew, who, dismounting, kissed the horse, telling him he must now turn quaker as well as himself, and so let him go into the woods.

His clothes were not very wet; however, he staid on the banks some time to dry them with the morning sun, then went up into the country. The first house he came to was a miller's, whose wife came out and asked him from whence he came? He told her he had been a prisoner some time in the Havannah, from whence he had been released by an exchange of prisoners, and was now going home.

The good woman pitied him much, and told him he looked very melancholy; but her husband coming in, said, he believed he was an Irishman. This he denied, averring he was of the West of England; so they gave him a piece of that country money, and a mug of rum, which he drinking greedily, being very thirsty, it threw him into such a violent fever, that he was obliged to stop at a neighbouring house, where he lay sick for three or four days. From hence he went to Newcastle, where he raised contributions from several gentlemen, as he had done before, but not under the former name, from hence to Castle, Brandywine Ferry, Chester, and Derby, where he got relief from the same miller that Mr. Whitfield was with when he was there before, and lodged at the same house, but took care to disguise himself so as not to be known: he there got a pass from the justice as a sick man bound to Boston. From hence he proceeded to Brunswick, where he got relief from Mr. Matthews, the miller, who treated him so hospitably the first time he was there, but did not know him again now.

From hence he proceeded to New London, where he chanced to see the captain who had taken him home before, but he avoided him. From New London he proceeded to Groten, where he got a twenty-shilling bill from one Mr. Goyf, and several half-crown bills from other people. He then inquired of his landlord his way to Rhode-island, who accompanied him about two miles of the way, when they chanced to fall into the company of some drovers, who were driving a number of bullocks, for the use of some privateers that lay at Rhode-island; he therefore joined them, and, after about nine or ten miles travelling, they came to a ferry, where they stopped at a public-house for some time, till the bullocks were taken over; but neither the tavern-man nor drovers would suffer him to pay any thing, they pitying his unfortunate condition: and passing over this ferry, they came to Rhode-island.

Rhode-island, by the natives called Aquetnet, near the Narraganset Bay, is fourteen or fifteen miles long, and four or five miles abroad. It was first inhabited by the English in the year 1639. Those that withdrew to this island were such as espoused the covenant of grace, and were under great persecution from them that sided with the covenant of works. There is a very considerable trade from Rhode-island to the sugar colonies for butter and cheese, a sure sign of the fruitfulness and beauty of the place, for horses, sheep, beef, pork, tallow, and timber, from which the traders have been enriched. It is deservedly called the Paradise of New England, for the great fruitfulness of the soil, and the temperature of the climate, which, though it be not above fifty-five miles from Boston, is a coat warmer in winter, and, being surrounded by the ocean, is not so much affected in summer with the hot land-breezes as the towns on the continent. They live in great amity with their neighbours, and, though every man does what he thinks right in his own eyes, it is rare that any notorious crimes are committed by them, which may be attributed in some measure to their great veneration for the Holy Scriptures, which they all read, from the least to the greatest, though they have neither ministers nor magistrates to recommend it to them.

Here Mr. Carew found many of his old acquaintance, particularly one Mr. Perkins, a stay-maker, and Mr. Gidley and his mother, who kept several negroes for distilling rum, and Mr. Southeon Lingworthy, a pewterer, all natives of Exeter, and one Mr. Martin, of Honiton, in Devon, they were all very glad to see him; he telling them, that he was taken by the Spaniards, and had escaped from prison, they treated him with very great kindness, and gave him letters to carry to their friends in England.

From hence he went through Piscataqua and Marblehead to Boston, the capital of New England, and the largest city in America, except two or three on the Spanish continent. It is pleasantly situated on a peninsula, about four miles in compass, at the bottom of a fine bay, (the Massachusets,) guarded from the roughness of the ocean by several rocks appearing above water, and by above a dozen islands, many of which are inhabited. One of these, called Nettle's island, within these few years, was esteemed worth two or three hundred pounds a year to the owner, Colonel Shrimpton. There is but one common and safe passage into the bay, and that not very broad, there being hardly room for three ships to come in abreast; but, being once in, there is room for the anchorage of five hundred sail.

The most remarkable of these islands is called Castle-island, from the castle there built. It stands about a league from the town, upon the main channel leading to it, and is so conveniently situated, that no ship of burden can approach the town, without the hazard of being torn in pieces by its cannon. It was now called Fort William, being mounted with one hundred pieces of ordnance: two hundred more which were given to the province of Queen Anne, are placed on a platform near high water mark, so as to rake a ship fore and aft, before she can bring her broadsides to bear against the castle. Some of these cannon are forty-two pounders. Five hundred able men are exempt from all military duty in time of war, to be ready to attend the service of the castle at an hour's warning, upon any signal of the approach of an enemy, of which there seems to be no great danger at Boston; where in twenty-four hours' time, ten thousand effective men, well armed, might be ready for their defence. To prevent all possible surprise, there is a light-house built on the rock appearing above water, about a long league from the town, which in time of war makes a signal to the castle, and the castle to the town, by hoisting and lowering the union flag, so many times as there are ships approaching, which, if they exceed a certain number, the castle fires three guns, to alarm the town of Boston; and the governor, if need be, orders a beacon to be fired, which alarms all the adjacent country; so that unless an enemy can be supposed to sail by so many islands and rocks in a fog, the town of Boston must have six or more hours to prepare for their reception; but, supposing they might pass the castle, there are two batteries at the north and south end of the town that command the whole bay, and make it impossible for an enemy's ship of any burden to ride there in safety, while the merchant-men and small craft may retire up into Charles-river, out of the reach of cannon.

It is equally impossible for any ship to be run away with out of this harbour by a pirate; for the castle suffers no ships outward-bound to pass, without a permit from the governor, which is never granted without a clearing from the custom-house, and the usual notice of sailing, by loosening the fore-top sail.

The bay of Boston is spacious enough to contain, in a manner, the whole navy of England. The masts of ships here, at the proper season of the year, make a kind of a wood of trees, like that which we see upon the river Thames about Wapping and Limehouse, which may be easily imagined, when we consider, that, by the computation given in by the collectors of his majesty's light-house, it appeared that there were twenty-four thousand tons of shipping cleared annually.

There is a larger pier at the bottom of the bay, one thousand eight hundred, or two thousand feet in length, with a row of warehouses on the north side. The pier runs so far into the bay, that ships of the greatest burden may unload without the help of boats and lighters. The chief streets of the town come down to the head of the pier. At the upper end of it is the town-house, or exchange, a fine building, containing, besides the walk for merchants, the council-chambers, the house of commons, and a spacious room for the courts of justice. The exchange is surrounded with booksellers' shops, who have a good trade. There are several printing-houses, where the presses are generally full of work, which is in a great measure, owing to the colleges and schools for useful learning in New England.

The town of Boston lies in the form of a half-moon round the harbour, consisting of between three and four thousand houses, and makes an agreeable prospect; the surrounding shore being high, the streets long, and the buildings beautiful. The goodness of the pavement may compare with most in London; to gallop a horse on it is three shillings and fourpence forfeit.

It is computed the number of inhabitants is not less than twenty-four thousand, which is one-third more than the computation of the city of Exeter, and consequently Boston is one-third bigger than that city, which is pretty near the matter.

There are ten churches in Boston, viz. Old Church, North Church, South Church, New Church, New North Church, New South Church, the Church of England Church, the Baptist Meeting, and the Quakers' Meeting.

The conversation in this town is as polite as in most of the cities and towns in England; many of their merchants having traded in Europe, and those that stay at home having the advantage of society with travellers; so that a gentleman from London would think himself at home in Boston, when he observes the number of people, their furniture, their tables, their dress, and conversation, which perhaps is as splendid and showy as that of the most considerable tradesmen in London. Upon the whole, Boston is the most flourishing town for trade and commerce in all America. Near six hundred sail of ships have been laden here in a year for Europe and the British plantations. Here the governor commonly resides, the general court and assembly meet, the courts of judicature sit, and the affairs of the whole province are transacted.

The streets are broad and regular; some of the richest merchants have very stately, well built, convenient houses. The ground on which the town stands is wonderfully high; and very good water is found all over it. There are several wharfs built, which jet into the harbour, one of which is eight hundred feet in length, where large ships with great ease may load and unload. On one side are warehouses almost the whole length of the wharf, where the merchants stow their goods; and more than fifty ships may load and unload there at the same time.

Coming into the city, Mr. Carew was surprised at the grandeur of it; and seeing a green hill at the end of the great street, much like Glastonbury Tower, he went up to it, and had a most beautiful prospect of the city from the top of it, where was placed the mast of a ship, with pullies to draw up a lighted barrel of tar to alarm the country in case of an invasion. Going down the hill again he met two drummers, a sergeant, and several soldiers and marines, who were, by the beat of drum, proclaiming, that the taverns and shopkeepers might safely credit the soldiers and marines to a certain value. Some of the soldiers presently knew him, and, accosting him, persuaded him to go along them to one Mother Passmore's, a house of rendezvous, where they were very merry together. While they were drinking, in came Captain Sharp, who commanded them, and who was an old acquaintance of our hero's. What, Mr. Carew! cried the captain in a surprise, who could think of seeing you here? When did you see my brother? I saw him, replied he, about six months ago, but his lady is dead. Is she so? said the captain, I have heard nothing of it. The captain having asked him several other questions, treated him very handsomely, and kept him some time at his own charge: but his heart glowing to see his native country, he once more resolved to ship himself for old England. He accordingly agreed to take the run with Captain Ball, of the Mary, for fifteen pounds, fifteen gallons of rum, ten pounds of sugar and tobacco, and ten pipes. They were two months on their voyage before they made Lundy, nothing material happening on their passage worthy of being recorded in this true history. The captain would not stop at Lundy for a pilot, but made for Combe, and there took one in, who brought the ship safe to King Road, and the next tide up to the quay at Bristol; and having moored the vessel, the crew spent the night on shore with their jolly landladies.

The next morning early they all got on board, and soon after the captain came with some Bristol merchants. The captain gave Mr. Carew a bill on his brother who lived at Topsham, and having received payment thereof, he soon turned his back on Bristol.

Mr. Carew, having left Bristol, made the best of his way to Bridgewater, and from thence unto Taunton, and so to Exeter, supporting his travelling expenses by his ingenuity as a mendicant. As soon as he arrived at Exeter, he made the best of his way to the house of an old acquaintance, where he expected to hear some news of his beloved wife; but going through East-gate, he was met by two gentlemen, who immediately cried out, Here's our old friend Carew! They then laid hold of him, and took him back to the Oxford Inn, where they inquired where he had been this long time. He acquainted them in what manner he had been seized, on Topsham quay, and carried to Maryland; he likewise informed of Captain Simmonds's death, (which they were sorry to hear of,) and that the vessel had been carried into port by Harrison, the mate, who was afterwards drowned, in company with some planters, in Talbot river.

Fame having soon sounded the arrival of our hero through every street in Exeter, several gentlemen flocked to the Oxford Inn to visit him, and amongst the rest merchant Davy. What! have you found your way home again? said the merchant. Yes, yes, replied he; as you sent me over for your pleasure, I am come back for my own; which made the gentlemen laugh very heartily. The merchant then asked him several questions about Captain Simmonds and Harrison, where he left the vessel, and if he had been sold. No, no, replied he, I took care to be out of the way before they had struck a bargain for me; and, as to the vessel, I left her in Miles river. The gentlemen could not help being surprised at his ingenuity and expedition, in thus getting home twice before the vessel which carried him out. Merchant Davy then proposed making a collection for him, and began it himself with half-a-crown; having therefore received a handsome contribution, he returned the gentlemen thanks, and took his leave, being impatient to hear some news about his wife. He went directly to his usual quarters, at Kitty Finnimore's, Castle-lane, where he occasioned no little terror to his landlady, she believing it to be his ghost, as she heard he was certainly dead; however, our hero soon convinced her he was real flesh and blood. He then inquired when she heard from his wife, who informed him, to his great joy, that both his wife and daughter were there a few days before, and were going towards Newton-Bushel; but they had given over all thoughts of seeing him any more, as they thought him dead.

He now set forward immediately for Newton-Bushel. Calling at Lord Clifford's in his way, he was told by Mrs. Ratcliffe, the housekeeper, and Mr. Kilshaw, the steward, (who were quite surprised to see him,) that his wife had been there just before, supposing him to be dead; and that he would find her at Newton-Bushel. Though it was then night, our hero, impatient of seeing his wife and daughter, set forward for Newton-Bushel, where he arrived late in the night. Going directly to his usual quarters, he found them all in bed, and calling out to the woman of the house, his wife, hearing his voice, immediately leaped out of bed, crying, it was her poor Bampfylde. A light was then struck with as much expedition as possible, and his wife, daughter, and landlady, all came down to open the door to him.

Here, how shall I find words to express the transports of our hero, the tender embraces of his wife, the endearing words of his daughter, and hearty congratulations of the landlady! Unable for the task, most gentle reader, I must imitate that celebrated painter who painted Agamemnon with a covering over his face, at the sacrifice of his daughter, and draw a veil over this scene of tenderness; let it suffice to say, that their joy was too full to be contained, and, not finding any other passage, gushed out in tears.

The next morning, accompanied by his wife and daughter, he went and paid his respects to Sir Thomas Carew, at Hackum, where they were received with great kindness; and Sir Thomas told him, if he would forsake the mendicant order, he would take care to provide for him and his family. He returned Sir Thomas a great many thanks, but declared, that, as he had entered himself into the mendicant order, he was resolved to continue therein as long as he lived; but hoped if any accident happened to him, he would extend his goodness to his dear wife and daughter.

It was about this time, that one of the greatest personages in the kingdom being at Bath, Mr. Carew was drawn thither with the rest of the world to see her, but to more advantage indeed to himself than most others reaped from it; for making himself as much an Hanoverian as he could in his dress, &c., he presented a petition to her as an unfortunate person of that country; and as every one is inclined to be kind to their own countryfolks, he had from her a very princely benefaction.

Some time after this, Squire Morrice, who succeeded to the fine seat and estate of Sir William Morrice, near Launceston, in Cornwall, coming to reside there, and hearing much talk of Mr. Carew, was very desirous of seeing him; and he happening to come soon after into that neighbourhood, some of the servants, who knew their master's inclinations, chancing to see him, soon conducted him to the house, and showed him immediately into the parlour, where Mr. Morrice was with a good deal of company. Mr. Carew was made very welcome, and the company had a great deal of conversation with him, during which Mr. Morrice very nicely examined every feature in his countenance, and at last declared, that he would lay any wager that he should know him again, come in what shape he would, so as not to be imposed upon by him. One of the company took Mr. Morrice up, and a wager was laid that Mr. Carew should do it within such a limited time; this being agreed upon, Mr. Carew took his leave. He soon began to meditate in what shape he should be able to deceive the circumspection of Mr. Morrice; and in a few days came to the house, and endeavoured in two or three different shapes, and with as many different tales, to obtain charity from Mr. Morrice, but he, remembering his wager, would hearken to none. At last, understanding that Mr. Morrice was to go out a hunting one morning with several of the company who were present when the wager was laid, he dressed himself like a neat old woman, and walking in the road where they were riding along, all of a sudden he fell down, and so well counterfeited all the distortion of the most violent fits in such a terrible manner, that Mr. Morrice was greatly affected with the poor creature's condition, ordering his servants to get down and assist her, staying himself till she was brought a little to herself, then gave her a piece of money, and ordered one of his servants to show her his house, that she might have some refreshment there; but Mr. Carew, having obtained what he desired, flung off the old woman, and discovered himself to Mr. Morrice and the rest of the company, wishing them all a good-morrow: upon which he owned that he had fairly lost the wager.

Mr. Carew, some time after this, steered his course for Oxford, where he visited Messrs. Treby, Stanford, Cooke, and other collegians, his particular friends, of whom he got a trencher-cap.—Having staid at Oxford as long as was agreeable to his inclinations, he set out for Abington, and from thence to Marlborough, having put on a pair of white stockings, a grey waistcoat, and the trencher-cap. Thus equipped, he pretended to be disordered in his mind; and, as his knowledge of the Latin tongue enabled him to intermix a few Latin phrases in his discourse, which he made very incoherent, he was in no fear of being discovered. Under this character he, therefore, went to the minister of Marlborough, who, seeing his dress, and finding he could talk Latin, made no doubt but he was an Oxford scholar, whose brain was turned, either by too much study or some misfortune; he therefore talked to him a good deal, endeavouring to find out the cause; telling him, that, though he was unfortunate now, things might go better with him hereafter; but he could get nothing but incoherent answers from him: however, he gave him half-a-crown. From hence he went to Market-Lavington, where he likewise deceived the minister; and going forward to Warminster, he met with Dr. Squire, and his brother, the Archdeacon of Bath, who both took him for an Oxford scholar whose brain was turned, and relieved him as such.

The next morning he went in the same dress to Mrs. Groves, at Wincanton, and from thence to the Rev. Mr. Birt's, at Sutton, at both of which places he was much pitied, and handsomely relieved. He then steered for Somerton, and visited the Rev. Mr. Dickenson; but this mask would not avail him here, for the parson discovered him through it; but he desired him to keep it secret till he was gone out of town, which he accordingly did: he therefore went boldly to the Rev. Mr. Keat, and pretended to be a scholar of Baliol College, which Mr. Keat believing, and pitying his condition, he gave him a crown.

Next day he went to Bridgewater in the same habit, and from thence to Sir Charles Tynte's, at Haswell: going into the court, he was met by the Rev. Mr. Standford, who immediately knew him, and accosted him with, How do you do, friend Carew! Soon after that came Sir Charles, who accosted him also in the same manner. Mr. Standford and he made themselves very merry at the character he had assumed. Well, said Sir Charles, we will make you drink, but unless you can deceive my Bess, (so he was pleased to call his lady,) you shall have nothing of me; but whatever she gives, I'll double. He was then ordered into the hall, and exchanged his cap for a hat with one of the servants; after waiting some time lady Tynte came down. It will here be proper to observe, that this lady, though of a very charitable disposition to her poor neighbours, having been often deceived by mendicants, and finding few of them deserving of her charity, had resolved to relieve no unknown objects, however plausible their tale; but our hero, depending upon his art, was not afraid to accept of Sir Charles's challenge. From the servants' hall he watched a proper opportunity of accosting the lady, and she passed and repassed several times before he could speak to her. At last, seeing her standing in the hall talking with Sir Charles, he came behind her, and accosted her with—God bless you, most gracious lady. The lady turned about and asked him pretty hastily from whence he came? I am a poor unfortunate man, replied he, who was taken by two French privateers coming from Boston, and carried into Boulogne, where we were teased day and night to enter into the French service, but refused to do it. And how got you from thence? asked the lady. We took an opportunity of breaking out of the prison, and seized upon a fishing-boat in the harbour, with which we got safe to Lymington, being in all twenty-five of us, where we sold our boat. What do you beg for then? if you sold your boat, you must have money. Several of us were sick, replied he, which was very expensive. But what countryman are you? I am an Old England man, please you, my lady, but I have my wife in Wales. From what part? says the lady, who was a native of Wales herself. I married, replied he, one Betty Larkey, who lived with Sir John Morgan, and afterwards with parson Griffy, at Swansea. Ay, did you marry Betty Larkey?—how many children have you by her? Only one daughter, replied he. In the mean time Sir Charles and the parson were ready to burst with containing their laughter, to see how he managed my lady to bring her to; for his assertion of having married Betty Larkey, who was a country-woman of my lady's, and formerly known to her, was a loadstone which presently drew my lady's hand to her purse; then turning to Sir Charles, she asked him if he had any small money about him? I have none, replied Sir Charles, pretty bluntly, being scarce able to contain himself from bursting out into laughter; so she went up stairs, and soon returning, gave him five shillings, and asked him to eat and drink, going out herself to call the butler. In the mean time Sir Charles stepped nimbly into the servant's hall, and fetched the Oxford cap, which he put on Mr. Carew's head. The lady and butler came in immediately after, and she, seeing the cap upon his head, cried out, God bless me! what, did you bring that from France? It is just like one of our Oxford scholar's caps. Ay, so it is indeed, my lady, replied Sir Charles; why don't you know who it is? It is Bampfylde Moore Carew. Ay, ay, this is your doings, Sir Charles, said the lady; and went away somewhat disgusted at the trick that had been put upon her. Sir Charles, however, was as good as his word, in doubling the money his lady gave, and parson Standford gave him half-a-crown.

Some time after this, he called upon the Miss Hawkers, of Thorn, near Yeovil, who treated him very hospitably, and inquired what news he had heard, it being in the late rebellion. Whilst he was talking with them, he observed a new house almost opposite, and inquired who lived there. They told him one parson Marks, a dissenting clergyman; upon which, taking leave of the ladies, he stept over the way, and knocked boldly at the door, which was opened by the parson himself. Sir, said Mr. Carew, pulling off his hat, and accosting him with a demure countenance, I have come three miles out of my road on purpose to call upon you. I believe, Sir, you are acquainted with my brother, Mr. John Pike, of Tiverton, teacher of a dissenting congregation of that place; and you have undoubtedly heard something of his brother Roger Pike, which unfortunate man I am, having been taken prisoner coming from Boston in New England, by two French privateers, and carried into Boulogne, where we were cruelly treated. Alack, alack! said the parson; pray come in, good Mr. Roger. I am indeed very well acquainted with that worthy servant of God, your brother, Mr. John Pike, and a gracious man he is; I have likewise heard him mention his brother Roger. He then ordered some victuals and drink to be instantly brought out for good Roger Pike. While he was eating, he inquired how he got away from Boulogne. He replied, that twenty-five of them had broken out of prison, and seized upon a vessel, in the harbour, by which they had got safe to the English coast. Well, said the parson, what news did you hear in France? It is reported there, replied he, that the rebels are very powerful in Scotland, and that great numbers are gone over to them safe from France. Stop a little, Roger, cried the parson; and running up stairs, soon after came down with a letter in his hand, which he read to him, wherein it was said that the rebels were very powerful; then shaking his head very sorrowfully, cried, indeed, Mr. Pike, I cannot be at ease, for they say they will make us examples, on account of the 30th of January. Never fear them, Sir, said Mr. Carew; we shall be a match for them in Devonshire and Cornwall. I am afraid not, cries the parson, shaking his head again; I have had no rest for thinking of them these several nights past. After some farther discourse, he fetched Mr. Pike a good Holland shirt, and clapped a half-guinea into his hand, entreating him to take a bed with him that night, for that he should be heartily welcome; but he desired to be excused, and took his leave with many thanks, and returned to Miss Hawker's again. Well, Mr. Carew, cried the ladies, you have had a very long conference with the parson. Ay, ay, replied he, and to good purpose too, for this shirt and a half-guinea are the fruits of it; and then told them in what manner he had deceived the parson, which made them laugh very heartily; they then gave him five shillings, and promised to keep Mr. Pike's secret for a day or two.

A few days after, the parson going over to see the ladies, they asked him if a poor seaman had been at his house. Yes, replied the parson, it was one Roger Pike, whose brother had a congregation in Tiverton, and whom I am very well acquainted with. And did you give him any assistance? Yes, I gave him a shirt and a half-guinea: and we gave him five shillings, said the ladies, not as being Roger Pike, but as Mr. Bampfylde Moore Carew; at which the parson was in a very great hurry, and would scarce be convinced but that it was old Roger Pike. Thus had Mr. Carew the happy art of suiting his eloquence to every temper and every circumstance; for his being the brother of good Mr. Pike, of Tiverton, was as powerful a loadstone to attract the parson, as his marrying of Betty Larkey had been to Lady Tynte.

From hence he went to parson White's, at Cocker, where he found Justice Proctor: here he passed for an unfortunate sailor, who had been cast away coming from the Baltic, and was now travelling to his native place, Tintagel, in Cornwall. Parson White asked who was minister there, he replied, that one Atkins was curate, and that there was no other there at that time. The justice asked but few questions, and told him he ought to have a pass, and asked where he landed. He replied, at Dover. Had you a pass, then, from the mayor there? We had one, said he, very readily; but some of our company being sick, and myself in good health, I left them the pass, and came forward by myself, they not being able to travel so fast. Why then, says the justice, you are liable to be taken up as a vagrant, for begging without a pass: however, we will relieve you; and if you call upon gentlemen only, they will scarcely molest you. He returned them a great many thanks for this civility, and then went to a tanner's hard by, where he changed his story, and passed for a bankrupt tanner. Here he was likewise relieved, as he touched upon the right string; for had he passed here for an unfortunate sailor, probably his eloquence would have had no effect.

From hence he went to the parson of East Chinock, and told him that he belonged to a man-of-war, in which his brother was lieutenant. Being then about dinner time, the parson asked if he could eat sea provisions, such as pork and peas, which he readily accepting of, they sat down together, and had a great deal of discourse about the lieutenant. Next he went to Madam Philips, of Montacute, where happened to be Parson Bower, of Martock, who asked him if he knew Bampfylde Moore Carew? Sir, replied he, I am of Tintagel, in Cornwall, and know the Carews there very well, and have heard of the wanderer you speak of, who, I'm told, is a great dog stealer, but know not what has become of him; for some say he is hanged. God forbid he is hanged, cried the parson, upon account of his family; and after some other questions, he was relieved with sixpence. Leaving Montacute, he went forward to Yeovil, having appointed to meet his wife and daughter at the sign of the Boot, Sherborne, and from Yeovil to Squire Hellier's, at Leweston, who treated him very handsomely, and would have had him stay there all night, but he excused himself, being impatient to see his wife and daughter.

As soon as he came to Sherborne, he went to his usual quarters, the sign of the Boot, where he inquired for his wife and daughter; but how was he thunder-struck, when he was told they were in hold, at Webb's the bailiff! He inquired for what reason, and was informed, that four officers had been walking all through the town to take up all strangers, such as chimney-sweepers, tinkers, pedlars, and the like. What could our hero do? he revolved it over and over in his mind, and at last determined to go to Webb's, resolving either to free his wife and daughter, or else to share their fate. When he came there, he asked to see the prisoners, and demanded upon what account they had apprehended his wife, as she had neither stolen nor begged in the town: this occasioned high words, and at last ended in blows. Long did our hero maintain an unequal fight with great valour. At length, being overpowered with numbers, he fell, but not till his assailants had felt the force of his arms. He was kept in safe custody that night, and the next morning taken, with the rest of the prisoners, before Thomas Medlycott, Esq., at Milbourn Port, where they were all examined, and all maintained their professions to be extremely useful. The chimney-sweeper alleged, he preserved houses from taking fire, whereby he saved whole towns, and consequently was a useful member to his country. The tinker harangued on the usefulness of kettles, brass pans, frying-pans, &c., and of consequence, what use he was of to the public: and our hero declared he was the famous Bampfylde Moore Carew, and had served his king and country both by sea and land.

The justice thought proper to send these useful men to their respective parishes, at the public expense: accordingly Mr. Carew, with his wife and daughter, were ordered to Bickley, in Devonshire. The Sherborne people waited upon them to Yeovil, where they were delivered to the care of the chief magistrate. The next day, horses being provided, they set out for Thomas Proctor's, Esq., at Cocker: but, he refusing to sign the pass, they proceeded to Axminster, where the magistrate refused to receive them, on account of the pass not being signed; upon which they would have left Mr. Carew, but he insisted upon being accomodated to the end of his journey, they therefore adjourned to Mr. Tucker's, about two miles from Axminster, who asked him if he had a mind to have his attendants dismissed, or chose to have their company to Bickley; and he replying that he did not choose to have them dismissed, Mr. Tucker signed the warrant, and our hero, with his wife and daughter, rode all the way very triumphantly into Bickley, where, as soon as they arrived, the bells were set a ringing, and the greatest joy spread through all the place.

Mr. Carew remained some time at Bickley, but fresh news arriving every day of the progress of the rebels, that insatiable curiosity which had always actuated his breast, prompted him to go and see the army of the rebels: he therefore, taking his leave of his wife and daughter, though they entreated him with tears not to go to the North, made the best of his way towards Edinburgh.

After some days travel, Mr. Carew arrived at the city of Edinburgh, which lies in a sort of a valley, between two hills, one of which is called Salisbury Crags, the other marks the foundation of the castle. It was strongly walled, and is adorned with public and private buildings. At the extremity of the east end of the city stands the palace of Holyrood house; leaving which, a little to the left, you come through a populous suburb to the entrance, called the Water-port. From hence, turning west, the street goes on in a straight line through the whole city to the castle, which is above a mile in length, and is said by the Scots to be the largest and finest street for buildings and number of inhabitants in Europe. From the palace door, which stands on a level with the lowest of the plain country, this street begins to ascend very gradually, being no where steep; but this ascent being continued for so long a way, it is easy to understand that the furthest part must be necessarily very high; for the castle, which stands as it were at the extremity, west, as the palace does east, makes on all sides (that only excepted which joins it to the city) a frightful and inaccessible precipice. The castle is situated on a high rock, and strongly fortified with a great number of towers, so that it is looked upon as impregnable. In the great church they have a set of bells, which are not rung out as in England, (for that way of ringing is not now known in this country,) but are played on by the hand with keys, like a harpsichord, the person playing having great leather covers for his fists, which enables him to strike with the more force; and for the larger bells there are treddles, which he strikes with his feet.

They play all manner of tunes very musically; and the town gives a man a yearly salary for playing upon them, from half-an-hour after eleven till half-an-hour after twelve every day, Sundays and holidays excepted. On the south side of this church is a square of very fine buildings, called the Parliament Close, the west and south side of which are mostly taken up with the Parliament house, the several courts of justice, the council chamber, the exchequer, the public registers, the lawyers' library, the post-office, &c. The great church makes up the north side of the square, and the east, and part of the south side, is built into private dwellings, very stately, lofty, and strong, being seven stories high to the front of the square, and the hill that they stand on having a very deep descent; some of them are no less than fourteen stories high backwards. Holyrood house is a very handsome building, rather convenient than large; it was formerly a royal palace and an abbey, founded by King David I. for the canons regular of St. Austin, who named it Holyrood-house, or the house of the Holy Cross, which was destroyed by Oliver Cromwell, but nobly re-edificed by King Charles the second, and of which his grace the Duke of Hamilton is hereditary keeper; it is now almost entirely neglected.

The entrance from the great outer court is adorned with pillars of hewn stone, under a cupola, in form of an imperial crown, balustrated on each side at the top. The fore part has two wings, on each side of which are two turrets; that towards the north was built by King James V. whose name it bears in letters of gold; and that towards the south (as well as the rest) by Charles II, whereof Sir William Bruce was the architect. The inner court is very stately, all of free-stone, well hewn, with a colonade round it, from whence are entries into the several apartments; but above all, the long gallery is very remarkable, being adorned with the pictures of all the Scotch kings, from Fergus the first, done by masterly hands. Here Mr. Carew met the rebels, but having no mind to join them, he pretended to be very sick and lame; however, he accosted them with, God bless you, noble gentlemen! and the rebels moving on to Carlisle, he hopped after them, and from thence to Manchester, and there had a sight of the Pretender's son, and other commanders. He afterwards accompanied them to Derby, where a report was spread, that the Duke of Cumberland was coming to fight them; upon which, their courage failing, though the Pretender's son was for fighting, they retreated back to Carlisle; upon which he thought it time to leave them, and hopped homewards on his crutches, taking care to change his note to "God bless King George, and the brave Duke William!" Coming into Bristol, he met with one Mr. P—-, an apothecary, who had formerly known him at St. Mary Ottery, in Devon. Mr. P—- was very glad to see him, and took him to a tavern, where he treated him very handsomely, and then sent for his wife, sister, and other friends, to come and see him. They were all highly pleased to see a man they had heard so much talk of, and, after spending some hours very merrily with him, they would have him to try his fortune in that city, but to take care of the mint. Accordingly he went to a place of rendezvous of the brothers of the mendicant order in Temple-street, equipped himself in a very good suit of clothes, and then went upon the Exchange, as the supercargo of a ship called the Dragon, which had been burnt by lightning off the Lizard point. By this story he raised a very handsome contribution on the merchants and captains of vessels, it being well known that such a ship had been burnt in the manner he described. He then returned to his friend Mr. P—-, the apothecary, and, knocking at the door, asked if he was at home; upon which Mr. P—-, came forth, and, not knowing him again in his supercargo's dress, made him a very low bow, and desired him to walk in. Mr. Carew asked him if he had any fine salve, as he had met with an accident, and burnt his elbow; upon which Mr. P—- ran behind his counter, and reached down a pot of salve, desiring, with a great deal of complaisance, the favour of looking at his elbow; he then discovered himself, which occasioned no little diversion to Mr. P—- and his family, who made him very welcome.

Going back to his quarters, he laid aside his finery, and dressed himself more meanly, like to a labouring mechanic; he then went into the street, and acted like a madman, talking in a raving manner about Messrs. Whitfield and Wesley, as though he was disordered in his mind by their preaching; calling in a furious manner at every step upon the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate, and Mary Magdalen, and acting the part of a man religiously mad. Sometimes he walked with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and then, of a sudden, he would break out into some passionate expressions about religion. This behaviour greatly excited the curiosity and compassion of the people, some of whom talked to him, but he answered every thing they said in a wild and incoherent manner; and, as compassion is generally the forerunner of charity, he was relieved by the most of them.

The next morning he appeared in a morning-gown, still acting the madman, and carried it so far now, as to address himself to all the posts in the streets, as if they were saints, lifting up his hands and eyes in a fervent though distracted manner to heaven, and making use of so many extravagant gestures, that he astonished the whole city. Going through Castle-street, he met the Rev. Mr. B—-c, a minister of that place, whom he accosted with his arms thrown round him; and insisted, in a raving manner, he should tell him who was the father of the morning star; which frightened the parson so much, that he took to his heels and ran for it, he running after him, till he took shelter in a house.

Having well recruited his pockets by this stratagem, he left the city next day, and travelled towards Bath, acting the madman all the way till he came to Bath. As soon as he came there, he inquired for Dr. Cooney's, and being directed to his house, found two brother mendicants at the door; after they had waited some time, the servant brought each of them a halfpenny, for which his brother mendicants were very thankful; but Mr. Carew gave his halfpenny to one of them; then knocking at the door, and the maid coming out again, Tell your master, said he, I am not a halfpenny man, but that my name is Bampfylde Moore Carew, king of the mendicants, which being told, the Dr. came out with one of his daughters, and gave him sixpence and a mug of drink, for which he returned thanks.

The next day he went to Mr. Allen's seat, near Bath, and sent in a petition as from a poor lunatic, by which he got half-a-crown. From thence he made the best of his way to Shepton Mallet, when, calling at Mr. Hooper's, and telling the servant who he was, the mistress ordered him in, and inquired if he was really the famous Bampfylde Carew; she then gave him five shillings, and ordered him to be well entertained. At Shepton Mallet our hero had the pleasure of meeting with his beloved wife, to their mutual joy and satisfaction; and finding several brethren of the order there, they passed some days together with much mirth and harmony.

Going near Rye, in Sussex, (where, upon account of their extraordinary merit, the two brothers L—-d are perpetually mayors,) he met two of his mendicant subjects, who acquainted him there was no entering the town, but with extreme hazard to his person, upon account of the severity which the mayor exercised towards all of their community. Mr. Carew's wife hearing this, entreated him in the most tender manner not to venture into the town; but as his great heart always swelled when any thing hazardous presented, and as he was willing to show his subjects, by example, that nothing was too difficult for industry and ingenuity to overcome, he was resolved to enter Rye; which he did with a very slow, feeble, and tottering pace, stopping every minute by the most violent fits of coughing, whilst every limb shook with an universal palsy, his countenance appearing rather to be the property of some one among the dead than to belong to any living body: in this manner he crept along to the mayor's house, and in a most lamentable moan begged some relief. The mayor, seeing so deplorable a figure, said he was indeed a real object of pity; and therefore gave him a shilling, and liberty to go through the town; which he did with no little profit, and with great applause from the mendicants, when they heard of his success.

Steering from thence to Dungeness, he found a vessel ready to sail for Boulogne, on board of which he embarked, and landed safe there; and found it so thronged with English soldiers, (it being soon after the reducing of the army,) that had he not known the contrary, he should have thought himself in some town in England. Some of the soldiers knowing him, cried out, Here's Bampfylde Moore Carew! upon which they took him along with them to their quarters, and they passed the day very merrily: the soldiers expressed great discontent at their being discharged, swearing they would never come over to England any more, saying, if they had not come over then, they should have been either starved or hanged. He then inquired how they lived in France? They replied, never better in their lives. From Boulogne he set off for Calais; where he likewise found a great multitude of English soldiers, and more were daily coming in. Whilst he was here, the Duke of Richmond arrived, in his way to Paris; who, seeing many English soldiers, asked some of them why they came there? to which they replied, they should have been either starved or hanged if they had staid in England. Mr. Carew intended to have paid his respects to his grace, but had not an opportunity; and soon after, being taken very ill, was obliged to desist from his intended design of making a tour through France, Germany, &c.

He therefore took a passage in the packet-boat from Calais, and landed at Dover; from hence he went to Folkstone, where he got a pass and relief from the mayor, under the name of John Moore, a native of St. Ives, in Cornwall, who had been cast away on the coast of France, in a vessel coming from Ireland. Having borne this character as long as suited his inclination, he metamorphosed himself again, and appeared in quite a different shape. He now wore a full handsome tie-wig, but a little changed by age; a good beaver hat, somewhat duffy; a fine broad-cloth coat, but not of the newest fashion, and not a little faded in its colour. He was now a gentleman of an ancient family and good estate, but reduced by a train of uncommon misfortunes. His venerable looks, his dejected countenance, the visible struggles between the shame of asking and the necessity which forced him to it, all operated to move the pity of those he applied to, which was generally shown by handsome contributions, for few could think of offering mites to a gentleman of so ancient a family, and who had formerly lived so well; and indeed how much soever we may envy the great in their prosperity, we are as ready to relieve them in their misfortunes.

Mr. Carew happening to be in the city of Wells, in Somersetshire, on a Sunday, was told that the bishop was to preach that morning: upon which he slips on a black waistcoat and morning-gown, and went out to meet the bishop as he was walking in procession, and addressed himself to his lordship as a poor unhappy man, whose misfortunes had turned his brain; which the bishop hearing, gave him five shillings. From Wells he steered to Bridgewater, but did not appear in the day-time, and went only in the evenings upon his crutches, as a poor lame man, not being known by any one till he discovered himself.

Having heard that young Lord Clifford, his first cousin, (who had just returned from his travels abroad,) was at his seat at Callington, about four miles from Bridgewater, he resolved to pay him a visit. In his way thither resided Parson C—-, who being one whom nature had made up in a hurry without a heart, Mr. Carew had never been able to obtain any thing of him, even under the most moving appearance of distress, but a cup of small drink. Stopping now in his way, he found the parson was gone to Lord Clifford's, but being saluted at the door by a fine black spaniel, with almost as much crustiness as he would have been, had his master been at home, he thought himself under no stronger obligation of observing the strict laws of honour, than the parson did of hospitality; and therefore soon charmed the crossness of the spaniel, and made him follow him to Bridgewater; for it is very remarkable "that the art has been found of taming the most savage and ill-natured brutes, which is generally attended with success; but it requires a much higher skill, and is but seldom successful, to soften the ill-nature and inhumanity of man: whether it is that the brutes are more capable of receiving instruction, or whether the ill-nature of man exceeds that of the brutes, we cannot well determine."

Having secured the spaniel, and passed the night merrily in Bridgewater, he set out the next morning for Lord Clifford's, and in his way called upon the parson again, who very crustily told him he had lost his dog, and supposed some of his gang had stolen him: to which Mr. Carew very calmly replied, What was he to his dog, or what was his dog to him? if he would make him drink it was well, for he was very dry: at last, with the use of much rhetoric, he got a cup of small drink; then, taking leave of him, he went to the Red Lion, in the same parish, where he staid some time. In the mean time down ran the parson to my Lord Clifford's, to acquaint him that Mr. Carew was in the parish, and to advise him to take care of his dogs; so that Mr. Carew, coming down immediately after, found a servant with one dog in his arms, and another with another: here one stood whistling and another calling, and both my lord and his brother were running about to seek after their favourites.

Mr. Carew asked my lord what was the meaning of this hurry, and if his dogs were cripples, because he saw several carried in the servants' arms: adding, he hoped his lordship did not imagine he was come to steal any of them. Upon which his lordship told him, that parson C—- had advised him to be careful, as he had lost his spaniel but the day before. It may be so, replied he: the parson knows but little of me, or the laws of our community, if he is ignorant that with us ingratitude is unknown, and the property of our friends always sacred. His lordship, hearing this, entertained him very handsomely, and both himself and his brother made him a present.

There being about this time a great fair at Bridgewater, in the county of Somerset, our hero appeared there upon crutches as a poor miserable cripple, in company with many of his subjects that were full as unfortunate as himself, some blind, some deaf, some dumb, &c., among whom were his old friends and school-fellows Martin, Escott, and Coleman. The mayor of that corporation, a bitter enemy to their community, jocosely said, that he would make the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame walk; and by way of preparation or beginning to this intended cure, he had them all apprehended and confined in a dark hole, which greatly terrified them with the apprehension of severe punishment. After one night's repose in limbo, he sent a physician or surgeon of most profound skill and judgment to them, who brought the keys of their melancholy apartments, and pretending greatly to befriend them, advised them, if there were any of them counterfeits, to make haste out of the town, or otherwise they must expect no mercy from the mayor, unknown to whom he had privately stolen the keys; then, unlocking the door, forth issued the disabled and infirm prisoners; the lame threw aside their crutches and artificial legs, and made an exceeding good use of their natural ones: the blind made shift to see the way out of town; and the deaf themselves, with great attention, hearkened to this their friend, and followed his advice with all possible speed. The mayor, with the aldermen and several gentlemen, planted themselves opposite to the prison, and were spectators to this diverting scene, calling out to stop them, not with an intention to do them any prejudice, but only of adding a spur to their speed: however there were some who were ready enough to lay hold on them, and our hero, in a struggle of this nature, left a skirt of his garment behind him, which might be done without much violence, as we may reasonably conclude it to have been none of the soundest; and Coleman was so closely pursued, that he plunged into the river, and swam to the opposite shore: in short, so well did these cripples ply their limbs, that none of them could be taken, excepting a real object, a lame man, who, in spite of the fear and consternation he was in, could not mend his decrepid pace: he therefore was brought before the mayor, who, after slightly rebuking him for his vagrant course of life, ordered him to be relieved in a very plentiful and generous manner, and the whole corporation was exceeding kind to him.

One method of gaining his ends our hero had peculiar to himself. He used with great intent to read the inscriptions on tombs and monuments in church-yards, and when the deceased person had a character for piety and charity, he would with the greatest importunity apply to his or her surviving relations: and, if they refused an alms, he would, in the most moving terms imaginable, implore their charity for the sake of their deceased relation, praying they would follow the laudable and virtuous example of their dead husband, wife, father, mother, or the like; hoping there was the same God, the same spirit of piety, religion, and charity, still dwelling in the house as before the death of the person deceased. These and the like expressions, uttered in a most suppliant and pathetic voice, used to extort not only very handsome contributions, but tears from the person to whom he applied.

Some time after this, he engaged, at Burton, in Somersetshire, in the habit and character of a seaman, cast away in coming from Newfoundland, with a captain, who, by his great severity, had rendered himself the terror of all the mendicant order; but he, relying upon his perfect acquaintance with the country, ventured up to him, had the best entertainment his house afforded, and was honourably dismissed with a considerable piece of money. Captains H—-h and N—-n, with both of whom our hero had sailed, were intimate acquaintances of this captain, of whom he asked many questions, and also about Newfoundland, which country trade he had used the most part of the time; to all which questions he gave very satisfactory answers. This captain had detected so many impostors, that he concluded they were all so; but, not being able to find Mr. Carew in any one error, he was very proud of it, pitied and relieved him in an extraordinary manner, went with him himself to the principal people of the town, wrote him letters of recommendation to his distant relations and friends, that lay in his road, and acted with such extraordinary kindness, as if he thought he could never do enough; it is to be remarked, that he passed rather for a passenger than a seaman.

In the same town lived Lord B—-y, who had a son, who was captain of the Antelope man-of-war, stationed in the West Indies, and who died on the passage; Mr. Carew informed himself of every circumstance relating thereto, and made it his business to meet his lordship as he came out of church. After his first application, he gave his lordship to understand, that he was a spectator of the burial of his son on board the Antelope; at the same time came up this critical captain, who gave him the character of a man of great veracity, so that his lordship gave him a guinea, his eldest son five shillings, and also good entertainment from the house. This happened to be a fair day; he thereupon, going into the town, was accosted by an apothecary, who whispered him in the ear, saying, that he knew him to be the famous Bampfylde Moore Carew, and had most grossly imposed upon the captain and the town, but at the same time assured him that he would not injure him, but faithfully keep the secret. In the mean time there was an Irish quack-doctor in view, who had gathered the whole market around him, and who, with more strength of lungs than sense of argument, most loudly harangued, entertaining them in a very florid manner with the sovereign virtues of his pills, plasters, and self; and so far did he impose upon them, as to vend his packets pretty plentifully, which the apothecary could not forbear beholding with an envious eye, and jocularly asked Mr. Carew if he could not help him to some revenge upon this dangerous rival and antagonist of his; which he promised him to do effectually.

Accordingly he got a little phial, and filled it up with spirits of turpentine; he then mixed in with the gaping auditory of this Irish itinerant physician, who was in the midst of them, mounted on his steed adorned with a pompous curb-bridle, with a large parcel of all-curing medicines in his bags behind him, and was with a great deal of confidence and success, AEsculapius like, distributing health around him: we must observe, that our physician had taken his stand among the stalls of orange and gingerbread merchants, shoemakers, glovers, and other such retailers.

Mr. Carew therefore approached him, and planted himself close by the horse, and, wetting his fingers with the spirits, rested his hand upon the steed, as an unconcerned person might have done; at the same time putting aside the hair, he rubbed the turpentine upon the bare flesh, which immediately beginning to burn and smart, the afflicted quadruped began to express his sense of pain, by flinging his hinder legs, gently shaking himself, and other restless motions, which made the poor mountebank wonder what had befallen his horse; but the pain increasing, the disorderly behaviour of the steed increased proportionably, who now began to kick, prance, stand on end, neigh, immoderately shake himself, utterly disregarding both his bridle and rider, and running a tilt against the stalls of oranges, gingerbread, gloves, breeches, shoes, &c., which he overthrew and trampled under foot; this occasioned a scramble among the boys for the eatables, and there were some who were but too unmerciful to the scattered goods of the poor shoemakers and glovers, who, enraged by their several losses, began to curse the doctor and his Rosinante, who was all this while capering, roaring, and dancing among their oranges, panniers of eggs, &c., to the entire ruin of the hucksters, who now began to deal very heavy blows, both on the unfortunate horse and his distressed master. This odd spectacle and adventure attracted the eyes and attention of the whole fair, which was all in an uproar, some laughing, some crying, (particularly the poor suffering pedlars,) some fighting, and others most unmercifully cursing and swearing; to make short of the story, the doctor rode about the fair, without either hat or wig, at the pleasure and discretion of his horse, among the ruined and overturned stalls and the dissipated mob, who concluded both the quack and the steed to be either mad or bewitched, and enjoyed their frolicsome situation.

The doctor, being no longer able to keep his seat, fell headlong into the miry street; the horse ran into a river, and rolled himself over several times, to the entire confusion and ruin of the inestimable pills and plasters; the doctor employed a good farrier, and after some time the horse came to himself again. The reader may very easily judge what glorious diversion this was for the apothecary and Mr. Carew, who were spectators of the whole scene. He was treated handsomely upon this account, not only by the apothecary, but all others of the same profession in the town, and several other gentlemen.

Upon Mr. Carew's departure from Burton, the generous captain befriended him with many recommendatory letters to friends and acquaintance, that lay in his road, as he pretended: nay, indeed, he was never out of it; thence he proceeded to Bristol, and other places where the letters were directed to, and received considerable sums of money from many, on account of these letters, which were mostly to captains of vessels, and gentlemen that had been at sea, with whom he several times passed muster very well; it being by desire of the captain, as was mentioned in the letters, that they examined him.

Sometimes he and his wife, in conjunction with Coleman and his wife, being all dressed genteelly, passed for gipseys of extraordinary knowledge and reputation: many a poor credulous unsuspecting person became their prey, and many a good booty they got in almost every town of the counties of Cornwall and Devon. Once in particular, himself and Coleman, with both their spouses, being in Buckford-sleigh, near Exeter, one Mr. Collard, a wealthy but simple shoemaker, came to their quarters, to consult them on a very intricate and important affair; he told them, "that it was the opinion of every body in the country, that his grandmother had somewhere concealed very large sums of money before her death, and that himself, by several dreams, was confirmed in the same opinion, and that he thought proper to advise with them upon the affair; not doubting but they, by the help of their profound learning and knowledge, for which they were so famous through the west, were capable of informing him in what particular place he might find this particular treasure, which if they would discover to him, he would give them thirty guineas."

Our magicians, after long deliberation and consultation with their books, told him, "that if he would that night take a walk with one of them, he would see the spirit of his grandmother; that he must not be afraid of the apparition, but follow it till it vanished away, and in that individual spot of ground from which the ghost vanished, there he would find the hidden treasure."

In order for the execution of this scheme, Coleman put a woman's cap on his head, washed his face, and sprinkled meal on it while wet, stuck the broken pieces of a tobacco-pipe between his teeth, and wrapping his body in a white sheet, planted himself in the road that Collard and Mr. Carew were to come; the moon at this time shone very bright, which gave an additional horror to the pretended spectre. Our hero, by virtue of his supposed profound learning and most mysterious science, spoke to it in an unknown language, to the following effect:—"High, wort, bush rumley to the toggy cull, and ogle him in the muns;" at which command the terrific hobgoblin fiercely advanced up to poor Collard, and with a most ghastly look stared him in the face; the shoemaker was greatly terrified thereat, and shook and trembled as if a fit of the ague had been upon him, and, creeping close to Mr. Carew, laid fast hold of his clothes, imagining he had sufficient power to protect him from the threatening appearance of this insolent apparition; whereupon he bid the ghost, "hike to the vile;" and would have persuaded the frightened Collard to have followed his departing grandmother, in order to observe the particular place from which she vanished; but no persuasions of his could induce him to move from his side.

They then returned to the alehouse they had left, and Mr. Carew (this method of conjuration miscarrying through the shoemaker's fear,) cast a figure, and informed Crispin, that, if he took up two or three planks of the floor of his little parlour, he would there find the concealed treasure, at the depth of about three or four feet: upon his hearing this joyful news, the shoemaker instantly disbursed the thirty guineas, highly extolling them as people of the profoundest skill that he had ever heard of or conversed with: but whether he was of the same opinion when he came to dig for the treasure, we will not take upon us to say—but we may suppose the contrary.

Happening, a short time after this, to be in Brakeness, near Lymington, in the character of a cast-away seaman, he went to the house of Mr. Joseph Haze, an eminent and wealthy presbyterian parson, of whom he begged relief, in the most earnest manner he was able, for God's sake, with uplifted eyes and hands, and upon his bended knee; but could not with all his importunity and eloquence obtain a crust of bread, or a draught of small beer. Mr. Carew, not accustomed to be unsuccessful in his applications, could by no means brook this churlishness of the parson, and thought it highly necessary, for the benefit of his community, that it should not go unpunished. He was a great sportsman, and had two fine greyhounds, the one named Hector, the other Fly; and two excellent spaniels, Cupid and Dido, and an admirable setting dog, called Sancho. Our hero, therefore, about twelve o'clock on the same night, paid a second visit to the parson's house, and brought away all these fine dogs with him. And afterwards he sent a letter to the parson, to this purpose:—

"REV. SIR,

"You err, if you suspect yourself to have been wronged of your dogs by any of your neighbours; the cast-away seaman, who begged so earnestly, for the love of God, to whom you would not vouchsafe a crust of bread, or a draught of small beer, took them away, to teach you another time to behave to unfortunate strangers more as becomes your profession, and your plentiful circumstances."

The mayor of Weymouth, in Dorsetshire, fared little better at his hands. This gentleman was an implacable enemy to all Mr. Carew's subjects. He therefore, happening to be in that town, and overhearing the mayor talking to a gentleman in the street, and saying that he was going to dine with Captain Colloway, of Upton, he thought this a proper opportunity for taking some revenge of the mayor, for the many indignities he had put on his subjects. Having soon got intelligence what suits of clothes the mayor had, and understanding he had a good snuff-coloured suit, he went to his house, and informed the lady mayoress that he was a seaman under misfortunes, had met with the mayor, as he was going to dinner at Captain Colloway's, of Upton, and his honour had sent him to her, giving him orders to receive his snuff-coloured suit of clothes from her; which the good natured gentlewoman hearing, without the least scruple, quickly brought him the coat, waistcoat, and breeches. Thus our hero, by turning his natural ingenuity to account, procured a handsome suit of clothes, while, at the same time, he was revenging himself upon his enemy; fulfilling the old proverb of killing two dogs with one stone. It is unnecessary to say, that our hero departed from Weymouth forthwith.

Mr. Carew being in Bristol, at a time when there was a hot press, wherein they not only impressed seamen, but able-bodied landmen they could any where meet with, which made some fly one way, and some another, putting the city into a great rout and consternation, he, among the rest, knowing himself to have a body of rather a dangerous bigness, he was willing to secure himself as effectually as he possibly could, greatly preferring his own ease to the interest and honour of his king. He therefore set his wife and landlady to work, who with all speed, and proper attention to cleanliness, made a great number of small mutton-pies, plum-puddings, cheesecakes, and custards, which our hero, in the ordinary attire of a female vender of these commodities, hawked about the city, crying, Plum-pudding, plum-pudding, plum-pudding; hot plum-pudding; piping hot, smoking hot, hot plum-pudding. Plum-pudding echoed in every street and corner, even in the midst of the eager press-gang, some of whom spent their penny with this masculine pie-woman, and seldom failed to serenade her with many a complimentary title, such as bitch and whore.

Arriving at Squire Rhodes's seat, near King's-bridge in Devonshire, and knowing the squire had married a Dorsetshire lady, he thought proper also to become a Dorsetshire man, and of Lyme, which was the place of the lady's nativity, and applied himself to the squire and his lady, whom he met both together, giving them to understand that he was lost in a vessel belonging to Lyme. The squire and his lady gave him five shillings each, for country's sake, and entertained him very well at their own house. This was early in the forenoon, and he wished to put off his time a little, before proceeding upon another adventure.

Going from hence, he went to a public-house, called Malston-cross, about a quarter of a mile from the squire's; he there fell into company with Squire Reynolds, Squire Ford, Dr. Rhodes, brother to the squire, and several other gentlemen, who were met there to make happy after a hunting-match, in which they had been uncommonly successful, and were much inclined to be jovial. In the afternoon there was a terrific storm of rain, thunder, and lightning, that continued with great violence for several hours: in the midst of this tempestuous weather, he (having a great mind to clear his afternoon's expenses) stripped off all his apparel, except his nightcap, shoes, and breeches, and went to Squire Rhodes's. Nothing could possibly look with a more deplorable appearance than this naked and wretched spectacle, in such dreadful weather: the landlord with pity regarding his destitute appearance, fetched him a shirt, as he thought, to cover his nakedness; but upon his endeavouring to put it on, it proved to be a smock belonging to the good woman of the house, which afforded a great deal of diversion to the good squire and his benevolent lady, who happened to be looking from their window enjoying the mistake; when, calling to him, and inquiring from whence he came, he pretended to have been cast away at Bigbury-bay, during the late violent tempest, in a vessel belonging to Poole, and he was the only person on board that had escaped. Squire Rhodes ordered a fine Holland shirt, and a suit of good clothes to be given to him, as also a hearty refreshing dram; and then, kindly giving him five shillings, dismissed him with every mark of commiseration for his unfortunate condition, not in the least suspecting him to be the poor Lyme man, whom both his lady and himself had been so generous in relieving his wants in the morning. Having succeeded so much to his satisfaction in levying two contributions, in one day, on the benevolent Squire Rhodes and his lady, he quickly determined on making another trial upon their good-nature: for which purpose he retired to the nearest house which was frequented by the members of his community, where he dressed himself as a farmer, and speedily returned to the squire's, to whose presence he was admitted. He stated that he had been a tenant on the estate of Squire H—-, (a gentleman between whom and Squire Rhodes he knew there was a disagreement of long standing,) for many years, where he had reared a numerous and happy family in respectability: that about three years ago the squire had seduced his eldest daughter, a handsome girl of eighteen years, who died in giving birth to a still-born son: that his wife had died shortly after of a broken heart, and he was left to struggle through the world with a helpless family of young children: that, through bad crops and bad debts, he had fallen in arrears of his rent; and his cruel landlord had seized upon his whole stock, and turned him out of his favourite home, to become a destitute wanderer—destitute of food, shelter or clothing for himself and family. The benevolent Squire Rhodes whose ear was ever open to the tale of pity—whose heart was ever ready to relieve the unfortunate, after venting many imprecations on the hard-hearted squire, bestowed a guinea on the poor farmer.