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Jack. Ay, and bad will be the best. But we mast work as we do now, and with this difference, that no one will be able to pay us. Tom! I hare got the use of my limbs, of my liberty, of the laws, and of my Bible. The two first I take to be my natural rights; the two last my rirll and religious rights: these, I take it, are the true rights of man, and all the rest is nothing but nonsense, and madness, and wickedness. My cottage is my castle: I sit down in it at night in peace and thankfulness, and "no man maketh me afraid.1' Instead of indulging discontent because another is richer than I in this world (for envy is at the bottom of your equality works), I read my Bible, go to church, and look forward to a treasure in heaven.
Tom. Ay, but the French have got it in this world.
Jack. 'Tis all a lie, Tom. Sir John's butler says, his master gets letters which say 'tis all a lie. 'Tis all murder, and nakedness, and hunger; many of the poor soldiers fight without victuals, and march without clothes. These are your democrats! Tom.
Tom. What, then, dost think all the men on our side wicked?
Jack. No—not so, neither :—if some of the leaders are knaves, more of the followers are fools. Sir John, who is wiser than I, says the whole system is the operation of fraud upon folly. They've made fools of most of you, as I believe. I judge no man, Tom; I hate no man. Even republicans and levellers, I hope, will always enjoy the protection of our laws; though I hope they will never be our law-maters. There are many true dissenters, and there are some hollow churchmen; and a good man is a good man, whether his church has got a steeple to it or not. The new-fashioned way of proving one's religion is to hate somebody. Now, though some folks pretend that a man's hating a papist, or a presbyterian, proves him to be a good churchman, it don't prove him to be a good Christian, Tom. As much as I hate republican works, I'd scorn to live in a country where there was not liberty of conscience, and where every man might not worship God in his own way. Now, that liberty they had not in France; the Bible was shut up in an unknown, heathenish tongue. While here, thou and I can make as free use of ours as a bishop; can no more be sent to prison unjustly, than the judge who tries us; and are as much taken care of by the laws as the parliament-man who makes them. Then, as to your thinking that the new scheme will make you happy, look among your own set, and see if any thing can be so dismal and discontented as a leveller.—Look at France. These poor French fellows used to be the merriest dogs in the world; but since equality came in, I don't believe a Frenchman has ever laughed.
Tom. What then dost thou take French liberty to be 1
Jack. To murder more men in one night, than ever their poor king did in his whole life.
Tom. And what dost thou take a democrat to be?
Jack. One who likes to be governed by a thousand tyrants, and yet can't bear a king.
Tom. What is equality?
Jack. For every man to pull down every one that is above him; while, instead of raising those below him to his own level, he only makes use of them as steps to raise himself to the place of those he has tumbled down.
Tom. What is the new rights of man?
Jack. Battle, murder, and sudden death.
Tom. What is it to be an enlightened people?
Jack. To put out the light of the Gospel, confound right and wrong, and grope about in pitch darkness.
Tom. What is philosophy, that Tim Standish talks so much about1!
Jack. To believe that there's neither God, nor devil, nor heaven, nor hell; to dig up a wicked old fellow's* rotten bones, whose books, Sir John says, have been the ruin of thousands; and to set his figure up in a church, and worship him.
Tom. And what is a patriot according to the new school t
Jack. A man who loves every other country better than his own, and France best of all.
Tom. And what is benevolence?
Jack. Why, in the new-fangled language, it means contempt of religion, aversion to justice, overturning of law, doting on all mankind in general, and hating every body in particular.
Tom. And what mean the other hard words that Tim talks about—organization, and function, and civism, and incivism, and equalization, and inviolability, and imprescriptible, and fraternization?
Jack. Nonsense, gibberish, downright hocus-pocus. I know 'tis not English; Sir John says 'tis not Latin; and his valet de sham says 'tis not French neither.
Tom. And yet Tim says he never shall be happy till all these fine things are brought over to England. * Voltaire.
'lad-. What! into this Christian country, Tom 1 Why, dost know they have no Sabbath in France? Their mob parliament meets on a Sunday to do their wicked work, as naturally as we do to go to church.* They have renounced God's word and God's day, and they don't even date in the year of our Lord. Why dost turn pale, man? And the rogues are always making such a noise, Tom, in the midst of their parliament-house, that their speaker rings a bell, like our penny-postman, because he can't keep them in order.
Tom. And dost thou believe they are as cruel as some folks pretend?
Jack. I am sure they are, and I think I know the reason. We Christians set a high value on life, because we know that every fellow-creature has an immortal soul; a soul to be saved or lost, Tom.—Whoever believes that, is a little cautious how he sends a soul unprepared to his grand account. But he who believes a man is no better than a dog, will make no more scruple of killing one than the other.
Tom. And dost thou think our rights of man will lead to all this wickedness?
Jack. As sure as eggs are eggs.
Tom. I begin to think we are better off as we are.
Jack. I'm sure on't. This is only a scheme to make us go back in every thing. 'Tis making ourselves poor when we are getting rich, and discontented when we are comfortable.
Tom. I begin to think I'm not so very unhappy as I had got to fancy.
Jack. Tom, I don't care for drink myself, but thou dost; and I'll argue with thee, not in the way of principle, but in thy own way: when there's all equality, there will be no superfluity; when there's no wages, there'll be no drink; and levelling will rob thee of thy ale more than the malt-tax does.
Tom. But Standish says, if we had a good government, there'd be no want of any thing.
Jack. He is like many others, who take the king's money and betray him: let him give up the profits of his place, before he kicks at the hand that feeds him. Tho' I'm no scholar, I know that a good government is a good thing. But don't go to make me believe that any government can make a bad man good, or a discontented man happy. What art musing upon, man?
* Since this, they have crammed ten days into the week, in order to throw Sunday out of it.—One of the first and most capital strokes against Christianity -was the alteration of the calendar, and the division of time into decades, instead of weeks of seven days. But though the French convention had such very able mathematicians and astronomers among them, as Bailly and Lalande, their blundering scheme of atheism only served to expose the folly of the inventors. The proscribed calendar was restored, for the sake of convenience j but iko Christian Sabbath in France is still desecrated.—Er>.
Tom, Let me sum up the evidence, as they say at 'sizes —Hem! To cut every man's throat who does not think as I do, or hang him up at a lamp-post!—Pretend liberty of conscience, and then banish the parsons only for being conscientious !—Cry out liberty of the press, and hang up the first man who writes his mind !—Lose our poor laws !—Lose one's wife perhaps upon every little tiff!—March without clothes, and fight without victuals !—No trade!—No Bible! :—No Sabbath, nor day of rest!—No safety, no comfort, no peace in this world—and no world to come !—Jack, I never knew thee tell a lie in my life.
Jack. Nor would I now, not even against the French.
Tom. And thou art very sure we are not ruined?
Jack. I'll tell thee how we are ruined. We have a king, so loving, that he would not hurt the people if he could: and so kept in, that he could not hurt the people if he would. We have as much liberty as can make us happy, and more trade and riches than allows us to be good. We have the best laws in the world, if they were more strictly enforced; and the best religion in the world, if it was but better fok lowed. While Old England is safe, I'll glory in her, and pray for her; and when she is in danger, I'll fight for her, and die for her.
Tom. And so will I too, Jack, that's what I will, (Sings) " O the roast beef of Old England!"
Jack. Thou art an honest fellow, Tom.
Tom. This is Rose and Crown night, and Tim Standish is now at his mischief; but we'll go and put an end to that fellow's work, or he'll corrupt the whole club.
Jack. Come along.
Tom. No; first I'll stay to burn my book, and then I'll go and make a bonfire, and—
Jack. Hold, Tom. There is but one thing worse than a bitter enemy; and that is, an imprudent friend. If thou wouldst show thy love to thy king and country, let's have no drinking, no riot, no bonfires, but put in practice this text, which our parson preached on last Sunday; "Study to be quiet, work with your own hands, and mind your own business."
Tom. And so I will, Jack—Come on.
A Noble earl—the name I spare, From reverence to the living heir— Loved pleasure; but, to speak the truth, Not much refinement graced the youth. The path of pleasure which he trod Was somewhat new, and rather odd; For, that he haunted park or play, His house's archives do not say; Or that more modish joys he felt, And would in opera transports melt; Or that he spent his morning's prime In Bond-street bliss till dinner-time: No treasured anecdotes record Such pastimes pleased the youthful lord.
One single taste historians mention, A fact, unmingled with invention; It was a taste you'll think, I fear, Somewhat peculiar for a peer, Though the rude democratic pen Pretends that peers are only men. Whatever town or country fair Was advertised, my lord was there. 'Twas not to purchase or to sell— Why went he then? the muse shall tell. At fairs he never failed to find The joy congenial to his mind. This dear diversion would you know? What was it 1 'twas a puppet-show! Transported with the mimic art, The wit of Punch enthralled his heart. He went, each evening, just at six, When Punch exhibited his tricks;