The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

V O L U M E I I
To Dr. LEWIS
DEAR LEWIS,
YOUR fable of the monkey and the pig, is what the Italians call
ben trovata: but I shall not repeat it to my apothecary, who is a
proud Scotchman, very thin skinned, and, for aught I know, may
have his degree in his pocket—A right Scotchman has always two
strings to his bow, and is in utrumque paratus—Certain it is, I have
not ’scaped a scouring; but, I believe, by means of that scouring,
I have ’scaped something worse, perhaps a tedious fit of the gout
or rheumatism; for my appetite began to flagg, and I had certain
croakings in the bowels, which boded me no good—Nay, I am not
yet quite free of these remembrances, which warn me to be gone
from this centre of infection—
What temptation can a man of my turn and temperament have,
to live in a place where every corner teems with fresh objects of
detestation and disgust? What kind of taste and organs must those
people have, who really prefer the adulterate enjoyments of the
town to the genuine pleasures of a country retreat? Most people,
I know, are originally seduced by vanity, ambition, and childish
curiosity; which cannot be gratified, but in the busy haunts of men:
but, in the course of this gratification, their very organs of sense
are perverted, and they become habitually lost to every relish of
what is genuine and excellent in its own nature.
Shall I state the difference between my town grievances, and my
country comforts? At Brambleton-hall, I have elbow-room within
doors, and breathe a clear, elastic, salutary air—I enjoy refreshing
sleep, which is never disturbed by horrid noise, nor interrupted,
but in a-morning, by the sweet twitter of the martlet at my window
—I drink the virgin lymph, pure and crystalline as it gushes from
the rock, or the sparkling beveridge, home-brewed from malt of
my own making; or I indulge with cyder, which my own orchard
affords; or with claret of the best growth, imported for my own use,
by a correspondent on whose integrity I can depend; my bread is