The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER 123
compound with such uncleanness as my soul abhors? All the
people I see, are too much engrossed by schemes of interest or
ambition, to have any room left for sentiment or friendship—Even
in some of my old acquaintance, those schemes and pursuits have
obliterated all traces of our former connexion—Conversation is
reduced to party-disputes, and illiberal altercation—Social com-
merce, to formal visits and card-playing—If you pick up a divert-
ing original by accident, it may be dangerous to amuse yourself
with his oddities. He is generally a tartar at bottom; a sharper, a
spy, or a lunatic. Every person you deal with endeavours to over-
reach you in the way of business; you are preyed upon by idle
mendicants, who beg in the phrase of borrowing, and live upon the
spoils of the stranger—Your tradesmen are without conscience,
your friends without affection, and your dependants without
fidelity.—
My letter would swell into a treatise, were I to particularize
every cause of offence that fills up the measure of my aversion to
this, and every other crowded city—Thank Heaven! I am not so
far sucked into the vortex, but that I can disengage myself without
any great effort of philosophy—From this wild uproar of knavery,
folly, and impertinence, I shall fly with double relish to the serenity
of retirement, the cordial effusions of unreserved friendship, the
hospitality and protection of the rural gods; in a word, the jucunda
oblivia vitæ, which Horace himself had not taste enough to
enjoy.—
I have agreed for a good travelling-coach and four, at a guinea
a-day, for three months certain; and next week we intend to begin
our journey to the North, hoping still to be with you by the latter
end of October—I shall continue to write from every stage where
we make any considerable halt, as often as any thing occurs, which
I think can afford you the least amusement. In the mean time, I
must beg you will superintend the œconomy of Barns, with respect
to my hay and corn harvests; assured that my ground produces
nothing but what you may freely call your own—On any other
terms I should be ashamed to subscribe myself
your unvariable friend,
London, June 8. MATT. BRAMBLE