for, to make amends, he is almost perfect in Loyalty, Justice, Charity, and every other Virtue. In a word, take him with all his faults, he is a pattern for imitation, and would be accounted more than human by those that know him, were not one part of him mortal. However, it is his first care and endeavour to make this mortal part of him such as may make it apparent to the world, how great an excellence may be the companion of so much frailty. Reader, learn by this Character, never to slander a man till you know him thoroughly: for, as satirical as De Foe is upon this Author (and indeed his many blunders have given occasion for it), yet you see, by a review of his Life and Virtues, that Mr. Gazette is a finished Christian. And though I affront his honour so far as to make him the last of those Weekly Authors that may expect an answer if they snarl at the Author of this "Journal," yet my design is not to expose his frequent blunders, but rather to excite him to such accuracy in all future Gazettes, that even Envy itself may not be able to find more faults in his Writings than the most critical eye is able to see in his Life and Practice.

Thus have I finished "The Secret History of the Weekly Writers;" viz. "The Review;" "Observator;" "Gazette;" "Flying-Post;" "Post-Man ;" "PostBoy;" "Daily Courant;" and the "English-Post." Now, if you ask me which of these Eight Newspapers are the best, I should answer, "They are all best;" for, "The Observator" is best to towel the Jacks, &c. ;" "The Review" is best to promote Peace; "The Flying-Post" is best for the Scotch News; "The Post-Boy" is best for the English and Spanish News; "The Daily Courant" is the best Critick; "The English Post" is the best Collector; "The London Gazette" has the best authority; and "The Post-Man" is the best for every thing. And they are all so good, or rather best, as to deserve an answer, if they quarrel with this "Journal."

I have here challenged eight of our Weekly Writers to a Paper Duel; and, as they are men of learning and worth, I hope they will accept of it. But as to "The Rehearsal;" "Moderator;" "Wandering Spy;" "London Post;" Interloping Whipster, &c.; they are

such a rabble of Hackney Scribblers, they merit no place in our "Panegyrick Journal *." But, though they are kicked out for Wranglers in this place, yet they are all whipt in "The Secret History" annexed to my "Liv ing Elegy." I have often wondered what should persuade "The Rehearsal" and his Hackney Brethren to write so much of Religion and Government (for that is their usual theme). If you say their eyes are not open to discern their own weakness, and the ill success of their Tacking Projects, I wonder the more how they can see to write in the dark. But, be it as it will, they have no right to a Panegyrick, and indeed, are not worth my Satire; but for this once I have given them a few lashes in my "Living Elegy."

Having dispatched "The Secret History, or Panegyrick on the Weekly Writers;" I will conclude this "Second Part of my Journal" with the Character of my worthy Friend Mr. George Larkin senior.-His very Life is a sort of Panegyrick on Dunton's misfortunes. He has been my constant Friend for Twenty-five Years, and the first Printer I had in London t. He is of an even temper, not elated when Fortune smiles, nor cast down with her frowns; and though his Stars have not been kind to him, he having had great losses, yet he has borne all with a great presence of mind. He is a particular Votary of the Muses; and I have seen some of his Poems, especially that upon Friendship, that cannot be equalled. He formerly wrote "A Vision of Heaven," &c. (which contains many nice and curious thoughts); and has lately published an ingenious "Essay on the Noble Art and Mystery of Printing;" which will immortalize his name amongst all the Professors of that Art, as much as his Essay will the Art itself. His conversation is extremely diverting, and what he says is always to the purpose. "A Friend is born for Adversity;" and sure I am Mr. George Larkin does sympathize with me in all I suffer, and I was going to say in all I think. I ever thought my acquaintance with Mr. Larkin a special blessing; for,

As is proved in my "Living Elegy."

As was formerly hinted in the History of my Life and Errors, p. 245.

like the Glow-worm, the emblem of true Friendship, he has still shined to me in the dark. True Friendship, like the Rose, flourishes best amongst thorns. I hate a noise where there is no performance. And in this we are both agreed; for George is no Summer Friend, but, like myself, loves a Friend the better for being poor and miserable. So that in George Larkin I have a true Friend, and one that loves me. I am his soul; he lives not but in me, nor can I act without him. His bosom is a safe closet, where I can securely lock up all my complaints, my doubts, and secrets; and look, how I leave, so I find them. We are so closed within eath other's breasts, the rivers are not found that joined us first, that do not reach us yet. We are so mixed as meeting streams, both to ourselves are lost. We are one mass : we could nor give or take, but from the same; for George is I, I George. We are two souls transformed into one; our joys and griefs are the same. All kindness done to him, is the same as done to myself.

Yes, dear George Larkin, my esteem for thee
Is equal to thy worth and love for me:
Oh, dearer than my soul! if I can call it mine;
For sure we have the same, 'tis very thine.

"T was thy dear Friendship did my breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a poetic fire,

But 'tis a warmth that must with thee expire.

}

But why should I say expire! for, though Death should divide our bodies, that is all it can do; for our souls have a true sympathy for each other, and will meet and caress were we dead and buried.

Thus we may double bliss, stol'n Love enjoy;
And all the spight of place and death defy.
For ever thus we might each other bless,
For none could trace out this new happiness,
No make-bate here to spoil or make it less.

}

By a sympathy, or intercourse of souls (a new way of converse which Friendship has found out), in Life or Death we are never parted.

So that nothing can deprive me of the enjoyment of my Friend, while I enjoy myself. If I have any joy when he is absent, were such a thing possible, it is in

his Picture, which adorns my chamber, or in his Letters, that divert my mind. Cowley says,

"There are fewer Friends on Earth than Kings."

And George Larkin is one of them. He is all, and the only man I can call a Friend. And therefore, Larkin, in thy death, I bid Friendship an eternal farewell, except, Phoenix-like, from thy ashes another Larkin could arise; and then I cannot say but I might enter on a new Friendship, for I love to look on thy image, though but in a dead picture, and shall ever receive thy children with honourable mention of thy name. But why do I talk of Survivors? No! part us, and you kill us: for, when soul and body part, it is death. Then live, my better half, and add to thy 64 (for thy blooming looks and temperance speak as much) 150 years; that so, by living to the age of Parr, thou mayst give me all myself, for thou art all! So great our union is, if I have any life or pleasure unknown to thee, I grudge it to myself; methinks I rob thee of thy part. Then let us publish the banns of union, and sign articles of Friendship, that so by Marriage of Souls our Friendship may be immortal.

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In a word, Mr. Larkin is that noble, undesigning thing, call a Friend; and was ever so from the first moment I saw him. And, which makes me respect him the more, he is the only Friend in the World of whom I can positively say, he will never be otherwise. Friend! The name of Friend is too narrow for him, and I want a word that is more significant to express him. So that Mr. Larkin is my "Alter ego," or rather my very self in a better Edition. And, to sum up his character in nine words: Whatever he does it is upon the account civil.

Mr. Larkin has a Son now living, of the same name and trade with himself; and four Grandsons (besides Larkin How, his Grandson by his Daughter); which, humanly speaking, will transmit his name to the end of time.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LIVING ELEGY:

OR,

DUNTON'S LETTER,

BEING A WORD OF COMFORT, TO HIS FEW CREDITORS.

"Have patience with me, and I will pay thee all." Matth. xviii. 26.

April 10, 1706.

MY GENEROUS FRIENDS, MR. Thorp, being much in debt, retreats to the Mint, where he falls to writing "A Poem on himself," which he calls "A Living Elegy ;" and invites all his Creditors to his Funeral, to lament his death. But, Gentlemen, though I call this Letter "The Living Elegy," you will have no reason to lament my Life or Death on the account of any loss you will receive by me; for I have taken care, as you will hear anon, that, if any Creditor come to my Funeral, he will have cause rather to lament the loss of my Life (were it worth a tear) than any thing else he can lose by me. So that if a fixed resolution to pay my Creditors, whether I live or die, will dry up your tears, and make you cheerful, you will laugh when other Creditors weep; and I shall not miss of as much compassion as this "Living Elegy," or word of comfort to you that trust me, mourns and laments for. And the truth is, I greatly admire that men that stand in need of mercy themselves should be hard-hearted and cruel to their poor Debtors. I own, Gentlemen, this is none of your temper or practice; for I have traded with you for many years, and can say, from my own experience, none can be more pitiful to the distressed, or more willing to succour the unfortunate. And I must say, if there be such a thing as a Friend (which some question) it is only he who has the courage and honour to defend and assist us from the beginning of Winter to the end of it; for, when the Summer (of health and prosperity) comes, all the World will caress and serve us.