A humorous Epistle of neighbourly Occurrences and News, to a Bottle-Companion abroad.

Dear Bob,

I am glad to hear you’re in the Land of the Living still. You expect from me an Account of what has happen’d among your old Acquaintance since you have been abroad. I will give it you, and, ‘bating that two or three Years always make vast Alterations in mature Life, you would be surpris’d at the Havock and Changes that small Space of Time has made in the Circle of our Acquaintance. To begin then with myself: I have had the Misfortune to lose my Son Jo; and my Daughter Judy is marry’d, and has brought me another Jo. Jack Kid of the Fountain, where we kept our Club, has lost his Wife, who was a special Bar-keeper, got his Maid Prisc. with Child———you remember the Slut, by her mincing Airs—marry’d her, and is broke: But not till he had, with his horrid Stum,poison’d half the Society. We began to complain of his Wine, you know, before you left us; and I told him he should let us have Neat, who drank our Gallons, if he was honest to himself; and, if he was to regard Conscience as well as Interest, must do less Harm by dispensing his Rats-bane to those who drank Pints, than to those honest Fellows who swallow’d Gallons, and, in so handsome a Dose of the one, must take a too large Quantity of the other: But the Dog was incorrigible; for he went on brewing and poisoning, till he kill’d his best Customers, and then what could he expect?

Why what follow’d; for, truly, Bob, we began to tumble like rotten Sheep. As thus: The Dance was begun by that season’d Sinner Tim. Brackley, the Half-pint Man, who was always sotting by himself, with his Whets in the Morning, his Correctives after Dinner, and Digesters at Night, and at last tipt off of one of the Kitchen-benches in an Apoplexy. ‘Tis true he was not of our Club; tho’ we might have taken Warning by his Fall, as the Saying is; but were above it. So the Rot got among us; and first, honest laughing Jack Adams kick’d up of a Fever.