Hence I made a Pilgrimage to Grantham in Lincolnshire, where a little out of Town I over took a Fellow, who began to strike up with his Pipe, and thinking he had but one, he presently perceiv’d it to be multiply’d into an Organ, and wonder’d (with the Bumpkin that pull’d at the Bellows) that he had so much Harmony in him. For you must know hereabouts dwelt a Thing call’d an Eccho, who as soon as she heard Sol, fa, whip! she improv’d the Melody into Noise and Consort; presently increasing those single Notes into the whole Gamut; and most neatly play’d the Wag with the Tail of his Voice, being a very pretty Songster, that sings well by the Ear. But leaving the Piper by himself to solace with the tatling Reverberation of Voice, I proceeded on my Journey into Rutlandshire, the least County in England, where at Oakham, the Shire-Town, is a Custom, that when a Nobleman comes on Horseback within its Precincts, the Inhabitants make him pay the Homage of a Shoe from his Horse, or take Money for it. And so exorbitant is this Custom grown now, that if a Lady, be she as tall as long Meg of Westminster, or as short as the little Woman, that was carried formerly about the Country in a Box, as fat as the Royal Sovereign the largest first Rate Fire-Ship that sails Drury-Lane, and the narrow Seas contiguous to it, or as lank as Pharaoh’s lean Kine, they would swear she was a Flander’s Mare, and presently take toll from her Foot. This Sharpness hath made most of the Rutlandshire People, much addicted to the Vice of Theft; every Thing sticks to their pitchy Fingers; and they have such an attractive Virtue, that wherever they come, all Things trot after the Magnetism of their Persons. A Fellow squating upon a Criket in a Room I was in, and rising up from his Seat, the Stool on a Sudden (as if tackt to his Backside) immediately march’d after him, to the great Amazement of the Woman of the House, who did not suspect, that his Bum had Hands, or that her Stool so nimbly could have us’d its Legs. Another espying a Cylinder of Bag-Pudding pretty Thick in the Waste, lolling upon the Table, whilst the Hostess turn’d her Back, in the very twinkling of her Head, pocuss’d it into Fob, and so shrouded its Dimensions into a second Bag. Moreover observing a joulter headed Fellow, looking very wishfully at my Head, fearing he had some Design upon what few Brains I had, to furnish his own empty Noddle; I presently paid my Reckoning, and made the best of my Way for London; where I was no sooner arriv’d, but perceiving most People murmuring at the great Indulgence then extended to the Dissenters, I composed (at the earnest Request of some Friends) the following Lines on Toleration.
Religion! Now a meer fantastick Name,
The Heathens Glory, but the Christians Shame;
A Cloak for Hyprocites, the Tool of State,
And, to decoy dull Fools, the Levites Bait;
Thy Lustre was not tarnish’d in the Time
When Vice was ill, and Virtue was no Crime?
When holy Folks from Sin for Refuge fled,
And no Dissention in Opinions bred.
In the first Infancy of humane Race,