"You of this noble City are yet to become more noble by your candour to the plea between me a Bourgeois of Paris, and my opponent of London; being concerned in honour to lend your attention as favourably to a stranger as to your native orator, since it is the greatest sign of narrow education to permit the borders of rivers, or
strands of seas, to separate the general consanguinity of Mankind, though the unquiet nature of Man (still hoping to shake off distant power), and the incapacity of any one to sway universal empire, hath made them the bounds to divide government. But already I think it necessary to cease persuading you, who will ever deserve to be my judges; and, therefore, mean to apply myself in admonishing him who is pleased to be awhile my adversary.
"My most opinionated antagonist (for a Londoner's opinion of himself is no less noted than his opinion of his Beef before the Veal of Italy), you should know that the merit of Cities consists not in their fair and fruitful situation, but in the manners of the Inhabitants; for, where the situation excels, it but upbraids their minds if they be not proportionable to it. And, because we should more except against the constancy of minds than their mutability, when they incline to error, I will first take a survey of yours in the long-continued deformity of the shape of your City, which is of your buildings.
"Sure your ancestors contrived your narrow streets in the days of wheel-barrows, before those greater engines Carts were invented. Is your climate so hot, that as you walk you need umbrellas of tiles to intercept the Sun? Or, are your shambles so empty, that you are afraid to take in fresh air, lest it should sharpen your
stomachs? Oh, the goodly Landscape of Old Fish-street! which, had it not had the ill-luck to be crooked, was narrow enough to have been your founder's perspective; and where the garrets (perhaps not for want of architecture, but, through abundance of amity) are so made, that opposite neighbours may shake hands without stirring from home. Is unanimity of inhabitants in wise Cities better expressed, than by their coherence and uniformity of building, where streets begin, continue, and end in a like stature and shape? But yours (as if they were raised in a general insurrection, where every man hath a several design) differ in all things that can make distinction. Here stands one that aims to be a Palace, and, next it, another that professes to be a Hovel. Here a Giant, there a Dwarf; here slender, there broad; and all most admirably different in their faces, as well as in their height and bulk. I was about to defy any Londoner, who dares pretend there is so much ingenious correspondence in this City, as that he can shew me one house like another. Yet your old houses seem to be reverend and formal, being compared to the fantastical works of the moderns; which have more ovals, niches, and angles, than are in your custards, and are enclosed with pasteboard walls, like those of malicious Turks, who, because themselves are not immortal, and cannot ever dwell where they build, therefore will not be at
the charge to provide such lastingness as may entertain their children out of the rain; so slight and so prettily gaudy, that if they could move, they would pass for pageants. It is your custom, where men vary often the mode of their habits, to term the nation fantastical; but, where streets continually change fashion, you should make haste to chain up the City; for it is certainly mad.
"You would think me a malicious traveller, if I should still gaze on your mis-shapen Streets, and take no notice of the beauty of your River; therefore I will pass the importunate noise of your Watermen (who snatch at fares as if they were to catch prisoners, plying the gentry so uncivilly, as if they had never rowed any other passengers but Bear-wards), and now step into one of your pease-cod Boats, whose tilts are not so sumptuous as the roofs of Gondalo's, nor, when you are within, are you at the ease of Chaise-a-bras. The community and trade of your River belongs to yourselves; but give a Stranger leave to share in the pleasure of it; which will hardly be in the prospect or freedom of air, unless prospect consisting of variety be made with here a Palace, there a wood-yard, here a garden, there a brew-house. Here dwells a Lord, there a Dyer, and between both Duomo Commune. If freedom of air be inferred in the liberty of the subject, where every private man hath authority, for his own
profit, to smoke up a Magistrate; then the air of your Thames is open enough, because it is equally free. I will forbear to visit your courtly neighbours at Wapping; not that it will make me giddy to shoot your Bridge, but that I am loth to disturb the civil silence of Billingsgate, which is so great as if the Mariners were always landing to storm the Harbour; therefore, for brevity's sake, I will put to shore again, though I should be constrained, even without my Goloshoes, to land at Puddle-dock.
"I am now returned to visit your Houses, where the roofs (cielings) are so low, that I presume your ancestors were very mannerly, and stood bare to their wives (for I cannot discern how they could wear their high-crowned hats). Yet will I enter; and therefore oblige you much, when you know my aversion to the odour of a certain weed (Tobacco) that governs amongst your coarser acquaintance, as much as Lavender amongst your linen, to which, in my apprehension, your Sea-coal smoke seems a very Portugal perfume. I should here hasten to a period, for fear of suffocation, if I thought you so ungracious to use it in public assemblies; and yet I see it grow so much in fashion, that methinks your children begin to play with broken pipes, instead of corals, to make way for their teeth. You will find my visit short; I cannot stay to eat with you, because your bread is too heavy, and
you disdain the slight sustenance of herbs: your drink is too thick, and yet you are seldom over-curious in washing your glasses. Nor will I lodge with you, because your beds seem, to our alcoves, no bigger than coffins; and your curtains so short, as they will hardly serve to inclose your Carriers in Summer; and may be held, if Taffata, to have lined your Grandsires shirts. But though your houses are thin, yet your kitchens are well lined with beef; and the plentiful exercise of your chimneys makes up that canopy of smoke which covers your City; whilst we on the Continent are well contented with a clear sky, entertain flesh as a regale; and we, your poor French frogs, are fain to sing to sallad. You boast that your servants feed better than masters at Paris; and we are satisfied when ours are better taught than fed. You allow yours idleness and high nourishment, to raise their mettle; which is, to make them rude for the honour of Old-England; we inure ours to labour and temperance, that we may allay them; which is to make them civil for the quiet of France. Yours drink malt, and the strong broth of malt, which makes them bold, hot, and adventurous to be soon in command: ours are cooled with weak water, which doth quench their arrogance, and makes them fit to obey long. We plant the Vineyard, and you drink the Wine; by which you beget good spirits, and we get good money.