The Famous history of the learned Friar Bacon
Learned Friar Bacon.
PRINTED BY J. AND M. ROBERTSON,
[NO. 18.] SALTMARKET,
LEARNED FRIAR BACON.
THE famous Friar Bacon (whoſe name has ſpread through all the world) was born in Lancaſhire; his Father's name was Ralph Bacon, and his name Roger. From his infancy he was obſerved to have a profound pregnant wit; as he grew up, a great reader of books, and deſirous of learning, which to admiration he took ſo faſt, that his ſchool-maſter could teach him no further; and being about to ſend him home with commendations to his father, he fearing the worſt, humbly beſought him to prevail, if poſſible, with his father, that he might be ſent to the univerſity, where he had a deſire to go to learn the liberal ſciences.
His ſchool-maſter denied him not his requeſt, but went home with him, and taking the old man aſide, told him, he had learned his ſon as far as he was able, that he took it in extremely well, and was willing to improve it at the univerſity; and that he was verily perſuaded, by the promptneſs he perceived in him, if he would be at a little charge with him there, he would be ſo great a proficient, as would advance him to an eminent ſtation.
The old man heard this with ſome indignation, but conceal'd his anger till the ſchool-maſter was gone; and then taking his ſon to taſk, ſaid, “How now, ſirrah! Have I not been at coſt enough already, but are you itching to put me to more? Methinks I've given you ſuch learning as to enable you, in time, to be a Conſtable or Church-warden of the pariſh, and far outdo thoſe in the office, that can neither read nor write; let that ſuffice: As for the reſt of your buſineſs for the future, it is to learn horſe-language, and whiſtle well, that you may be dextrous in driving the plough and ⟨⟩, and managing the ſheep and oxen; ⟨⟩ ſirrah! continued he, Have I any body ⟨⟩ to leave my farm to but you and yet ⟨⟩ take upon you, forſooth, to be a ſcholard, and conſequently a gentleman; for they all profeſs themſelves ſo, though never ſo beggarly, living lazily, and eating up the fat of other men's labours. Marry-gaup! Goodman Two-ſhoes, your great-grandfather, your grandfather, and I, have thought it no ſcorn to dig and delve; and pray what better are you than us? Here, ſirrah! Take this whip, and go with me to plough, or I'll ſo lace your fine ſcholardſhip, that you had better this had never been mentioned to me.
Young Bacon was much diſpleaſed, and highly grieved, but durſt not reply, knowing his father to be a very haſty, choleric old man; however, this ſort of living ſo little agreed with his ſprightly genious, that in a ſhort time he gave him the ſlip; and going to a monaſtery, and making his deſires known to the ſuperior, he kindly entertained him, and made him a brother of the Auguſtin friars. There he profited ſo much that in a few years he was ſent to Oxford to ſtudy at their charge; where he ſoon grew ſuch a proficient, that his fame ſoon ſpread, not only in the univerſity, but alſo over all England, and came to the ears ⟨⟩ King Edward the Third, who then reigned. And he taking a progreſs with his Queen and nobles, was deſirous to ſee him, and have an experiment of his art; ſo that being at a nobleman's houſe, within four miles of the city of Oxford, he ſent a gentleman of his bed-chamber, to deſire him to come to him. The knight delayed not the meſſage; and finding him at his ſtudy, did his errand. The Friar told him he would be with his Majeſty, and bid him make haſte, or he ſhould be there before him. At this he ſmiled, being well mounted, ſaying, "Scholars and travellers might lye by Authority." Well, ſaid Friar Bacon, to convince you, I will not only be there before you, ride as faſt as you can, but I will there ſhew you the cook-maid you lay with laſt, tho' ſhe is now buſy dreſſing the dinner at Sir William Bolton's an hundred miles diſtance from this place. Well, ſaid the gentleman of the bed chamber, "I doubt not but one will be as true as t'other;" ſo mounting, rode laughing away, and thinking to be at the King's quarters in a ſhort ſpace, he ſpurred his horſe violently: But ſuddenly a miſt aroſe, that he knew not which way to go; and miſſing the way, he turned down a bye lane, and rode over hedge and ditch, backwards and forwards, till the charm was diſſolved.
When the Friar came into the King's preſence, he did him obeiſance, and was kindly welcomed by him. Then ſaid the King, Worthy Bacon, having heard much of your fame, the cauſe of my ſending for you, was to be a ſpectator of ſome fine curioſities in your art. The Friar excuſed at firſt, but the King preſſing it, promiſed on his royal word, no harm ſhould came to him, he bid all keep ſilence, and waving his magic-wand, there preſently, to their great amazement enſued the moſt melodious muſic they had ever heard, which continued very raviſhing for near half an hour. Then waving his wand, another kind of muſic was heard, and preſently, dancers in antic ſhapes, at a maſquerade, entered the room; and having danced incomparably well, they vaniſhed. Waving his wand the third time, louder muſic was heard; and whilſt that played, a table was placed by an inviſible hand, richly ſpread with all the dainties that could be thought of: Then he deſired the King and Queen to draw their ſeats near, and partake of the repaſt he had prepared for their Highneſſes; which, after they had done, all vaniſhed. He waved the fourth time, and thereupon the place was perfumed with all the ſweets of Arabia, or that the whole world could produce. Then waving the fifth time, there came in Ruſſians. Perſians, and Polanders, dreſſed in the fineſt ſoft fur, ſilks, and downs of rare fowls, that are to he found in the univerſe, which he bid them feel; and then the ſtrangers having danced after their own country faſhion, vaniſhed.
In this ſort Friar Bacon pleaſed their five ſenſes, to their admiration and high ſatisfaction; ſo that the King offered him money, but he refuſed it, ſaying, He could not take it. However, the King preſſed on him a jewel of great value, commanding him to wear it as a mark of his favour. Whilſt this was doing, the gentleman of the bedchamber came in pulling and blowing, all bemired and dirty, and his face and hands ſcratched with the buſhes and briars. The King at this ſight, demanded why he ſtaid ſo long? and how he came in that condition? O plague, ſaid he, take Friar Bacon, and all his devils! they have led me a fine dance, to the endangering of my neck.-But is the dog here!-I'll be revenged on him!-Then he laid his hand on his ſword, but Bacon waving his wand, charmed it in his ſcabbard, (ſo he could not draw it out) ſaying, I fear not your anger; 'tis beſt for you to be quiet, leſt a worſe thing befal you: Then he told the King how he gave him the lye, when he told him he would be there before him.
Whilſt he was thus ſpeaking, in came the cook-maid, brought by a ſpirit, at the window, with a ſpit and a toaſted ſhoulder of mutton on it, being thus ſurprized, as ſhe was taking it from the fire; and wiſhfully ſtaring about her, and ſpying the gentleman, ſhe cry'd, O my ſweet Knight, are you here! Pray, Sir, remember you promiſed to provide linen and other neceſſaries for me; our ſtolen pleaſures have ſwelled, and I've two months to reckon: And hereupon ſhe ran towards him, to embrace him; but he turning aſide, ſhe was carried out at another window to her maſter's houſe again.
This was the cauſe of both ⟨⟩ and laughter, though the gentleman ⟨⟩ much aſhamed and confounded to be ⟨⟩ expoſed; ſtill muttering revenge; but ⟨⟩ Bacon told him, his beſt way was to put ⟨⟩ with it all, ſince he had verified both ⟨⟩ promiſes, and bid him have a care how ⟨⟩ gave a ſcholar the lye again.
The King and Queen well pleaſed ⟨⟩ the entertainment, highly commending ⟨⟩ art, and promiſing him their favour ⟨⟩ protection, took their leave of the ⟨⟩ returning to London, and he to his ⟨⟩ at Brazen-Noſe-College.
FRIAR Bacon kept a man to wait ⟨⟩ him, who, though but a ſimple fellow, yet a merry droll, and full of waggeries; ⟨⟩ name was Miles, and tho' his maſter ⟨⟩ thoſe of the order often faſted on ſet ⟨⟩ Miles loved his guts too well to pinch them and though outwardly he ſeemed to faſt ⟨⟩ compliance; he always kept a private ⟨⟩ to eat in a corner, which Bacon knew ⟨⟩ art, and reſolved to put a trick upon him. It ſo happened on Good Friday in Lent, a ſtrict faſt was held, and Miles ⟨⟩ very devout; for when his maſter bid him, however, take a bit of bread, and a ſip of wine, early in the morning to keep him from fainting, he refuſed it, ſaying, he was a great Sinner and therefore ought to do more than this for his mortification, and to gain abſolution, making a great many pretences of ſanctity, and how well he was inclined to keep the holy faſt. 'Tis well, ſaid the Friar, if I catch you not tripping; whereupon Miles went to his cell, pretending to pray but indeed to eat a fine pudding he had concealed; which he had no ſooner put into his mouth at one end, but it ſtuck there: He could neither eat it, nor get it out. The uſe of his hands failed, and he was taken with a ſhivering all over, ſo that thinking he ſhould have died preſently he cried piteouſly out for help: whereupon Friar Bacon, calling the ſcholars together, went in to ſee what was the matter; and perceiving him in that plight, ſaid ſmiling, Now I ſee what a penitent ſervant I have, who was ſo conſcientious he would not touch a bit of bread, but would willingly have devoured two pounds of pudding to have broke his faſt. He piteouſly entreated him to diſolve the charm, and deliver him, and he would never do ſo again. Nay, ſaid the Friar, you ſhall do penance for this; ſo taking hold of the end of the pudding, he led him out to the ſcholars, ſaying, ſee, here's a queaſy ſtomached fellow that would not touch a bit of bread today! When they ſaw him in this plight, they all fell heartily a laughing; but Friar Bacon, not ſo contented, led him to the College-gate, and by enchantment fixed the end of the pudding to the bar, he was made ſo faſt to it as if it had been by a cable-rope, and on his back were placed theſe lines.
This is Friar Bacon's man who vow'd to faſt;
But, diſſembling, thus it took at laſt:
The pudding more religion had than he;
Tho' he would eat it, it will not down you ſee.
Then of hypocriſy pray all beware,
Left like diſgrace be each diſſembler's ſhare.
Miles all the while was jeered and ſported with by all ſcholars and town's people, but after ſome hours penance; his maſter diſſolved the charm, and releaſed him; and he ever after kept the faſts, not ſo much out of religion, as for fear that a worſe trick ſhould be put upon him.
WHEN Friar Bacon flouriſhed at Oxford, a young gentleman, by his prodigality, having run out his eſtate, and involved himſelf in debt, grew exceeding penſive and melancholy, purpoſing to make himſelf away, in order to put an end to his miſeries, and the ſcorns that were daily put upon him by his former companions, being alſo utterly caſt off by his friends; ſo walking by a wood-ſide, full of ſorrow, he met, as he thought, an old man in good clothing, who ſaluted him, and demanded the cauſe of his melancholy, and why he walked ſo ſolitary. At firſt he refuſed to tell him as thinking he could do him no good: but the other urging it, promiſed to aſſiſt him if he wanted any thing: he ſaid, I am in want. I want fine clothes as I uſed to have; I want money to buy food, pay debts, redeem my mortgaged land, and many things more: can you help me to enough to do it? I can, ſaid the old man, on one condition. What's that? ſaid the gentleman: if it be any thing tolerable I ſhall not refuſe it; for I cannot be well worſe, or in greater hardſhip than I am now. Why, ſaid the other, the matter is not ſo much; ⟨⟩ ſhall only oblige yourſelf, when I have furniſhed you with money to do all you ⟨⟩ named, and you have paid every one ⟨⟩ owe a farthing to, to become obedient ⟨⟩ me, and be diſpoſed of at my ⟨⟩ Now the young man taking him for an Urſurer, and very rich, ſuppoſed this obligation was only a fetch to marry his daughter, or ſome kinſwoman of his, which ⟨⟩ could be well contented to do, not doubting to have a good portion, and therefore ſcrupled not to do as he deſired. ⟨⟩ this he bid him meet him the next morning about the ſame time, when he would ⟨⟩ the writing ready; and on ſigning he ⟨⟩ have the money. So they parted; and ⟨⟩ gentleman delayed not coming, ⟨⟩ aſking advice, and was as punctually met, but when he ſaw the writing in blood, ⟨⟩ was ſtartled a little; but the old man ⟨⟩ him, it was only a whim of his own to ⟨⟩ it ſo written to diſtinguiſh it from ⟨⟩ men's, and put bis debtors more in ⟨⟩ to repay the money he lent them. ⟨⟩ this ſpeech, and the gentleman's ſeeing ⟨⟩ ſtore of gold and ſilver brought by three ⟨⟩ four of whom he ſuppoſed to be ſervants, he believed it. But how, ſaid he, ſhall ⟨⟩ write with the ſame? O, ſaid he, let me ſee, I'll prick your right vein; which he ⟨⟩ whilſt the gentleman found an ⟨⟩ trembling, and an inward remorſe in ⟨⟩ mind: however, taking the bloody pen in his hand he deſperately ſubſcribed and ſealed the writing. Then telling the money into a cloak-bag, he laid it on his horſe, and they, with much ceremony, took leave of each other. The gentleman laughed in his ſleeve to think how he would find him out, ſeeing he had not aſked, nor himſelf told him, where he lived.
Soon after he ſummoned all his creditors, paid them to a farthing. redeemed his land, went gallant, and recovered his eſteem in the world: but one evening as he was looking over his writings in his cloſet, he heard ſomebody rap at the door; when opening it, he ſaw the party he had borrowed the money off, with the writing in his hand, who told him, he was now come to demand him, and he muſt now go along with him; for, to his knowledge, he had paid his debts and done whatever was agreed to. The gentleman, wondering how he ſhould know this ſo ſoon, denied it. Nay, replied he fiercely, deny it not, for I'll not be cheated of my bargain: and thereupon changed into a horrible ſhape, ſtruck him almoſt dead with fear; for now he perceived it was the Devil. Then he told him, if he did not meet on the morrow in the ſame place he had lent him the money, he would come the next day, and tear him to pieces; and, ſays he, if I prove not what I ſay, you ſhall be quiet. And ſo vaniſhed out of the window in a flaſh of flame, with horrible bellowings. The gentleman, ſeeing himſelf in this caſe, began to weep bitterly, and and wiſhed he had been contented in his ſad condition, rather than have taken ſuch a deſperate way to enrich himſelf; and was almoſt at his wits-end.
Friar Bacon, knowing by his art what had paſt came to comfort him; and having heard the whole ſtory, bid him not deſpair, but pray, and repent of his ſins, and he would contrive to ſhew the Devil a trick that ſhould releaſe him from his obligation. This greatly comforted the gentleman, and he promiſed to do whatever the Friar ſhould order him. Then, ſays he, meet at the time appointed, and I will be near to offer to put the deciſion of the controverſy to the next that comes by, and that ſhall be myſelf; and I will find a way infallibly to give it on your ſide. Accordingly he met, and the Devil conſented to put it to arbitration. Then Friar Bacon appearing, Lo, ſaid the gentleman, here's a proper judge: this learned Friar ſhall determine it: and if it goes againſt me you have free liberty to do with me as you pleaſe. Content, ſaid the Devil. Then each of them told their ſtory, and the writing was produced, with all the acquittances he had taken; for the Devil, contrary to his knowledge, had ſtolen them and the other writings belonging to his Eſtate, out of his cloſet. The Friar, weighing well the matter, aſked the gentleman, whether he had paid the Devil any of the money he borrowed of him. No, replied he, not one farthing. Why then, ſaid he, Mr. Devil, his debts are not diſcharged; you are his principal creditor, and according to this writing, can lay no claim to him till every one of his debts are diſcharged. How! how! replied the Devil, am I outwitted then? O, Friar, thou art a crafty knave! and thereupon vaniſhed in a flame, raiſing a mighty tempeſt of thunder, lightning and rain: ſo that they were wet thro' before they could get ſhelter. Then Bacon charged him, he ſhould never pay the Devil a farthing of his debt, whatever ſhape he came in, or artifice he uſed to wheedle him out of it, and then he could have no power over him. The gentleman on this, living a temperate frugal life, grew very rich, and leaving no children at his death bequeathed his eſtate to Brazen-Noſe-College, becauſe Friar Bacon, a member of it, had delivered him from ſo great a danger of body and ſoul.
How Friar Bacon framed a Brazen Head, which by Enchantment was to ſpeak: by that means all England had been walled with braſs, if the folly of his man Miles, who was ſet to watch the Head, had not diſappointed it, not timely calling his maſter to anſwer it; for which he was ſtruck dumb many days.
FRIAR Bacon being now a profound proficient in the art of Magic, and many other ſciences, contrived, with one Friar Bungey, who was his pupil, to do ſomething memorable for the good of his country, and many things they caſt in their minds: at laſt they remembered that England had often been harraſſed and invaded by the Romans, Saxons, Danes, Normans and other nations at ſundry times, to the great effuſion of blood, and often alteration of the conſtitution of governments; and if any thing might be contrived to prevent the like for the future, they ſhould thereby raiſe a laſting monument to their names.
Bacon upon this concluded to frame a head of braſs; and if, by their art, they could cauſe it to ſpeak, and anſwer their demands, they required, that all the ſeagirt ſhores of England and Wales ſhould be walled with braſs, and brazen towers be raiſed on the frontiers of Scotland, to hinder the incurſions and rovings of the hardy Scots.
They laboured to do this by art, but could not; ſo they conjured up a ſpirit, to enquire of the infernal council, whether it might be done, or not. The ſpirit however was unwilling to anſwer till Friar Bacon threatened with his charms to bind him in chains in the Red-Sea, or to a burning rock, and make him the ſport of wrecking whirlwinds.
Terrified by this means, he ſaid, of himſelf he could give no anſwer, but muſt enquire of his lord Lucifer. They granted him two days for an anſwer, accordingly he returned this. "If they for two months would carefully watch the head, it ſhould in that time ſpeak, but the certain time ſhould not be known to them, and then if they did hear it, and made ſome demands, what they required ſhould be anſwered."
At this they much rejoiced, and watched by turns very carefully for ſix weeks, and no voice was uttered. At length tired out, and broken for want of their natural reſt, they concluded ſome other might watch as well as they, till they refreſhed themſelves in repoſe, and call them when the head began to ſpeak, which would be time enough; and becauſe this was a ſecret, they did not care for having it known till they ſaw what they could make of it. Bacon thereupon propoſed his man Miles, and Bungey approved of it; ſo they called Miles, told him the nature of the brazen head and what was intended, by giving him a ſtrict charge, on his life, to awake them as ſoon as ever he heard it ſpeak.
For that, maſter, ſaid he, let me alone; I warrant you I'll do your buſineſs effectually, never fear it. So he got him a long Sword by his ſide and a tabor or pipe to play, and keep him awake if any drowſineſs, or the like, ſhould overtake him.
The charge being given, and he thus accoutered, the two Friars went to reſt in the next apartment. Miles then began to pipe and ſing ſongs of his ſweethearts and frolics.
Beſſy that is ſo frolic and gay,
Like a cat ſhe loves with her tail to play:
Though ſometimes ſhe'll pant and frown,
All's well if you lay her down.
She'll never ſay nay, but ſport and play:
O Beſſy to me is the Queen of the May:
For Margery ſhe is peeviſh and proud;
Come fidlers then, and ſcrape the crowd.
Whilſt his merriment paſſed, after a hoarſe noiſe, like thunder almoſt ſpent, the head ſpoke diſtinctly, Time is. O ho! ſays Miles, is this all the news you can tell me? well copper-noſe, has my maſter taken all this pains about you, and you can ſpeak no wiſer? doſt thou think I am ſuch a fool to break his ſweet ſlum for this? no, ſpeak wiſer, or he ſhall ſleep on. Time is, quotha! why I know time is, and that thou ſhalt hear, goodman kettle jaws.
Time is for ſome to gain,
Time is for ſome to loſe
Time is for ſome to hand,
But then they cannot chooſe.
Time is to go a ſcore,
Time is when one ſhould pay;
Time is to reckon too,
But few care for that day.
Time is to graft the horn,
Upon another's head;
Time is to make maid's bellies ſwell;
Oh then 'tis time they're wed.
Heareſt thou this goodman copper-noſe? we ſcholars know when time is, without thy babbling: we know when time is to drink good ſack, eat well, kiſs our hoſteſſes, and run on the ſcore. But when time is to pay them, is indeed but ſeldom.
Whilſt thus he merrily diſcourſed, about half an hour after, the ſame noiſe began as before and the head ſaid, Time was. Well, ſaid Miles, this blockiſh head is the fooliſheſt thing my wiſe maſter ever troubled himſelf about. How would he have laughed, had he been here, to hear it prat ſo ſimply! therefore thou brazen faced aſs, ſpeak wiſer, or I ſhall ne'er trouble my head to awake him, time was, quotha! thou aſs thou! I know that, and to thou ſhalt hear; for I find my maſter has watched and tutored thee to a fine purpoſe.
Time was when thou, a kettle,
Was wont to hold good matter;
But Friar Bacon did thee ſpoil,
When he thy ſides did batter.
Time was when conſcience dwelt
With men of each vocation;
Time was when lawyers did not thrive
So well by men's vexations.
Time was when charity
Was not deny'd a being:
Time was when office kept no knaves;
That time was worth the ſeeing.
Ay, ay, and time was for many other things: But what of that, goodman brazenface? I ſee my maſter has placed me here on a very fooliſh account: I think I'd as good go to ſleep too, as to ſtay watching here to no purpoſe. Whilſt he thus ſcoffed and taunted, the head ſpoke a third time, and ſaid, Time is paſt; and ſo, with a horrible noiſe, fell down and broke to pieces: whereupon enſued lamentable ſhrieks and cries, flaſhes of fire, and a rattling as of thunder, which awaking the two Friars, they came running in, in great diſorder, found Miles rolling on the floor, in a ſtinking pickle, almoſt dead with fear, and the head lying ſhattered about the room in a thouſand pieces. Then having brought him to his ſenſes again, they demanded how this came. Nay, the Devil knows better than I, ſaid Miles: I believe he was in this plaguy head; for when it fell, it gave a bounce like a cannon. Wretch that thou art! ſaid Bacon, trifle not with my impatience! didſt thou hear it ſpeak? varlet! anſwer to that.
Why truly, ſaid Miles, it did ſpeak; but very ſimply, conſidering you have been ſo long a tutoring it; I proteſt I could have taught a jackdaw to have ſpoke better in two days. It ſaid, Time is. Oh, villain! ſays Bacon, hadſt thou called me then, all England had been walled with braſs, to my immortal fame. Then, continued Miles, about half an hour after, it ſaid, Time was. Oh, wretch ! how my anger burns againſt thee; had you but called me then, it might have done what I deſired. Then, ſaid he, it ſaid, Time is paſt, and ſo fell down with the horrible noiſe that waked you, and made me, I'm ſure, befoul my breeches; and ſince here's ſo much to do about time, I think it's time for me to retire and clean myſelf. Well, villain! ſays Bacon, thou haſt loſt all our coſt and pains by thy fooliſh negligence. Why, ſaid Miles, I thought it would not have ſtopped when it once began, but would have gone on and told me ſome pleaſant ſtory, or have commanded me to have called you, and I ſhould have done it; but I ſee the Devil is a cunning ſophiſter, and all Hell would not allow him tinkers and braſs enough to do the work, and therefore has put this trick upon us to get off from his promiſe. How, ſlave! ſaid the Friar, art thou at baffoonry, now thou haſt done me this great injury? ſirrah! becauſe you think the head ſpake not enough to induce you to call us, thou ſhalt ſpeak leſs in two months ſpace, and with that, by enchantment, he truck him dumb to the end of that time, and would have done worſe, had not Bungey had compaſſion on the fellow's ſimplicity, and perſuaded him from it.
And thus ends the hiſtory of that famous Friar Bacon, who had done a deed which would have made his fame ring through all ages yet to come, had it not been for the ſimplicity of his man Miles.
THERE is a remarkable ſtory related of Sir Chriſtopher Wren, who being choſen ſurveyor of the royal works to King Charles II. ſoon after his reſtoration, and being called upon to prepare a plan for the reparation only of St. Paul's cathedral, which he was afterwards employed to rebuild, before he would raſhly venture to expoſe his judgement upon paper in a matter of ſuch importance, in which the great Mr. Inigo Jones had been engaged before him, thought it prudent to take a ſurvey of the works of the beſt maſters abroad, and accordingly, obtained his Majeſty's leave to travel for a few months. While he was at Paris, he was taken ill with a feveriſh diſorder, made but little water, and had a pain in his reins; he ſent for a phyſician who adviſed him to be blooded, and ordered him ſome proper medicines for a pleuritic fever, with which the phyſician thought him dangerouſly attacked; but having an averſion to bleeding, he put off that operation for a day longer, and in the night dreaming that he was in a place where palmtrees grew, and that a woman in a romantic habit reached him dates; though he found himſelf much worſe in the morning, yet he ſent for dates; and eating plentifully of them, from the very moment they entered his ſtomach he thought himſelf better, and without any other medicine ſpeedily recovered.
ANOTHER ſtory of this kind, I ſhall beg leave to relate. In March, 1736, a young woman at Briſtol being taken ill of the ſmall pox, her mother attended her during her illneſs; her father was a clergyman, more than twenty miles from the city. One night, her ſiſter, who was at her father's, being in bed, heard the voice of her mother lamenting the death of her daughter. This much ſurpriſed her, knowing that her mother was then as far off as Briſtol. When ſhe aroſe in the morning, her father ſeeing her look much concerned aſked her what was the matter with her ſhe replyed, I believe my ſiſter Molly ⟨⟩ for this night I heard the voice ⟨⟩ my mother lamenting her death. Says the father, I heard the ſame myſelf, and her voice ſeemed to me to be in my ſtudy. Soon after, the ſame morning, came a meſſenger with tidings of her death. The deceaſed was brought to her father's to be buried, and after the funeral, her mother relating the manner of her daughter's illneſs, and that as ſoon as her daughter was dead, ſhe being weary with watching, and tired for want of ſleep, lay down in her clothes, and dreamed that ſhe was with them telling her grief for the loſs of her daughter. This ſurprized them; and aſking the time, it appeared to be much the ſame in which they heard her voice.
PRINTED BY J. & M. ROBERTSON,
[No. 18.] Saltmarket,
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