this little Attempt of Mine may stir up some Pudding-headed Antiquary to dig his Way through all the mouldy Records of Antiquity, and bring to Light the Noble Actions of Sir John! It will not then be long before we see him on the Stage. Sir John Falstaffe then will be a Shrimp to Sir John Pudding, when rais’d from Oblivion and reanimated by the All-Invigorating Pen of the Well-Fed, Well-Read, Well-Pay’d C— J—— Esq; Nor wou’d this be all; for the Pastry-Cooks wou’d from the Hands of an eminent Physician and Poet receive whole Loads of

Memorandums, to remind ’em of the Gratitude due to Sir John’s Memory.

On such a Subject I hope to see Sir Richard Out-do himself. Nor Arthur nor Eliza shall with Sir John compare. There is not so much difference between a Telescope and a Powder-Puff, a Hoop-Petty-Coat and a Farthing-Candle, a Birch-Broom and a Diamond-Ring, as there will be between the former Writings of this pair of Poets and their Lucubrations on this Head.

Nor will it stop here: The Opera Composers shall have t’other Contest, which shall best sing-forth his Praises. Sorry am I that Nicolino is not here, he would have made an excellent Sir John. But Senefino, being blown up after the manner that Butchers blow Calves, may do well enough. From thence the Painters and Print-sellers shall retail his goodly Phiz; and what Sacheverel was, shall Sir John Pudding be; his Head shall hang Elate on every Sign, his Fame shall ring in every Street, and Cluer’s Press shall teem with Ballads to his Praise. This would be but Honour, this would be but Gratitude, from a Generation so much indebted to so Great a Man.

But how much do we deviate from Honour and Gratitude, when we put other Names to his Inventions, and call ’em our own? What is a Tart, a Pie, or a Pasty, but Meat or Fruit enclos’d in a Wall or Covering of Pudding. What is a Cake, but a Bak’d Pudding; or a Christmas-Pie, but a Minc’d-Meat-Pudding. As for Cheese-cakes, Custards, Tansies, they are manifest Puddings, and all of Sir John’s own Contrivance; for Custard is as old if not older than Magna Charta. In short, Pudding is of the greatest Dignity and Antiquity. Bread it self, which is the very Staff of Life, is, properly speaking, a Bak’d Wheat-Pudding.

To the Satchel, which is the Pudding-Bag of Ingenuity, we are indebted for the greatest Men in Church and State. All Arts and Sciences owe their Original to Pudding or Dumpling. What is a Bag-Pipe, the Mother of all Music, but a Pudding of Harmony. And what is Music it self, but a Palatable Cookery of Sounds. To little Puddings or Bladders of Colours we owe all the choice Originals of the Greatest Painters: And indeed, what is Painting, but a well-spread Pudding, or Cookery of Colours.

The Head of Man is like a Pudding: And whence have all Rhimes, Poems, Plots and Inventions sprang, but from that same Pudding. What is Poetry, but a Pudding of Words. The Physicians, tho’ they cry out so much against Cooks and Cookery, yet are but Cooks themselves; with this difference only, the Cooks Pudding lengthens Life, the Physicians shortens it. So that we Live and Die by Pudding. For what is a Clyster, but a Bag-Pudding; a Pill, but a Dumpling; or a Bolus, but a Tansy, tho’ not altogether so Toothsome. In a word; Physick is only a Puddingizing or Cookery of Drugs. The Law is but a Cookery of Quibbles and Contentions.(a) * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * is but a Pudding of * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *. Some swallow every thing whole and unmix’d; so that it may rather be call’d a Heap, than a Pudding. Others are so Squeamish, the greatest Mastership in Cookery is requir’d to make the Pudding Palatable: The Suet which others gape and swallow by Gobs, must for these

puny Stomachs be minced to Atoms; the Plums must be pick’d with the utmost Care, and every Ingredient proportion’d to the greatest Nicety, or it will never go down.

(a) The Cat run away with this part of the Copy, on which the Author had unfortunately laid some of Mother Crump’s Sausages.

The Universe it self is but a Pudding of Elements. Empires, Kingdoms, States and Republicks are but Puddings of People differently made up. The Celestial and Terrestrial Orbs are decypher’d to us by a pair of Globes or Mathematical Puddings.

The Success of War and Fate of Monarchies are entirely dependant on Puddings and Dumplings: For what else are Cannon-Balls, but Military Puddings; or Bullets, but Dumplings; only with this difference, they do not sit so well on the Stomach as a good Marrow-Pudding or Bread-Pudding.

In short, There is nothing valuable in Nature, but what, more or less, has an Allusion to Pudding or Dumpling. Why then should they be held in Disesteem? Why should Dumpling-Eating be ridicul’d, or Dumpling-Eaters derided? Is it not Pleasant and Profitable? Is it not Ancient and Honourable? Kings, Princes, and Potentates have in all Ages been Lovers of Pudding. Is it not therefore

of Royal Authority? Popes, Cardinals, Bishops, Priests and Deacons have, Time out of Mind, been great Pudding-Eaters: Is it not therefore a Holy and Religious Institution? Philosophers, Poets, and Learned Men in all Faculties, Judges, Privy-Councellors, and Members of both Houses, have, by their great Regard to Pudding, given a Sanction to it that nothing can efface. Is it not therefore Ancient, Honourable, and Commendable?

Quare itaque fremuerunt Auctores?

Why do therefore the Enemies of good Eating, the Starve-gutted Authors of Grub-street, employ their impotent Pens against Pudding and Pudding-headed, aliàs Honest Men? Why do they inveigh against Dumpling-Eating which is the Life and Soul of Good-fellowship, and Dumpling-Eaters who are the Ornaments of Civil Society.

But, alas! their Malice is their own Punishment. The Hireling Author of a late scandalous Libel, intituled, The Dumpling-Eaters Downfall, may, if he has any Eyes, now see his Error, in attacking so Numerous, so August a Body of People: His Books remain Unsold, Unread, Unregarded; while this Treatise of

Mine shall be Bought by all who love Pudding or Dumpling; to my Bookseller’s great Joy, and my no small Consolation. How shall I Triumph, and how will that Mercenary Scribbler be Mortify’d, when I have sold more Editions of my Books, than he has Copies of his! I therefore exhort all People, Gentle and Simple, Men, Women and Children, to Buy, to Read, to Extol these Labours of Mine, for the Honour of Dumpling-Eating. Let them not fear to defend every Article; for I will bear them Harmless: I have Arguments good store, and can easily Confute, either