THE Character of a Grumbletonian, OR, THE New Malcontent.  
A Grumbletonian! What's that— in the Pope's Name? Why, 'tis the First and Second Part of Hickeringhil— a mere Composition of Curse-ye-meroz, and The Black Non Conformist, as full of contradictions as of Nonsense: an absolute Civil Quaker, that finds as many faults with the State as he with the Church, and both for the same No-Reason. 'tis a Hodg-podge of Malice, Scurrility, and Illnature, who has seldom Wit enough to keep him from Slavering, or if he does now and then Stumble on some pleasant Notion; han't manners enough to keep his Wit from Stinking. 'Tis a thing that was never Born to be contented— he's always Twisting and Wriggling, and has a Worm in his Tail as long as that in his Head,— see but how tenderly he Treads, you'd think he was under Harry Hills' Course of Penance, and had all his Pea's in his Shoes without Boiling 'em. 'Tis a hard matter that's the Truth on't, to tell what he is, since he hardly knows it himself, nor, does the froward Chit know what 'twould have, tho' if any thing, it must be some Bauble or other that quiets him. He handles the Government as the Turks do Slaves, when they come to be Sold— Peeps all round it— Tries and Gropes, whether it be Sound Wind and Limb— Looks Marvellous earnestly on its Physiognomy, pretending to Read its Fortune, and if he has any skill 'twon't be long-lived,— and yet after all his prying as sharply as the Jesuit with his Prospective, all the Wise Faults he can find in't are, that the Nose and Complexion on't don't please him. He's hard to be found, and yet every where, for he's as diligent and indefatigable, as another that runs too and fro on the same business, and for the same Reason too, because he knows his time is short. And now we talk of the Devil— there's a certain place within a Mile of an Oak, where you are very likely to find him, Settleing Church and State over a Dozen Bottles of Claret! He's very ready at Quoting Precedents when they please him, and pretends to carry as Humble an Implicit Faith about with him as e'er a Catholic of 'em all,— and Reason too— for this he finds a good Lazy Compendious way of Grumbling, without the long Fatigue of Enquiry and Argument. By his Commending Tenderness of Conscience in others, you'd be almost Tempted to believe he had some such thing himself,— and indeed who would think any Man wound forswear himself by way of Civil Conversation or so, a Hundred times a Day, and yet all o' the sudden Start and Bogle at one single Oath of Allegiance? one would think he owned a God too when he seems afraid to Invoke his Name to a Lie, or believed a Hell, when he says he dares not comply for fear of Damnation.  
He's an Irish Man Double gilt,— a mere Teague Christianized, and Reformed into somewhat that looks like Humanity,— but with much using the Gilding wears off again, and Mistress Puss must have a touch at the Mouse, tho' she leaves her Spark Caterwauling for the loss of her. There's so much Discontent and Ingratitude, and Baseness, mixed with such a Profound Twang of Laziness and Cowardice in the very Constitution of him, that Nature has as perfectly marked him out for Slavery, as if he had great Lips and a Flat Nose— he mainly Resembles the Inhabitants of the Cape— bring 'em into any Country, Dress 'em and give 'em Food fit for Humane Creatures, they'll do nothing but lie upon the Ground, and Pine themselves to Death for their old belov'd Hogsty, and long as passionately as a Teeming Woman, for a Sovoury Mouthful of their old Guts and Garbage. He's of a very Ancient Family that's the Truth on't, and can run ye up his Pedigree as high as Peter Heylin could his own, or a High-lander his Princes, for he'll tell ye, (if Modesty don't a little Confound him) that some of his Relations had a strong Party among the Israelites in the Wilderness— and great Men in the Congregation, he can assure ye some of 'em were— no less Names than Korah, Dathan and Abiram. They called 'em Murmurers then, but that's but an old word for Grumbletonians. Tho' he's heavy enough in some things where haste is required, yet he's Nimble enough in others— Woe would be to a Sergeant at Arms if he was obliged to follow him a whole Day to take him into Custody, for he has a Thousand Disguises, and is almost at once in as many places.— Here he appears in the Shape of a Gentleman, and Squats him down in a Coffeehouse like the Toad at Eves Ear: Shakes Empty Poll very Emphatically— takes up the Votes, finds fault with one Damned Clause or other in 'em, Bites off the corner of 'em, and throws 'em down in Dudgeon again— Snatches up the Gazet— Men of Merit are not Preferred— (ay, there 'tis) here's a Company of I known't who got in, and he has nothing— not that he'd Act— no— not for a World— he can't accept— his Conscience— O— it Grumbleth most Obstreperously, and there is no quieting of the same.— Look sharp Mr. Officer— he's pulling up his Hatch, and if ye don't have a care the Gentleman will be a Baker, and his Calash a Cart before ye can call the Constable,— for now all o'th' sudden he's an honest Country Farmer, and mightily aggrieved that the Affairs, of the Nation are settled without his Spade and Flail to lend Assistance— thinks he has Sweat and Voted, and Stunk in a Crowd to some purpose— Scratches his Head, and with some dry Bob of good King James— Exit Hobbinol— but would ye think it— who is now at the turning of the next Corner? If these Cheating Eyes don't deceive me he has got a Parson's Gown on to hide his Cloven-Foot— nay,— he'll pretend to be Hamet— Bon— Hamet,— a Parson's Son too,— he has his Ticket in's Hand, and you'll see him at the Feast to Morrow, when the Sons of God met together, we know who came among them— Unfrock the Rascal for shame, & let him not abuse that Venerable Order— d'ye see, he's in the Pulpit already— his Prayer is not long— somewhat the shorter because ye hear no King William and Queen Mary,— his Sermon— the Ingratitude of this our Age— prepare for Persecution— Two or Three silent Smiters more— and he's Vanished into the Tavern— where that Disguise is soon thrown off, and he gets another— and yet what Reason should there be to say a Man's Disguised when you may Peep into the Soul of him,— for now he appears in his proper Shape.— Now keep out of the way— for he Vomits all his Soul out— O this Parliament— here's Arbitrary with a Vengeance,— Hoc est Parliamentum— Habeas Corpus where art thou?— this will never do— we will not suffer our King to be thus— these Oaths— these— certainly they'll never go down without Buttering— Ay, Ay,— the Lawn Sleeves down next— ye may see what they'd be at— these Pack of— and then he Tumbles under Board— and next Morning as soon as his Head's Cool dispatches Packets to this Mayor, and t'other Alderman in the Country, to Wheedle or Fright 'em into as great Knaves or Fools as he is himself.— There's one Infallible Mark more, by which you may be sure of knowing him through all his Disguises— as soon as he takes up this Paper— (a better Looking-Glass than his own) he Starts back at the sight of his own ugly Face— falls a foaming like a Sweet Singer, and Swears heartily the Authors a Fanatic, tho' as Friend Ratcliff says, He might as well have Guest him a Mahometan.   

Licenced according to Law, May the 1. 1689.   

LONDON, Printed and are to be Sold by Richard Janeway in Queens-Head-Alley in Pater-Noster-Row. MDCLXXXIX.