PART 23
Chapter xii. — In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.
“I had now
regained my liberty,” said the stranger; “but I had lost my reputation; for
there is a wide difference between the case of a man who is barely acquitted of
a crime in a court of justice, and of him who is acquitted in his own heart,
and in the opinion of the people. I was conscious of my guilt, and ashamed to
look any one in the face; so resolved to leave Oxford the next morning, before
the daylight discovered me to the eyes of any beholders.
“When I
had got clear of the city, it first entered into my head to return home to my
father, and endeavour to obtain his forgiveness; but as I had no reason to
doubt his knowledge of all which had past, and as I was well assured of his
great aversion to all acts of dishonesty, I could entertain no hopes of being
received by him, especially since I was too certain of all the good offices in
the power of my mother; nay, had my father’s pardon been as sure, as I
conceived his resentment to be, I yet question whether I could have had the
assurance to behold him, or whether I could, upon any terms, have submitted to
live and converse with those who, I was convinced, knew me to have been guilty
of so base an action.
“I
hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement of either grief or
shame, unless for persons of a very public character; for here you have the
advantage of solitude without its disadvantage, since you may be alone and in
company at the same time; and while you walk or sit unobserved, noise, hurry,
and a constant succession of objects, entertain the mind, and prevent the
spirits from preying on themselves, or rather on grief or shame, which are the
most unwholesome diet in the world; and on which (though there are many who
never taste either but in public) there are some who can feed very plentifully
and very fatally when alone.
“But as
there is scarce any human good without its concomitant evil, so there are
people who find an inconvenience in this unobserving temper of mankind; I mean
persons who have no money; for as you are not put out of countenance, so
neither are you cloathed or fed by those who do not know you. And a man may be
as easily starved in Leadenhall-market as in the deserts of Arabia.
“It was at
present my fortune to be destitute of that great evil, as it is apprehended to
be by several writers, who I suppose were overburthened with it, namely,
money.”—“With submission, sir,” said Partridge, “I do not remember any writers
who have called it malorum; but irritamenta malorum. Effodiuntur
opes, irritamenta malorum”—“Well, sir,” continued the stranger, “whether it
be an evil, or only the cause of evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the
same time of friends, and, as I thought, of acquaintance; when one evening, as
I was passing through the Inner Temple, very hungry, and very miserable, I
heard a voice on a sudden hailing me with great familiarity by my Christian
name; and upon turning about, I presently recollected the person who so saluted
me to have been my fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a
year, and long before any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman,
whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; and expressing great joy
at meeting me, proposed our immediately drinking a bottle together. I first
declined the proposal, and pretended business, but as he was very earnest and
pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride, and I fairly confessed to him I had
no money in my pocket; yet not without framing a lie for an excuse, and
imputing it to my having changed my breeches that morning. Mr Watson answered,
`I thought, Jack, you and I had been too old acquaintance for you to mention
such a matter.’ He then took me by the arm, and was pulling me along; but I
gave him very little trouble, for my own inclinations pulled me much stronger
than he could do.
“We then
went into the Friars, which you know is the scene of all mirth and jollity.
Here, when we arrived at the tavern, Mr Watson applied himself to the drawer
only, without taking the least notice of the cook; for he had no suspicion but
that I had dined long since. However, as the case was really otherwise, I
forged another falsehood, and told my companion I had been at the further end
of the city on business of consequence, and had snapt up a mutton-chop in
haste; so that I was again hungry, and wished he would add a beef-steak to his
bottle.”—“Some people,” cries Partridge, “ought to have good memories; or did
you find just money enough in your breeches to pay for the mutton-chop?”—“Your
observation is right,” answered the stranger, “and I believe such blunders are
inseparable from all dealing in untruth.—But to proceed—I began now to feel
myself extremely happy. The meat and wine soon revived my spirits to a high
pitch, and I enjoyed much pleasure in the conversation of my old acquaintance, the
rather as I thought him entirely ignorant of what had happened at the
university since his leaving it.
“But he
did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable delusion; for taking a
bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other, `Here, my boy,’ cries he,
`here’s wishing you joy of your being so honourably acquitted of that affair
laid to your charge.’ I was thunderstruck with confusion at those words, which
Watson observing, proceeded thus: `Nay, never be ashamed, man; thou hast been
acquitted, and no one now dares call thee guilty; but, prithee, do tell me, who
am thy friend—I hope thou didst really rob him? for rat me if it was not a
meritorious action to strip such a sneaking, pitiful rascal; and instead of the
two hundred guineas, I wish you had taken as many thousand. Come, come, my boy,
don’t be shy of confessing to me: you are not now brought before one of the
pimps. D—n me if I don’t honour you for it; for, as I hope for salvation, I
would have made no manner of scruple of doing the same thing.’
“This
declaration a little relieved my abashment; and as wine had now somewhat opened
my heart, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, but acquainted him that he
had been misinformed as to the sum taken, which was little more than a fifth
part of what he had mentioned.
“`I am
sorry for it with all my heart,’ quoth he, `and I wish thee better success
another time. Though, if you will take my advice, you shall have no occasion to
run any such risque. Here,’ said he, taking some dice out of his pocket, `here’s
the stuff. Here are the implements; here are the little doctors which cure the
distempers of the purse. Follow but my counsel, and I will show you a way to
empty the pocket of a queer cull without any danger of the nubbing cheat.’”
“Nubbing
cheat!” cries Partridge: “pray, sir, what is that?”
“Why that,
sir,” says the stranger, “is a cant phrase for the gallows; for as gamesters
differ little from highwaymen in their morals, so do they very much resemble
them in their language.
“We had
now each drank our bottle, when Mr Watson said, the board was sitting, and that
he must attend, earnestly pressing me at the same time to go with him and try
my fortune. I answered he knew that was at present out of my power, as I had
informed him of the emptiness of my pocket. To say the truth, I doubted not
from his many strong expressions of friendship, but that he would offer to lend
me a small sum for that purpose, but he answered, `Never mind that, man; e’en
boldly run a levant’ [Partridge was going to inquire the meaning of that word,
but Jones stopped his mouth]: `but be circumspect as to the man. I will tip you
the proper person, which may be necessary, as you do not know the town, nor can
distinguish a rum cull from a queer one.”
“The bill
was now brought, when Watson paid his share, and was departing. I reminded him,
not without blushing, of my having no money. He answered, `That signifies
nothing; score it behind the door, or make a bold brush and take no
notice.—Or—stay,’ says he; `I will go down-stairs first, and then do you take
up my money, and score the whole reckoning at the bar, and I will wait for you
at the corner.’ I expressed some dislike at this, and hinted my expectations
that he would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another sixpence
in his pocket.
“He then
went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the money and follow him, which I
did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the reckoning was upon the table.
The drawer past by me up-stairs; but I made such haste into the street, that I
heard nothing of his disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar,
according to my instructions.
“We now
went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr Watson, to my surprize, pulled out
a large sum of money and placed it before him, as did many others; all of them,
no doubt, considering their own heaps as so many decoy birds, which were to
intice and draw over the heaps of their neighbours.
“Here it
would be tedious to relate all the freaks which Fortune, or rather the dice,
played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in a few moments reduced to
nothing at one part of the table, and rose as suddenly in another. The rich
grew in a moment poor, and the poor as suddenly became rich; so that it seemed
a philosopher could nowhere have so well instructed his pupils in the contempt
of riches, at least he could nowhere have better inculcated the incertainty of
their duration.
“For my
own part, after having considerably improved my small estate, I at last
entirely demolished it. Mr Watson too, after much variety of luck, rose from
the table in some heat, and declared he had lost a cool hundred, and would play
no longer. Then coming up to me, he asked me to return with him to the tavern;
but I positively refused, saying, I would not bring myself a second time into
such a dilemma, and especially as he had lost all his money and was now in my
own condition. `Pooh!’ says he, `I have just borrowed a couple of guineas of a
friend, and one of them is at your service.’ He immediately put one of them
into my hand, and I no longer resisted his inclination.
“I was at
first a little shocked at returning to the same house whence we had departed in
so unhandsome a manner; but when the drawer, with very civil address, told us,
`he believed we had forgot to pay our reckoning,’ I became perfectly easy, and
very readily gave him a guinea, bid him pay himself, and acquiesced in the
unjust charge which had been laid on my memory.
“Mr Watson
now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well think of; and though he
had contented himself with simple claret before, nothing now but the most
precious Burgundy would serve his purpose.
“Our
company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen from the
gaming-table; most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not to the tavern to
drink, but in the way of business; for the true gamesters pretended to be ill,
and refused their glass, while they plied heartily two young fellows, who were
to be afterwards pillaged, as indeed they were without mercy. Of this plunder I
had the good fortune to be a sharer, though I was not yet let into the secret.
“There was
one remarkable accident attended this tavern play; for the money by degrees
totally disappeared; so that though at the beginning the table was half covered
with gold, yet before the play ended, which it did not till the next day, being
Sunday, at noon, there was scarce a single guinea to be seen on the table; and
this was the stranger as every person present, except myself, declared he had
lost; and what was become of the money, unless the devil himself carried it
away, is difficult to determine.”
“Most
certainly he did,” says Partridge, “for evil spirits can carry away anything
without being seen, though there were never so many folk in the room; and I
should not have been surprized if he had carried away all the company of a set
of wicked wretches, who were at play in sermon time. And I could tell you a
true story, if I would, where the devil took a man out of bed from another
man’s wife, and carried him away through the keyhole of the door. I’ve seen the
very house where it was done, and nobody hath lived in it these thirty years.”
Though
Jones was a little offended by the impertinence of Partridge, he could not
however avoid smiling at his simplicity. The stranger did the same, and then
proceeded with his story, as will be seen in the next chapter.
Chapter xiii. — In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
“My
fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a new scene of life. I soon became
acquainted with the whole fraternity of sharpers, and was let into their
secrets; I mean, into the knowledge of those gross cheats which are proper to
impose upon the raw and unexperienced; for there are some tricks of a finer
kind, which are known only to a few of the gang, who are at the head of their
profession; a degree of honour beyond my expectation; for drink, to which I was
immoderately addicted, and the natural warmth of my passions, prevented me from
arriving at any great success in an art which requires as much coolness as the
most austere school of philosophy.
“Mr
Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity, had unluckily the former
failing to a very great excess; so that instead of making a fortune by his
profession, as some others did, he was alternately rich and poor, and was often
obliged to surrender to his cooler friends, over a bottle which they never
tasted, that plunder that he had taken from culls at the public table.
“However,
we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable livelihood; and for two years
I continued of the calling; during which time I tasted all the varieties of
fortune, sometimes flourishing in affluence, and at others being obliged to
struggle with almost incredible difficulties. To-day wallowing in luxury, and
to-morrow reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being
often on my back in the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next morning.
“One
night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, I observed a very
great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together in the street. As I was in
no danger from pickpockets, I ventured into the croud, where upon enquiry I
found that a man had been robbed and very ill used by some ruffians. The
wounded man appeared very bloody, and seemed scarce able to support himself on
his legs. As I had not therefore been deprived of my humanity by my present
life and conversation, though they had left me very little of either honesty or
shame, I immediately offered my assistance to the unhappy person, who
thankfully accepted it, and, putting himself under my conduct, begged me to
convey him to some tavern, where he might send for a surgeon, being, as he
said, faint with loss of blood. He seemed indeed highly pleased at finding one
who appeared in the dress of a gentleman; for as to all the rest of the company
present, their outside was such that he could not wisely place any confidence
in them.
“I took
the poor man by the arm, and led him to the tavern where we kept our
rendezvous, as it happened to be the nearest at hand. A surgeon happening
luckily to be in the house, immediately attended, and applied himself to
dressing his wounds, which I had the pleasure to hear were not likely to be
mortal.
“The
surgeon having very expeditiously and dextrously finished his business, began
to enquire in what part of the town the wounded man lodged; who answered, `That
he was come to town that very morning; that his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly,
and that he had no other lodging, and very little or no acquaintance in town.’
“This
surgeon, whose name I have forgot, though I remember it began with an R, had
the first character in his profession, and was serjeant-surgeon to the king. He
had moreover many good qualities, and was a very generous good-natured man, and
ready to do any service to his fellow-creatures. He offered his patient the use
of his chariot to carry him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his
ear, `That if he wanted any money, he would furnish him.’
“The poor
man was not now capable of returning thanks for this generous offer; for having
had his eyes for some time stedfastly on me, he threw himself back in his
chair, crying, `Oh, my son! my son!’ and then fainted away.
“Many of
the people present imagined this accident had happened through his loss of
blood; but I, who at the same time began to recollect the features of my
father, was now confirmed in my suspicion, and satisfied that it was he himself
who appeared before me. I presently ran to him, raised him in my arms, and
kissed his cold lips with the utmost eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over
a scene which I cannot describe; for though I did not lose my being, as my
father for a while did, my senses were however so overpowered with affright and
surprize, that I am a stranger to what passed during some minutes, and indeed
till my father had again recovered from his swoon, and I found myself in his
arms, both tenderly embracing each other, while the tears trickled a-pace down
the cheeks of each of us.
“Most of
those present seemed affected by this scene, which we, who might be considered
as the actors in it, were desirous of removing from the eyes of all spectators
as fast as we could; my father therefore accepted the kind offer of the
surgeon’s chariot, and I attended him in it to his inn.
“When we
were alone together, he gently upbraided me with having neglected to write to
him during so long a time, but entirely omitted the mention of that crime which
had occasioned it. He then informed me of my mother’s death, and insisted on my
returning home with him, saying, `That he had long suffered the greatest
anxiety on my account; that he knew not whether he had most feared my death or
wished it, since he had so many more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last, he
said, a neighbouring gentleman, who had just recovered a son from the same
place, informed him where I was; and that to reclaim me from this course of
life was the sole cause of his journey to London.’ He thanked Heaven he had
succeeded so far as to find me out by means of an accident which had like to
have proved fatal to him; and had the pleasure to think he partly owed his
preservation to my humanity, with which he profest himself to be more delighted
than he should have been with my filial piety, if I had known that the object
of all my care was my own father.
“Vice had
not so depraved my heart as to excite in it an insensibility of so much
paternal affection, though so unworthily bestowed. I presently promised to obey
his commands in my return home with him, as soon as he was able to travel,
which indeed he was in a very few days, by the assistance of that excellent
surgeon who had undertaken his cure.
“The day
preceding my father’s journey (before which time I scarce ever left him), I
went to take my leave of some of my most intimate acquaintance, particularly of
Mr Watson, who dissuaded me from burying myself, as he called it, out of a
simple compliance with the fond desires of a foolish old fellow. Such
sollicitations, however, had no effect, and I once more saw my own home. My
father now greatly sollicited me to think of marriage; but my inclinations were
utterly averse to any such thoughts. I had tasted of love already, and perhaps
you know the extravagant excesses of that most tender and most violent
passion.”—Here the old gentleman paused, and looked earnestly at Jones; whose
countenance, within a minute’s space, displayed the extremities of both red and
white. Upon which the old man, without making any observations, renewed his
narrative.
“Being now
provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook myself once again to study,
and that with a more inordinate application than I had ever done formerly. The
books which now employed my time solely were those, as well antient as modern,
which treat of true philosophy, a word which is by many thought to be the
subject only of farce and ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and
Plato, with the rest of those inestimable treasures which antient Greece had
bequeathed to the world.
“These
authors, though they instructed me in no science by which men may promise to
themselves to acquire the least riches or worldly power, taught me, however,
the art of despising the highest acquisitions of both. They elevate the mind,
and steel and harden it against the capricious invasions of fortune. They not
only instruct in the knowledge of Wisdom, but confirm men in her habits, and
demonstrate plainly, that this must be our guide, if we propose ever to arrive at
the greatest worldly happiness, or to defend ourselves, with any tolerable
security, against the misery which everywhere surrounds and invests us.
“To this I
added another study, compared to which, all the philosophy taught by the wisest
heathens is little better than a dream, and is indeed as full of vanity as the
silliest jester ever pleased to represent it. This is that Divine wisdom which
is alone to be found in the Holy Scriptures; for they impart to us the
knowledge and assurance of things much more worthy our attention than all which
this world can offer to our acceptance; of things which Heaven itself hath
condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which the
highest human wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to think all the
time I had spent with the best heathen writers was little more than labour
lost: for, however pleasant and delightful their lessons may be, or however
adequate to the right regulation of our conduct with respect to this world
only; yet, when compared with the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest
documents will appear as trifling, and of as little consequence, as the rules
by which children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is,
that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better men.
Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and sweetens it.
The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the latter of Divine love.
That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal happiness.—But I am afraid I
tire you with my rhapsody.”
“Not at
all,” cries Partridge; “Lud forbid we should be tired with good things!”
“I had
spent,” continued the stranger, “about four years in the most delightful manner
to myself, totally given up to contemplation, and entirely unembarrassed with
the affairs of the world, when I lost the best of fathers, and one whom I so
entirely loved, that my grief at his loss exceeds all description. I now
abandoned my books, and gave myself up for a whole month to the effects of melancholy
and despair. Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought
me relief.”—“Ay, ay; Tempus edax rerum” said Partridge.—“I then,”
continued the stranger, “betook myself again to my former studies, which I may
say perfected my cure; for philosophy and religion may be called the exercises
of the mind, and when this is disordered, they are as wholesome as exercise can
be to a distempered body. They do indeed produce similar effects with exercise;
for they strengthen and confirm the mind, till man becomes, in the noble strain
of Horace—
Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,
Externi ne quid valeat per laeve morari;
In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna.”[*]
[*] Firm in himself, who on himself relies,
Polish’d and round, who runs his proper course
And breaks misfortunes with superior force.—MR FRANCIS.
Here Jones
smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his imagination; but the
stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and proceeded thus:—
“My
circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best of men; for my
brother, who was now become master of the house, differed so widely from me in
his inclinations, and our pursuits in life had been so very various, that we
were the worst of company to each other: but what made our living together
still more disagreeable, was the little harmony which could subsist between the
few who resorted to me, and the numerous train of sportsmen who often attended
my brother from the field to the table; for such fellows, besides the noise and
nonsense with which they persecute the ears of sober men, endeavour always to
attack them with affront and contempt. This was so much the case, that neither
I myself, nor my friends, could ever sit down to a meal with them without being
treated with derision, because we were unacquainted with the phrases of
sportsmen. For men of true learning, and almost universal knowledge, always
compassionate the ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in some little,
low, contemptible art, are always certain to despise those who are unacquainted
with that art.
“In short,
we soon separated, and I went, by the advice of a physician, to drink the Bath
waters; for my violent affliction, added to a sedentary life, had thrown me into
a kind of paralytic disorder, for which those waters are accounted an almost certain
cure. The second day after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, the sun
shone so intensely hot (though it was early in the year), that I retired to the
shelter of some willows, and sat down by the river side. Here I had not been
seated long before I heard a person on the other side of the willows sighing
and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a sudden, having uttered a most impious
oath, he cried, `I am resolved to bear it no longer,’ and directly threw
himself into the water. I immediately started, and ran towards the place,
calling at the same time as loudly as I could for assistance. An angler
happened luckily to be a-fishing a little below me, though some very high sedge
had hid him from my sight. He immediately came up, and both of us together, not
without some hazard of our lives, drew the body to the shore. At first we
perceived no sign of life remaining; but having held the body up by the heels
(for we soon had assistance enough), it discharged a vast quantity of water at
the mouth, and at length began to discover some symptoms of breathing, and a
little afterwards to move both its hands and its legs.
“An
apothecary, who happened to be present among others, advised that the body,
which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of water, and which began
to have many convulsive motions, should be directly taken up, and carried into
a warm bed. This was accordingly performed, the apothecary and myself
attending.
“As we
were going towards an inn, for we knew not the man’s lodgings, luckily a woman
met us, who, after some violent screaming, told us that the gentleman lodged at
her house.
“When I
had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him to the care of the
apothecary; who, I suppose, used all the right methods with him, for the next
morning I heard he had perfectly recovered his senses.
“I then
went to visit him, intending to search out, as well as I could, the cause of
his having attempted so desperate an act, and to prevent, as far as I was able,
his pursuing such wicked intentions for the future. I was no sooner admitted
into his chamber, than we both instantly knew each other; for who should this
person be but my good friend Mr Watson! Here I will not trouble you with what
past at our first interview; for I would avoid prolixity as much as
possible.”—“Pray let us hear all,” cries Partridge; “I want mightily to know
what brought him to Bath.”
“You shall
hear everything material,” answered the stranger; and then proceeded to relate
what we shall proceed to write, after we have given a short breathing time to
both ourselves and the reader.
Chapter xiv. — In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
“Mr
Watson,” continued the stranger, “very freely acquainted me, that the unhappy
situation of his circumstances, occasioned by a tide of ill luck, had in a
manner forced him to a resolution of destroying himself.
“I now
began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this heathenish, or indeed
diabolical, principle of the lawfulness of self-murder; and said everything
which occurred to me on the subject; but, to my great concern, it seemed to
have very little effect on him. He seemed not at all to repent of what he had
done, and gave me reason to fear he would soon make a second attempt of the
like horrible kind.
“When I
had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring to answer my arguments, he
looked me stedfastly in the face, and with a smile said, `You are strangely
altered, my good friend, since I remember you. I question whether any of our
bishops could make a better argument against suicide than you have entertained
me with; but unless you can find somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I
must either hang, or drown, or starve; and, in my opinion, the last death is
the most terrible of the three.’
“I
answered him very gravely that I was indeed altered since I had seen him last.
That I had found leisure to look into my follies and to repent of them. I then
advised him to pursue the same steps; and at last concluded with an assurance
that I myself would lend him a hundred pound, if it would be of any service to
his affairs, and he would not put it into the power of a die to deprive him of
it.
“Mr
Watson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part of my
discourse, was roused by the latter. He seized my hand eagerly, gave me a
thousand thanks, and declared I was a friend indeed; adding that he hoped I had
a better opinion of him than to imagine he had profited so little by
experience, as to put any confidence in those damned dice which had so often
deceived him. `No, no,’ cries he; `let me but once handsomely be set up again,
and if ever Fortune makes a broken merchant of me afterwards, I will forgive
her.’
“I very
well understood the language of setting up, and broken merchant. I therefore
said to him, with a very grave face, Mr Watson, you must endeavour to find out
some business or employment, by which you may procure yourself a livelihood;
and I promise you, could I see any probability of being repaid hereafter, I
would advance a much larger sum than what you have mentioned, to equip you in
any fair and honourable calling; but as to gaming, besides the baseness and
wickedness of making it a profession, you are really, to my own knowledge,
unfit for it, and it will end in your certain ruin.
“`Why now,
that’s strange,’ answered he; `neither you, nor any of my friends, would ever
allow me to know anything of the matter, and yet I believe I am as good
a hand at every game as any of you all; and I heartily wish I was to play with
you only for your whole fortune: I should desire no better sport, and I would
let you name your game into the bargain: but come, my dear boy, have you the
hundred in your pocket?”
“I
answered I had only a bill for £50, which I delivered him, and promised to
bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a little more advice,
took my leave.
“I was
indeed better than my word; for I returned to him that very afternoon. When I
entered the room, I found him sitting up in his bed at cards with a notorious
gamester. This sight, you will imagine, shocked me not a little; to which I may
add the mortification of seeing my bill delivered by him to his antagonist, and
thirty guineas only given in exchange for it.
“The other
gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson declared he was ashamed to
see me; `but,’ says he, `I find luck runs so damnably against me, that I will
resolve to leave off play for ever. I have thought of the kind proposal you
made me ever since, and I promise you there shall be no fault in me, if I do
not put it in execution.’
“Though I
had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the remainder of the hundred
in consequence of my own; for which he gave me a note, which was all I ever
expected to see in return for my money.
“We were
prevented from any further discourse at present by the arrival of the
apothecary; who, with much joy in his countenance, and without even asking his
patient how he did, proclaimed there was great news arrived in a letter to
himself, which he said would shortly be public, `That the Duke of Monmouth was
landed in the west with a vast army of Dutch; and that another vast fleet
hovered over the coast of Norfolk, and was to make a descent there, in order to
favour the duke’s enterprize with a diversion on that side.’
“This
apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He was more
delighted with the most paultry packet, than with the best patient, and the
highest joy he was capable of, he received from having a piece of news in his
possession an hour or two sooner than any other person in the town. His
advices, however, were seldom authentic; for he would swallow almost anything
as a truth—a humour which many made use of to impose upon him.
“Thus it
happened with what he at present communicated; for it was known within a short
time afterwards that the duke was really landed, but that his army consisted
only of a few attendants; and as to the diversion in Norfolk, it was entirely
false.
“The
apothecary staid no longer in the room than while he acquainted us with his
news; and then, without saying a syllable to his patient on any other subject,
departed to spread his advices all over the town.
“Events of
this nature in the public are generally apt to eclipse all private concerns.
Our discourse therefore now became entirely political.[*] For my own part, I
had been for some time very seriously affected with the danger to which the
Protestant religion was so visibly exposed under a Popish prince, and thought
the apprehension of it alone sufficient to justify that insurrection; for no
real security can ever be found against the persecuting spirit of Popery, when
armed with power, except the depriving it of that power, as woeful experience
presently showed. You know how King James behaved after getting the better of
this attempt; how little he valued either his royal word, or coronation oath,
or the liberties and rights of his people. But all had not the sense to foresee
this at first; and therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly supported; yet all
could feel when the evil came upon them; and therefore all united, at last, to
drive out that king, against whose exclusion a great party among us had so
warmly contended during the reign of his brother, and for whom they now fought
with such zeal and affection.”
“What you
say,” interrupted Jones, “is very true; and it has often struck me, as the most
wonderful thing I ever read of in history, that so soon after this convincing
experience which brought our whole nation to join so unanimously in expelling
King James, for the preservation of our religion and liberties, there should be
a party among us mad enough to desire the placing his family again on the
throne.” “You are not in earnest!” answered the old man; “there can be no such
party. As bad an opinion as I have of mankind, I cannot believe them infatuated
to such a degree. There may be some hot-headed Papists led by their priests to
engage in this desperate cause, and think it a holy war; but that Protestants,
that are members of the Church of England, should be such apostates, such felos
de se, I cannot believe it; no, no, young man, unacquainted as I am with
what has past in the world for these last thirty years, I cannot be so imposed
upon as to credit so foolish a tale; but I see you have a mind to sport with my
ignorance.”—“Can it be possible,” replied Jones, “that you have lived so much
out of the world as not to know that during that time there have been two
rebellions in favour of the son of King James, one of which is now actually
raging in the very heart of the kingdom.” At these words the old gentleman
started up, and in a most solemn tone of voice, conjured Jones by his Maker to
tell him if what he said was really true; which the other as solemnly affirming,
he walked several turns about the room in a profound silence, then cried, then
laughed, and at last fell down on his knees, and blessed God, in a loud
thanksgiving prayer, for having delivered him from all society with human
nature, which could be capable of such monstrous extravagances. After which,
being reminded by Jones that he had broke off his story, he resumed it again in
this manner:—
“As
mankind, in the days I was speaking of, was not yet arrived at that pitch of
madness which I find they are capable of now, and which, to be sure, I have
only escaped by living alone, and at a distance from the contagion, there was a
considerable rising in favour of Monmouth; and my principles strongly inclining
me to take the same part, I determined to join him; and Mr Watson, from
different motives concurring in the same resolution (for the spirit of a
gamester will carry a man as far upon such an occasion as the spirit of
patriotism), we soon provided ourselves with all necessaries, and went to the
duke at Bridgewater.
“The
unfortunate event of this enterprize, you are, I conclude, as well acquainted
with as myself. I escaped, together with Mr Watson, from the battle at
Sedgemore, in which action I received a slight wound. We rode near forty miles
together on the Exeter road, and then abandoning our horses, scrambled as well
as we could through the fields and bye-roads, till we arrived at a little wild
hut on a common, where a poor old woman took all the care of us she could, and
dressed my wound with salve, which quickly healed it.”
“Pray,
sir, where was the wound?” says Partridge. The stranger satisfied him it was in
his arm, and then continued his narrative. “Here, sir,” said he, “Mr Watson
left me the next morning, in order, as he pretended, to get us some provision
from the town of Collumpton; but—can I relate it, or can you believe it?—this
Mr Watson, this friend, this base, barbarous, treacherous villain, betrayed me
to a party of horse belonging to King James, and at his return delivered me
into their hands.
“The
soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were conducting me to
Taunton gaol; but neither my present situation, nor the apprehensions of what
might happen to me, were half so irksome to my mind as the company of my false
friend, who, having surrendered himself, was likewise considered as a prisoner,
though he was better treated, as being to make his peace at my expense. He at
first endeavoured to excuse his treachery; but when he received nothing but
scorn and upbraiding from me, he soon changed his note, abused me as the most
atrocious and malicious rebel, and laid all his own guilt to my charge, who, as
he declared, had solicited, and even threatened him, to make him take up arms
against his gracious as well as lawful sovereign.
“This
false evidence (for in reality he had been much the forwarder of the two) stung
me to the quick, and raised an indignation scarce conceivable by those who have
not felt it. However, fortune at length took pity on me; for as we were got a
little beyond Wellington, in a narrow lane, my guards received a false alarm,
that near fifty of the enemy were at hand; upon which they shifted for
themselves, and left me and my betrayer to do the same. That villain
immediately ran from me, and I am glad he did, or I should have certainly
endeavoured, though I had no arms, to have executed vengeance on his baseness.
“I was now
once more at liberty; and immediately withdrawing from the highway into the
fields, I travelled on, scarce knowing which way I went, and making it my chief
care to avoid all public roads and all towns—nay, even the most homely houses;
for I imagined every human creature whom I saw desirous of betraying me.
“At last,
after rambling several days about the country, during which the fields afforded
me the same bed and the same food which nature bestows on our savage brothers
of the creation, I at length arrived at this place, where the solitude and
wildness of the country invited me to fix my abode. The first person with whom
I took up my habitation was the mother of this old woman, with whom I remained
concealed till the news of the glorious revolution put an end to all my
apprehensions of danger, and gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my
own home, and of enquiring a little into my affairs, which I soon settled as
agreeably to my brother as to myself; having resigned everything to him, for
which he paid me the sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on me an annuity for
life.
“His
behaviour in this last instance, as in all others, was selfish and ungenerous.
I could not look on him as my friend, nor indeed did he desire that I should;
so I presently took my leave of him, as well as of my other acquaintance; and
from that day to this, my history is little better than a blank.”
“And is it
possible, sir,” said Jones, “that you can have resided here from that day to
this?”—“O no, sir,” answered the gentleman; “I have been a great traveller, and
there are few parts of Europe with which I am not acquainted.” “I have not,
sir,” cried Jones, “the assurance to ask it of you now; indeed it would be
cruel, after so much breath as you have already spent: but you will give me
leave to wish for some further opportunity of hearing the excellent
observations which a man of your sense and knowledge of the world must have
made in so long a course of travels.”—“Indeed, young gentleman,” answered the
stranger, “I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity on this head likewise, as
far as I am able.” Jones attempted fresh apologies, but was prevented; and
while he and Partridge sat with greedy and impatient ears, the stranger
proceeded as in the next chapter.
[*] The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs
in the first edition were as follows:
“For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously affected
with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly
exposed, that nothing but the immediate interposition of Providence
seemed capable of preserving it; for King James had indeed declared
war against the Protestant cause. He had brought known papists into
the army and attempted to bring them into the Church and into the
University. Popish priests swarmed through the nation, appeared
publicly in their habits, and boasted that they should shortly walk
in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbid to
preach against popery, and bishops were ordered to supend those who
did; and to do the business at once an illegal ecclesiastical
commission was erected, little inferior to an inquisition, of which,
probably, it was intended to be the ringleader. Thus, as our duty to
the king can never be called more than our second duty, he had
discharged us from this by making it incompatible with our
preserving the first, which is surely to heaven. Besides this, he
had dissolved his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his
Coronation Oath, to which their allegiance is annexed; for he had
imprisoned bishops because they would not give up their religion,
and turned out judges because they would not absolutely surrender
the law into his hands; nay, he seized this himself, and when he
claimed a dispensing power, he declared himself, in fact, as
absolute as any tyrant ever was or can be. I have recapitulated
these matters in full lest some of them should have been omitted in
history; and I think nothing less than such provocations as I have
here mentioned, nothing less than certain and imminent danger to
their religion and liberties, can justify or even mitigate the
dreadful sin of rebellion in any people.”
“I promise you, sir,” says Jones, “all these facts, and more, I have
read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet
recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually
now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that
very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than
his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who
hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our
liberties.”
“Prodigious indeed!” answered the stranger. “You tell me what would
be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that
Virgil gives of a woman, varium et mutabile semper. Surely this is
to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of
us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs
and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and
unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a
miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A
Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of
mankind is as wonderful as their knavery—But to conclude my story:
I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion,
and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We
soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at
Bridgewater.”
“The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better
acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson
from the battle at Sedgemore,...
To be continued
