Chapter vi. — A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very common, though not very friendly, conclusion.
While our
lovers were entertaining themselves in the manner which is partly described in
the foregoing chapter, they were likewise furnishing out an entertainment for
their good friends in the kitchen. And this in a double sense, by affording
them matter for their conversation, and, at the same time, drink to enliven
their spirits.
There were
now assembled round the kitchen fire, besides my landlord and landlady, who
occasionally went backward and forward, Mr Partridge, the serjeant, and the
coachman who drove the young lady and her maid.
Partridge
having acquainted the company with what he had learnt from the Man of the Hill
concerning the situation in which Mrs Waters had been found by Jones, the
serjeant proceeded to that part of her history which was known to him. He said
she was the wife of Mr Waters, who was a captain in their regiment, and had
often been with him at quarters. “Some folks,” says he, “used indeed to doubt
whether they were lawfully married in a church or no. But, for my part, that’s no
business of mine: I must own, if I was put to my corporal oath, I believe she
is little better than one of us; and I fancy the captain may go to heaven when
the sun shines upon a rainy day. But if he does, that is neither here nor
there; for he won’t want company. And the lady, to give the devil his due, is a
very good sort of lady, and loves the cloth, and is always desirous to do
strict justice to it; for she hath begged off many a poor soldier, and, by her
good-will, would never have any of them punished. But yet, to be sure, Ensign
Northerton and she were very well acquainted together at our last quarters;
that is the very right and truth of the matter. But the captain he knows
nothing about it; and as long as there is enough for him too, what does it signify?
He loves her not a bit the worse, and I am certain would run any man through
the body that was to abuse her; therefore I won’t abuse her, for my part. I
only repeat what other folks say; and, to be certain, what everybody says,
there must be some truth in.”—“Ay, ay, a great deal of truth, I warrant you,”
cries Partridge; “Veritas odium parit”—“All a parcel of scandalous
stuff,” answered the mistress of the house. “I am sure, now she is drest, she
looks like a very good sort of lady, and she behaves herself like one; for she
gave me a guinea for the use of my cloaths.”—“A very good lady indeed!” cries
the landlord; “and if you had not been a little too hasty, you would not have
quarrelled with her as you did at first.”—“You need mention that with my
truly!” answered she: “if it had not been for your nonsense, nothing had
happened. You must be meddling with what did not belong to you, and throw in
your fool’s discourse.”—“Well, well,” answered he; “what’s past cannot be
mended, so there’s an end of the matter.”—“Yes,” cries she, “for this once; but
will it be mended ever the more hereafter? This is not the first time I have
suffered for your numscull’s pate. I wish you would always hold your tongue in
the house, and meddle only in matters without doors, which concern you. Don’t
you remember what happened about seven years ago?”—“Nay, my dear,” returned he,
“don’t rip up old stories. Come, come, all’s well, and I am sorry for what I
have done.” The landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the
peace-making serjeant, sorely to the displeasure of Partridge, who was a great
lover of what is called fun, and a great promoter of those harmless quarrels
which tend rather to the production of comical than tragical incidents.
The
serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his master were travelling? “None of
your magisters,” answered Partridge; “I am no man’s servant, I assure you; for,
though I have had misfortunes in the world, I write gentleman after my name;
and, as poor and simple as I may appear now, I have taught grammar-school in my
time; sed hei mihi! non sum quod fui.”—“No offence, I hope, sir,” said
the serjeant; “where, then, if I may venture to be so bold, may you and your
friend be travelling?”—“You have now denominated us right,” says Partridge. “Amici
sumus. And I promise you my friend is one of the greatest gentlemen in the
kingdom” (at which words both landlord and landlady pricked up their ears). “He
is the heir of Squire Allworthy.”—“What, the squire who doth so much good all
over the country?” cries my landlady. “Even he,” answered Partridge.—“Then I
warrant,” says she, “he’ll have a swinging great estate hereafter.”—“Most
certainly,” answered Partridge.—“Well,” replied the landlady, “I thought the
first moment I saw him he looked like a good sort of gentleman; but my husband
here, to be sure, is wiser than anybody.”—“I own, my dear,” cries he, “it was a
mistake.”—“A mistake, indeed!” answered she; “but when did you ever know me to
make such mistakes?”—“But how comes it, sir,” cries the landlord, “that such a
great gentleman walks about the country afoot?”—“I don’t know,” returned
Partridge; “great gentlemen have humours sometimes. He hath now a dozen horses
and servants at Gloucester; and nothing would serve him, but last night, it
being very hot weather, he must cool himself with a walk to yon high hill,
whither I likewise walked with him to bear him company; but if ever you catch
me there again: for I was never so frightened in all my life. We met with the
strangest man there.”—“I’ll be hanged,” cries the landlord, “if it was not the
Man of the Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a man; but I know several
people who believe it is the devil that lives there.”—“Nay, nay, like enough,”
says Partridge; “and now you put me in the head of it, I verily and sincerely
believe it was the devil, though I could not perceive his cloven foot: but
perhaps he might have the power given him to hide that, since evil spirits can
appear in what shapes they please.”—“And pray, sir,” says the serjeant, “no
offence, I hope; but pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I have
heard some of our officers say there is no such person; and that it is only a
trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke; for, if it was publickly
known that there was no devil, the parsons would be of no more use than we are
in time of peace.”—“Those officers,” says Partridge, “are very great scholars,
I suppose.”—“Not much of schollards neither,” answered the serjeant; “they have
not half your learning, sir, I believe; and, to be sure, I thought there must
be a devil, notwithstanding what they said, though one of them was a captain;
for methought, thinks I to myself, if there be no devil, how can wicked people
be sent to him? and I have read all that upon a book.”—“Some of your officers,”
quoth the landlord, “will find there is a devil, to their shame, I believe. I
don’t question but he’ll pay off some old scores upon my account. Here was one
quartered upon me half a year, who had the conscience to take up one of my best
beds, though he hardly spent a shilling a day in the house, and suffered his
men to roast cabbages at the kitchen fire, because I would not give them a
dinner on a Sunday. Every good Christian must desire there should be a devil
for the punishment of such wretches.”—“Harkee, landlord,” said the serjeant,
“don’t abuse the cloth, for I won’t take it.”—“D—n the cloth!” answered the
landlord, “I have suffered enough by them.”—“Bear witness, gentlemen,” says the
serjeant, “he curses the king, and that’s high treason.”—“I curse the king! you
villain,” said the landlord. “Yes, you did,” cries the serjeant; “you cursed
the cloth, and that’s cursing the king. It’s all one and the same; for every
man who curses the cloth would curse the king if he durst; so for matter o’
that, it’s all one and the same thing.”—“Excuse me there, Mr Serjeant,” quoth
Partridge, “that’s a non sequitur.”—“None of your outlandish linguo,”
answered the serjeant, leaping from his seat; “I will not sit still and hear
the cloth abused.”—“You mistake me, friend,” cries Partridge. “I did not mean
to abuse the cloth; I only said your conclusion was a non sequitur.[*]”—“You
are another,” cries the serjeant,” an you come to that. No more a sequitur
than yourself. You are a pack of rascals, and I’ll prove it; for I will fight
the best man of you all for twenty pound.” This challenge effectually silenced
Partridge, whose stomach for drubbing did not so soon return after the hearty
meal which he had lately been treated with; but the coachman, whose bones were
less sore, and whose appetite for fighting was somewhat sharper, did not so
easily brook the affront, of which he conceived some part at least fell to his
share. He started therefore from his seat, and, advancing to the serjeant,
swore he looked on himself to be as good a man as any in the army, and offered
to box for a guinea. The military man accepted the combat, but refused the
wager; upon which both immediately stript and engaged, till the driver of
horses was so well mauled by the leader of men, that he was obliged to exhaust
his small remainder of breath in begging for quarter.
[*] This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an affront,
is a term in logic, and means that the conclusion does not follow
from the premises.
The young
lady was now desirous to depart, and had given orders for her coach to be
prepared; but all in vain, for the coachman was disabled from performing his
office for that evening. An antient heathen would perhaps have imputed this
disability to the god of drink, no less than to the god of war; for, in
reality, both the combatants had sacrificed as well to the former deity as to
the latter. To speak plainly, they were both dead drunk, nor was Partridge in a
much better situation. As for my landlord, drinking was his trade; and the
liquor had no more effect on him than it had on any other vessel in his house.
The
mistress of the inn, being summoned to attend Mr Jones and his companion at
their tea, gave a full relation of the latter part of the foregoing scene; and
at the same time expressed great concern for the young lady, “who,” she said,
“was under the utmost uneasiness at being prevented from pursuing her journey.
She is a sweet pretty creature,” added she, “and I am certain I have seen her
face before. I fancy she is in love, and running away from her friends. Who
knows but some young gentleman or other may be expecting her, with a heart as
heavy as her own?”
Jones
fetched a heavy sigh at those words; of which, though Mrs Waters observed it,
she took no notice while the landlady continued in the room; but, after the
departure of that good woman, she could not forbear giving our heroe certain
hints on her suspecting some very dangerous rival in his affections. The
aukward behaviour of Mr Jones on this occasion convinced her of the truth,
without his giving her a direct answer to any of her questions; but she was not
nice enough in her amours to be greatly concerned at the discovery. The beauty
of Jones highly charmed her eye; but as she could not see his heart, she gave
herself no concern about it. She could feast heartily at the table of love,
without reflecting that some other already had been, or hereafter might be,
feasted with the same repast. A sentiment which, if it deals but little in
refinement, deals, however, much in substance; and is less capricious, and
perhaps less ill-natured and selfish, than the desires of those females who can
be contented enough to abstain from the possession of their lovers, provided
they are sufficiently satisfied that no one else possesses them.
Chapter vii. — Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by what means she came into that distressful situation from which she was rescued by Jones.
Though
Nature hath by no means mixed up an equal share either of curiosity or vanity
in every human composition, there is perhaps no individual to whom she hath not
allotted such a proportion of both as requires much arts, and pains too, to
subdue and keep under;—a conquest, however, absolutely necessary to every one
who would in any degree deserve the characters of wisdom or good breeding.
As Jones,
therefore, might very justly be called a well-bred man, he had stifled all that
curiosity which the extraordinary manner in which he had found Mrs Waters must
be supposed to have occasioned. He had, indeed, at first thrown out some few
hints to the lady; but, when he perceived her industriously avoiding any
explanation, he was contented to remain in ignorance, the rather as he was not
without suspicion that there were some circumstances which must have raised her
blushes, had she related the whole truth.
Now since
it is possible that some of our readers may not so easily acquiesce under the
same ignorance, and as we are very desirous to satisfy them all, we have taken
uncommon pains to inform ourselves of the real fact, with the relation of which
we shall conclude this book.
This lady,
then, had lived some years with one Captain Waters, who was a captain in the
same regiment to which Mr Northerton belonged. She past for that gentleman’s
wife, and went by his name; and yet, as the serjeant said, there were some
doubts concerning the reality of their marriage, which we shall not at present
take upon us to resolve.
Mrs
Waters, I am sorry to say it, had for some time contracted an intimacy with the
above-mentioned ensign, which did no great credit to her reputation. That she
had a remarkable fondness for that young fellow is most certain; but whether
she indulged this to any very criminal lengths is not so extremely clear,
unless we will suppose that women never grant every favour to a man but one,
without granting him that one also.
The
division of the regiment to which Captain Waters belonged had two days preceded
the march of that company to which Mr Northerton was the ensign; so that the
former had reached Worcester the very day after the unfortunate re-encounter
between Jones and Northerton which we have before recorded.
Now, it
had been agreed between Mrs Waters and the captain that she would accompany him
in his march as far as Worcester, where they were to take their leave of each
other, and she was thence to return to Bath, where she was to stay till the end
of the winter’s campaign against the rebels.
With this
agreement Mr Northerton was made acquainted. To say the truth, the lady had
made him an assignation at this very place, and promised to stay at Worcester
till his division came thither; with what view, and for what purpose, must be
left to the reader’s divination; for, though we are obliged to relate facts, we
are not obliged to do a violence to our nature by any comments to the
disadvantage of the loveliest part of the creation.
Northerton
no sooner obtained a release from his captivity, as we have seen, than he
hasted away to overtake Mrs Waters; which, as he was a very active nimble
fellow, he did at the last-mentioned city, some few hours after Captain Waters
had left her. At his first arrival he made no scruple of acquainting her with
the unfortunate accident; which he made appear very unfortunate indeed, for he
totally extracted every particle of what could be called fault, at least in a
court of honour, though he left some circumstances which might be questionable
in a court of law.
Women, to
their glory be it spoken, are more generally capable of that violent and
apparently disinterested passion of love, which seeks only the good of its
object, than men. Mrs Waters, therefore, was no sooner apprized of the danger
to which her lover was exposed, than she lost every consideration besides that
of his safety; and this being a matter equally agreeable to the gentleman, it
became the immediate subject of debate between them.
After much
consultation on this matter, it was at length agreed that the ensign should go
across the country to Hereford, whence he might find some conveyance to one of
the sea-ports in Wales, and thence might make his escape abroad. In all which
expedition Mrs Waters declared she would bear him company; and for which she
was able to furnish him with money, a very material article to Mr Northerton,
she having then in her pocket three bank-notes to the amount of £90, besides
some cash, and a diamond ring of pretty considerable value on her finger. All
which she, with the utmost confidence, revealed to this wicked man, little
suspecting she should by these means inspire him with a design of robbing her.
Now, as they must, by taking horses from Worcester, have furnished any pursuers
with the means of hereafter discovering their route, the ensign proposed, and
the lady presently agreed, to make their first stage on foot; for which purpose
the hardness of the frost was very seasonable.
The main
part of the lady’s baggage was already at Bath, and she had nothing with her at
present besides a very small quantity of linen, which the gallant undertook to
carry in his own pockets. All things, therefore, being settled in the evening,
they arose early the next morning, and at five o’clock departed from Worcester,
it being then above two hours before day, but the moon, which was then at the
full, gave them all the light she was capable of affording.
Mrs Waters
was not of that delicate race of women who are obliged to the invention of
vehicles for the capacity of removing themselves from one place to another, and
with whom consequently a coach is reckoned among the necessaries of life. Her
limbs were indeed full of strength and agility, and, as her mind was no less
animated with spirit, she was perfectly able to keep pace with her nimble
lover.
Having
travelled on for some miles in a high road, which Northerton said he was
informed led to Hereford, they came at the break of day to the side of a large
wood, where he suddenly stopped, and, affecting to meditate a moment with
himself, expressed some apprehensions from travelling any longer in so public a
way. Upon which he easily persuaded his fair companion to strike with him into
a path which seemed to lead directly through the wood, and which at length
brought them both to the bottom of Mazard Hill.
Whether
the execrable scheme which he now attempted to execute was the effect of
previous deliberation, or whether it now first came into his head, I cannot
determine. But being arrived in this lonely place, where it was very improbable
he should meet with any interruption, he suddenly slipped his garter from his
leg, and, laying violent hands on the poor woman, endeavoured to perpetrate
that dreadful and detestable fact which we have before commemorated, and which
the providential appearance of Jones did so fortunately prevent.
Happy was
it for Mrs Waters that she was not of the weakest order of females; for no
sooner did she perceive, by his tying a knot in his garter, and by his
declarations, what his hellish intentions were, than she stood stoutly to her
defence, and so strongly struggled with her enemy, screaming all the while for
assistance, that she delayed the execution of the villain’s purpose several
minutes, by which means Mr Jones came to her relief at that very instant when
her strength failed and she was totally overpowered, and delivered her from the
ruffian’s hands, with no other loss than that of her cloaths, which were torn
from her back, and of the diamond ring, which during the contention either
dropped from her finger, or was wrenched from it by Northerton.
Thus,
reader, we have given thee the fruits of a very painful enquiry which for thy
satisfaction we have made into this matter. And here we have opened to thee a
scene of folly as well as villany, which we could scarce have believed a human
creature capable of being guilty of, had we not remembered that this fellow was
at that time firmly persuaded that he had already committed a murder, and had
forfeited his life to the law. As he concluded therefore that his only safety
lay in flight, he thought the possessing himself of this poor woman’s money and
ring would make him amends for the additional burthen he was to lay on his
conscience.
And here,
reader, we must strictly caution thee that thou dost not take any occasion,
from the misbehaviour of such a wretch as this, to reflect on so worthy and
honourable a body of men as are the officers of our army in general. Thou wilt
be pleased to consider that this fellow, as we have already informed thee, had
neither the birth nor education of a gentleman, nor was a proper person to be
enrolled among the number of such. If, therefore, his baseness can justly
reflect on any besides himself, it must be only on those who gave him his
commission.
BOOK X. — IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i. — Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by modern critics.
Reader, it
is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt be; for, perhaps,
thou may’st be as learned in human nature as Shakespear himself was, and,
perhaps, thou may’st be no wiser than some of his editors. Now, lest this
latter should be the case, we think proper, before we go any farther together,
to give thee a few wholesome admonitions; that thou may’st not as grossly
misunderstand and misrepresent us, as some of the said editors have
misunderstood and misrepresented their author.
First,
then, we warn thee not too hastily to condemn any of the incidents in this our
history as impertinent and foreign to our main design, because thou dost not
immediately conceive in what manner such incident may conduce to that design.
This work may, indeed, be considered as a great creation of our own; and for a
little reptile of a critic to presume to find fault with any of its parts,
without knowing the manner in which the whole is connected, and before he comes
to the final catastrophe, is a most presumptuous absurdity. The allusion and
metaphor we have here made use of, we must acknowledge to be infinitely too
great for our occasion; but there is, indeed, no other, which is at all
adequate to express the difference between an author of the first rate and a
critic of the lowest.
Another
caution we would give thee, my good reptile, is, that thou dost not find out
too near a resemblance between certain characters here introduced; as, for
instance, between the landlady who appears in the seventh book and her in the
ninth. Thou art to know, friend, that there are certain characteristics in
which most individuals of every profession and occupation agree. To be able to
preserve these characteristics, and at the same time to diversify their
operations, is one talent of a good writer. Again, to mark the nice distinction
between two persons actuated by the same vice or folly is another; and, as this
last talent is found in very few writers, so is the true discernment of it
found in as few readers; though, I believe, the observation of this forms a
very principal pleasure in those who are capable of the discovery; every
person, for instance, can distinguish between Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir
Fopling Flutter; but to note the difference between Sir Fopling Flutter and Sir
Courtly Nice requires a more exquisite judgment: for want of which, vulgar
spectators of plays very often do great injustice in the theatre; where I have
sometimes known a poet in danger of being convicted as a thief, upon much worse
evidence than the resemblance of hands hath been held to be in the law. In
reality, I apprehend every amorous widow on the stage would run the hazard of
being condemned as a servile imitation of Dido, but that happily very few of
our play-house critics understand enough of Latin to read Virgil.
In the
next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend (for, perhaps, thy heart
may be better than thy head), not to condemn a character as a bad one, because
it is not perfectly a good one. If thou dost delight in these models of
perfection, there are books enow written to gratify thy taste; but, as we have
not, in the course of our conversation, ever happened to meet with any such
person, we have not chosen to introduce any such here. To say the truth, I a
little question whether mere man ever arrived at this consummate degree of
excellence, as well as whether there hath ever existed a monster bad enough to
verify that
——nulla virtute redemptum
A vitiis——[*]
[*] Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue
in
Juvenal; nor do I, indeed, conceive the good purposes served by inserting characters
of such angelic perfection, or such diabolical depravity, in any work of
invention; since, from contemplating either, the mind of man is more likely to
be overwhelmed with sorrow and shame than to draw any good uses from such
patterns; for in the former instance he may be both concerned and ashamed to
see a pattern of excellence in his nature, which he may reasonably despair of
ever arriving at; and in contemplating the latter he may be no less affected
with those uneasy sensations, at seeing the nature of which he is a partaker
degraded into so odious and detestable a creature.
In fact,
if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the admiration and
affection of a well-disposed mind, though there should appear some of those
little blemishes quas humana parum cavit natura, they will raise our
compassion rather than our abhorrence. Indeed, nothing can be of more moral use
than the imperfections which are seen in examples of this kind; since such form
a kind of surprize, more apt to affect and dwell upon our minds than the faults
of very vicious and wicked persons. The foibles and vices of men, in whom there
is great mixture of good, become more glaring objects from the virtues which
contrast them and shew their deformity; and when we find such vices attended
with their evil consequence to our favourite characters, we are not only taught
to shun them for our own sake, but to hate them for the mischiefs they have
already brought on those we love.
And now,
my friend, having given you these few admonitions, we will, if you please, once
more set forward with our history.
Chapter ii. — Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn.
Now the
little trembling hare, which the dread of all her numerous enemies, and chiefly
of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous animal, man, had confined all the day to
her lurking-place, sports wantonly o’er the lawns; now on some hollow tree the
owl, shrill chorister of the night, hoots forth notes which might charm the
ears of some modern connoisseurs in music; now, in the imagination of the
half-drunk clown, as he staggers through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard,
to his home, fear paints the bloody hobgoblin; now thieves and ruffians are
awake, and honest watchmen fast asleep; in plain English, it was now midnight;
and the company at the inn, as well those who have been already mentioned in
this history, as some others who arrived in the evening, were all in bed. Only
Susan Chambermaid was now stirring, she being obliged to wash the kitchen
before she retired to the arms of the fond expecting hostler.
In this
posture were affairs at the inn when a gentleman arrived there post. He
immediately alighted from his horse, and, coming up to Susan, enquired of her,
in a very abrupt and confused manner, being almost out of breath with eagerness,
Whether there was any lady in the house? The hour of night, and the behaviour
of the man, who stared very wildly all the time, a little surprized Susan, so
that she hesitated before she made any answer; upon which the gentleman, with
redoubled eagerness, begged her to give him a true information, saying, He had
lost his wife, and was come in pursuit of her. “Upon my shoul,” cries he, “I
have been near catching her already in two or three places, if I had not found
her gone just as I came up with her. If she be in the house, do carry me up in
the dark and show her to me; and if she be gone away before me, do tell me
which way I shall go after her to meet her, and, upon my shoul, I will make you
the richest poor woman in the nation.” He then pulled out a handful of guineas,
a sight which would have bribed persons of much greater consequence than this
poor wench to much worse purposes.
Susan,
from the account she had received of Mrs Waters, made not the least doubt but
that she was the very identical stray whom the right owner pursued. As she
concluded, therefore, with great appearance of reason, that she never could get
money in an honester way than by restoring a wife to her husband, she made no
scruple of assuring the gentleman that the lady he wanted was then in the
house; and was presently afterwards prevailed upon (by very liberal promises,
and some earnest paid into her hands) to conduct him to the bedchamber of Mrs
Waters.
It hath
been a custom long established in the polite world, and that upon very solid
and substantial reasons, that a husband shall never enter his wife’s apartment
without first knocking at the door. The many excellent uses of this custom need
scarce be hinted to a reader who hath any knowledge of the world; for by this
means the lady hath time to adjust herself, or to remove any disagreeable
object out of the way; for there are some situations in which nice and delicate
women would not be discovered by their husbands.
To say the
truth, there are several ceremonies instituted among the polished part of
mankind, which, though they may, to coarser judgments, appear as matters of
mere form, are found to have much of substance in them, by the more discerning;
and lucky would it have been had the custom above mentioned been observed by our
gentleman in the present instance. Knock, indeed, he did at the door, but not
with one of those gentle raps which is usual on such occasions. On the
contrary, when he found the door locked, he flew at it with such violence, that
the lock immediately gave way, the door burst open, and he fell headlong into
the room.
He had no
sooner recovered his legs than forth from the bed, upon his legs likewise,
appeared—with shame and sorrow are we obliged to proceed—our heroe himself,
who, with a menacing voice, demanded of the gentleman who he was, and what he
meant by daring to burst open his chamber in that outrageous manner.
The
gentleman at first thought he had committed a mistake, and was going to ask
pardon and retreat, when, on a sudden, as the moon shone very bright, he cast
his eyes on stays, gowns, petticoats, caps, ribbons, stockings, garters, shoes,
clogs, &c., all which lay in a disordered manner on the floor. All these,
operating on the natural jealousy of his temper, so enraged him, that he lost
all power of speech; and, without returning any answer to Jones, he endeavoured
to approach the bed.
Jones
immediately interposing, a fierce contention arose, which soon proceeded to
blows on both sides. And now Mrs Waters (for we must confess she was in the same
bed), being, I suppose, awakened from her sleep, and seeing two men fighting in
her bedchamber, began to scream in the most violent manner, crying out murder!
robbery! and more frequently rape! which last, some, perhaps, may wonder she
should mention, who do not consider that these words of exclamation are used by
ladies in a fright, as fa, la, la, ra, da, &c., are in music, only as the
vehicles of sound, and without any fixed ideas.
Next to
the lady’s chamber was deposited the body of an Irish gentleman who arrived too
late at the inn to have been mentioned before. This gentleman was one of those
whom the Irish call a calabalaro, or cavalier. He was a younger brother of a
good family, and, having no fortune at home, was obliged to look abroad in order
to get one; for which purpose he was proceeding to the Bath, to try his luck
with cards and the women.
This young
fellow lay in bed reading one of Mrs Behn’s novels; for he had been instructed
by a friend that he would find no more effectual method of recommending himself
to the ladies than the improving his understanding, and filling his mind with
good literature. He no sooner, therefore, heard the violent uproar in the next
room, than he leapt from his bolster, and, taking his sword in one hand, and the
candle which burnt by him in the other, he went directly to Mrs Waters’s
chamber.
If the
sight of another man in his shirt at first added some shock to the decency of
the lady, it made her presently amends by considerably abating her fears; for
no sooner had the calabalaro entered the room than he cried out, “Mr
Fitzpatrick, what the devil is the maning of this?” Upon which the other
immediately answered, “O, Mr Maclachlan! I am rejoiced you are here.—This
villain hath debauched my wife, and is got into bed with her.”—“What wife?”
cries Maclachlan; “do not I know Mrs Fitzpatrick very well, and don’t I see
that the lady, whom the gentleman who stands here in his shirt is lying in bed
with, is none of her?”
Fitzpatrick,
now perceiving, as well by the glimpse he had of the lady, as by her voice,
which might have been distinguished at a greater distance than he now stood
from her, that he had made a very unfortunate mistake, began to ask many
pardons of the lady; and then, turning to Jones, he said, “I would have you
take notice I do not ask your pardon, for you have bate me; for which I am
resolved to have your blood in the morning.”
Jones
treated this menace with much contempt; and Mr Maclachlan answered, “Indeed, Mr
Fitzpatrick, you may be ashamed of your own self, to disturb people at this
time of night; if all the people in the inn were not asleep, you would have
awakened them as you have me. The gentleman has served you very rightly. Upon
my conscience, though I have no wife, if you had treated her so, I would have
cut your throat.”
Jones was
so confounded with his fears for his lady’s reputation, that he knew neither
what to say or do; but the invention of women is, as hath been observed, much
readier than that of men. She recollected that there was a communication
between her chamber and that of Mr Jones; relying, therefore, on his honour and
her own assurance, she answered, “I know not what you mean, villains! I am wife
to none of you. Help! Rape! Murder! Rape!”—And now, the landlady coming into
the room, Mrs Waters fell upon her with the utmost virulence, saying, “She
thought herself in a sober inn, and not in a bawdy-house; but that a set of
villains had broke into her room, with an intent upon her honour, if not upon
her life; and both, she said, were equally dear to her.”
The
landlady now began to roar as loudly as the poor woman in bed had done before.
She cried, “She was undone, and that the reputation of her house, which was
never blown upon before, was utterly destroyed.” Then, turning to the men, she
cried, “What, in the devil’s name, is the reason of all this disturbance in the
lady’s room?” Fitzpatrick, hanging down his head, repeated, “That he had
committed a mistake, for which he heartily asked pardon,” and then retired with
his countryman. Jones, who was too ingenious to have missed the hint given him
by his fair one, boldly asserted, “That he had run to her assistance upon
hearing the door broke open, with what design he could not conceive, unless of
robbing the lady; which, if they intended, he said, he had the good fortune to
prevent.” “I never had a robbery committed in my house since I have kept it,”
cries the landlady; “I would have you to know, sir, I harbour no highwaymen
here; I scorn the word, thof I say it. None but honest, good gentlefolks, are
welcome to my house; and, I thank good luck, I have always had enow of such
customers; indeed as many as I could entertain. Here hath been my lord—,” and
then she repeated over a catalogue of names and titles, many of which we might,
perhaps, be guilty of a breach of privilege by inserting.
Jones,
after much patience, at length interrupted her, by making an apology to Mrs
Waters, for having appeared before her in his shirt, assuring her “That nothing
but a concern for her safety could have prevailed on him to do it.” The reader
may inform himself of her answer, and, indeed, of her whole behaviour to the
end of the scene, by considering the situation which she affected, it being
that of a modest lady, who was awakened out of her sleep by three strange men
in her chamber. This was the part which she undertook to perform; and, indeed,
she executed it so well, that none of our theatrical actresses could exceed
her, in any of their performances, either on or off the stage.
And hence,
I think, we may very fairly draw an argument, to prove how extremely natural
virtue is to the fair sex; for, though there is not, perhaps, one in ten
thousand who is capable of making a good actress, and even among these we
rarely see two who are equally able to personate the same character, yet this
of virtue they can all admirably well put on; and as well those individuals who
have it not, as those who possess it, can all act it to the utmost degree of
perfection.
When the
men were all departed, Mrs Waters, recovering from her fear, recovered likewise
from her anger, and spoke in much gentler accents to the landlady, who did not
so readily quit her concern for the reputation of the house, in favour of which
she began again to number the many great persons who had slept under her roof;
but the lady stopt her short, and having absolutely acquitted her of having had
any share in the past disturbance, begged to be left to her repose, which, she
said, she hoped to enjoy unmolested during the remainder of the night. Upon which
the landlady, after much civility and many courtsies, took her leave.
Chapter iii. — A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chamber-maid, proper to be read by all inn-keepers and their servants; with the arrival, and affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which may teach
persons of
condition how they may acquire the love of the whole world.
The
landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only person out of bed when the
door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to enquire into the first
occasion of the disturbance, as well as who the strange gentleman was, and when
and how he arrived.
Susan
related the whole story which the reader knows already, varying the truth only
in some circumstances, as she saw convenient, and totally concealing the money
which she had received. But whereas her mistress had, in the preface to her
enquiry, spoken much in compassion for the fright which the lady had been in
concerning any intended depredations on her virtue, Susan could not help
endeavouring to quiet the concern which her mistress seemed to be under on that
account, by swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her bed.
The
landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. “A likely story, truly,”
cried she, “that a woman should cry out, and endeavour to expose herself, if
that was the case! I desire to know what better proof any lady can give of her
virtue than her crying out, which, I believe, twenty people can witness for her
she did? I beg, madam, you would spread no such scandal of any of my guests;
for it will not only reflect on them, but upon the house; and I am sure no
vagabonds, nor wicked beggarly people, come here.”
“Well,”
says Susan, “then I must not believe my own eyes.” “No, indeed, must you not
always,” answered her mistress; “I would not have believed my own eyes against
such good gentlefolks. I have not had a better supper ordered this half-year
than they ordered last night; and so easy and good-humoured were they, that
they found no fault with my Worcestershire perry, which I sold them for
champagne; and to be sure it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the best
champagne in the kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it ‘em; and they
drank me two bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm of such sober good
sort of people.”
Susan
being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other matters. “And so you tell
me,” continued she, “that the strange gentleman came post, and there is a
footman without with the horses; why, then, he is certainly some of your great
gentlefolks too. Why did not you ask him whether he’d have any supper? I think
he is in the other gentleman’s room; go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps
he’ll order something when he finds anybody stirring in the house to dress it.
Now don’t commit any of your usual blunders, by telling him the fire’s out, and
the fowls alive. And if he should order mutton, don’t blab out that we have
none. The butcher, I know, killed a sheep just before I went to bed, and he
never refuses to cut it up warm when I desire it. Go, remember there’s all
sorts of mutton and fowls; go, open the door with, Gentlemen, d’ye call? and if
they say nothing, ask what his honour will be pleased to have for supper? Don’t
forget his honour. Go; if you don’t mind all these matters better, you’ll never
come to anything.”
Susan
departed, and soon returned with an account that the two gentlemen were got
both into the same bed. “Two gentlemen,” says the landlady, “in the same bed!
that’s impossible; they are two arrant scrubs, I warrant them; and I believe
young Squire Allworthy guessed right, that the fellow intended to rob her ladyship;
for, if he had broke open the lady’s door with any of the wicked designs of a
gentleman, he would never have sneaked away to another room to save the expense
of a supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly thieves, and their
searching after a wife is nothing but a pretence.”
In these
censures my landlady did Mr Fitzpatrick great injustice; for he was really born
a gentleman, though not worth a groat; and though, perhaps, he had some few
blemishes in his heart as well as in his head, yet being a sneaking or a
niggardly fellow was not one of them. In reality, he was so generous a man,
that, whereas he had received a very handsome fortune with his wife, he had now
spent every penny of it, except some little pittance which was settled upon
her; and, in order to possess himself of this, he had used her with such
cruelty, that, together with his jealousy, which was of the bitterest kind, it
had forced the poor woman to run away from him.
This
gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from Chester in one day,
with which, and some good dry blows he had received in the scuffle, his bones
were so sore, that, added to the soreness of his mind, it had quite deprived
him of any appetite for eating. And being now so violently disappointed in the
woman whom, at the maid’s instance, he had mistaken for his wife, it never once
entered into his head that she might nevertheless be in the house, though he
had erred in the first person he had attacked. He therefore yielded to the
dissuasions of his friend from searching any farther after her that night, and
accepted the kind offer of part of his bed.
The
footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. They were more ready to
order than the landlady was to provide; however, after being pretty well satisfied
by them of the real truth of the case, and that Mr Fitzpatrick was no thief,
she was at length prevailed on to set some cold meat before them, which they
were devouring with great greediness, when Partridge came into the kitchen. He
had been first awaked by the hurry which we have before seen; and while he was
endeavouring to compose himself again on his pillow, a screech-owl had given
him such a serenade at his window, that he leapt in a most horrible affright
from his bed, and, huddling on his cloaths with great expedition, ran down to
the protection of the company, whom he heard talking below in the kitchen.
His
arrival detained my landlady from returning to her rest; for she was just about
to leave the other two guests to the care of Susan; but the friend of young
Squire Allworthy was not to be so neglected, especially as he called for a pint
of wine to be mulled. She immediately obeyed, by putting the same quantity of
perry to the fire; for this readily answered to the name of every kind of wine.
The Irish
footman was retired to bed, and the post-boy was going to follow; but Partridge
invited him to stay and partake of his wine, which the lad very thankfully
accepted. The schoolmaster was indeed afraid to return to bed by himself; and
as he did not know how soon he might lose the company of my landlady, he was
resolved to secure that of the boy, in whose presence he apprehended no danger
from the devil or any of his adherents.
And now
arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which Susan, being ordered out,
returned, introducing two young women in riding habits, one of which was so
very richly laced, that Partridge and the post-boy instantly started from their
chairs, and my landlady fell to her courtsies, and her ladyships, with great
eagerness.
The lady
in the rich habit said, with a smile of great condescension, “If you will give
me leave, madam, I will warm myself a few minutes at your kitchen fire, for it
is really very cold; but I must insist on disturbing no one from his seat.”
This was spoken on account of Partridge, who had retreated to the other end of
the room, struck with the utmost awe and astonishment at the splendor of the
lady’s dress. Indeed, she had a much better title to respect than this; for she
was one of the most beautiful creatures in the world.
The lady
earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; but could not prevail. She
then pulled off her gloves, and displayed to the fire two hands, which had
every property of snow in them, except that of melting. Her companion, who was
indeed her maid, likewise pulled off her gloves, and discovered what bore an
exact resemblance, in cold and colour, to a piece of frozen beef.
“I wish,
madam,” quoth the latter, “your ladyship would not think of going any farther
to-night. I am terribly afraid your ladyship will not be able to bear the
fatigue.”
“Why
sure,” cries the landlady, “her ladyship’s honour can never intend it. O, bless
me! farther to-night, indeed! let me beseech your ladyship not to think
on’t——But, to be sure, your ladyship can’t. What will your honour be pleased to
have for supper? I have mutton of all kinds, and some nice chicken.”
“I think,
madam,” said the lady, “it would be rather breakfast than supper; but I can’t
eat anything; and, if I stay, shall only lie down for an hour or two. However,
if you please, madam, you may get me a little sack whey, made very small and
thin.”
“Yes,
madam,” cries the mistress of the house, “I have some excellent white
wine.”—“You have no sack, then?” says the lady. “Yes, an’t please your honour,
I have; I may challenge the country for that—but let me beg your ladyship to
eat something.”
“Upon my
word, I can’t eat a morsel,” answered the lady; “and I shall be much obliged to
you if you will please to get my apartment ready as soon as possible; for I am
resolved to be on horseback again in three hours.”
“Why,
Susan,” cries the landlady, “is there a fire lit yet in the Wild-goose? I am
sorry, madam, all my best rooms are full. Several people of the first quality
are now in bed. Here’s a great young squire, and many other great gentlefolks
of quality.” Susan answered, “That the Irish gentlemen were got into the
Wild-goose.”
“Was ever
anything like it?” says the mistress; “why the devil would you not keep some of
the best rooms for the quality, when you know scarce a day passes without some
calling here?——If they be gentlemen, I am certain, when they know it is for her
ladyship, they will get up again.”
“Not upon
my account,” says the lady; “I will have no person disturbed for me. If you have
a room that is commonly decent, it will serve me very well, though it be never
so plain. I beg, madam, you will not give yourself so much trouble on my
account.” “O, madam!” cries the other, “I have several very good rooms for that
matter, but none good enough for your honour’s ladyship. However, as you are so
condescending to take up with the best I have, do, Susan, get a fire in the
Rose this minute. Will your ladyship be pleased to go up now, or stay till the
fire is lighted?” “I think I have sufficiently warmed myself,” answered the
lady; “so, if you please, I will go now; I am afraid I have kept people, and
particularly that gentleman (meaning Partridge), too long in the cold already.
Indeed, I cannot bear to think of keeping any person from the fire this
dreadful weather.”—She then departed with her maid, the landlady marching with
two lighted candles before her.
When that
good woman returned, the conversation in the kitchen was all upon the charms of
the young lady. There is indeed in perfect beauty a power which none almost can
withstand; for my landlady, though she was not pleased at the negative given to
the supper, declared she had never seen so lovely a creature. Partridge ran out
into the most extravagant encomiums on her face, though he could not refrain
from paying some compliments to the gold lace on her habit; the post-boy sung
forth the praises of her goodness, which were likewise echoed by the other
post-boy, who was now come in. “She’s a true good lady, I warrant her,” says
he; “for she hath mercy upon dumb creatures; for she asked me every now and tan
upon the journey, if I did not think she should hurt the horses by riding too
fast? and when she came in she charged me to give them as much corn as ever
they would eat.”
Such
charms are there in affability, and so sure is it to attract the praises of all
kinds of people. It may indeed be compared to the celebrated Mrs Hussey.[*] It
is equally sure to set off every female perfection to the highest advantage,
and to palliate and conceal every defect. A short reflection, which we could
not forbear making in this place, where my reader hath seen the loveliness of
an affable deportment; and truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by showing
the reverse.
[*] A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off
the shapes of women.
To be continued
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