WHATEVER degree of small merit the act of benignity in favour of the
midwife might justly claim, or in whom that claim truly rested,—at
first sight seems not very material to this history;——certain however
it was, that the gentlewoman, the parson’s wife, did run away at that
time with the whole of it: And yet, for my life, I cannot help thinking
but that the parson himself, though he had not the good fortune to hit
upon the design first,—yet, as he heartily concurred in it the moment
it was laid before him, and as heartily parted with his money to carry
it into execution, had a claim to some share of it,—if not to a full
half of whatever honour was due to it.
The world at that time was pleased to determine the matter otherwise.
Lay down the book, and I will allow you half a day to give a probable
guess at the grounds of this procedure.
Be it known then, that, for about five years before the date of the
midwife’s licence, of which you have had so circumstantial an
account,—the parson we have to do with had made himself a country-talk
by a breach of all decorum, which he had committed against himself, his
station, and his office;—and that was in never appearing better, or
otherwise mounted, than upon a lean, sorry, jackass of a horse, value
about one pound fifteen shillings; who, to shorten all description of
him, was full brother to _Rosinante_, as far as similitude congenial
could make him; for he answered his description to a hair-breadth in
every thing,—except that I do not remember ’tis any where said, that
_Rosinante_ was broken-winded; and that, moreover, _Rosinante_, as is
the happiness of most _Spanish_ horses, fat or lean,—was undoubtedly a
horse at all points.
I know very well that the HERO’S horse was a horse of chaste
deportment, which may have given grounds for the contrary opinion: But
it is as certain at the same time that _Rosinante’_s continency (as may
be demonstrated from the adventure of the _Yanguesian_ carriers)
proceeded from no bodily defect or cause whatsoever, but from the
temperance and orderly current of his blood.—And let me tell you,
Madam, there is a great deal of very good chastity in the world, in
behalf of which you could not say more for your life.
Let that be as it may, as my purpose is to do exact justice to every
creature brought upon the stage of this dramatic work,—I could not
stifle this distinction in favour of Don _Quixote’_s horse;——in all
other points, the parson’s horse, I say, was just such another, for he
was as lean, and as lank, and as sorry a jade, as HUMILITY herself
could have bestrided.
In the estimation of here and there a man of weak judgment, it was
greatly in the parson’s power to have helped the figure of this horse
of his,—for he was master of a very handsome demi-peaked saddle,
quilted on the seat with green plush, garnished with a double row of
silver-headed studs, and a noble pair of shining brass stirrups, with a
housing altogether suitable, of grey superfine cloth, with an edging of
black lace, terminating in a deep, black, silk fringe, _poudré
d’or_,—all which he had purchased in the pride and prime of his life,
together with a grand embossed bridle, ornamented at all points as it
should be.——But not caring to banter his beast, he had hung all these
up behind his study door: and, in lieu of them, had seriously befitted
him with just such a bridle and such a saddle, as the figure and value
of such a steed might well and truly deserve.
In the several sallies about his parish, and in the neighbouring visits
to the gentry who lived around him,—you will easily comprehend, that
the parson, so appointed, would both hear and see enough to keep his
philosophy from rusting. To speak the truth, he never could enter a
village, but he caught the attention of both old and young.——Labour
stood still as he pass’d——the bucket hung suspended in the middle of
the well,—the spinning-wheel forgot its round,——even chuck-farthing and
shuffle-cap themselves stood gaping till he had got out of sight; and
as his movement was not of the quickest, he had generally time enough
upon his hands to make his observations,—to hear the groans of the
serious,—and the laughter of the light-hearted; all which he bore with
excellent tranquillity.—His character was,—he loved a jest in his
heart—and as he saw himself in the true point of ridicule, he would say
he could not be angry with others for seeing him in a light, in which
he so strongly saw himself: So that to his friends, who knew his foible
was not the love of money, and who therefore made the less scruple in
bantering the extravagance of his humour,—instead of giving the true
cause,—he chose rather to join in the laugh against himself; and as he
never carried one single ounce of flesh upon his own bones, being
altogether as spare a figure as his beast,—he would sometimes insist
upon it, that the horse was as good as the rider deserved;—that they
were, centaur-like,—both of a piece. At other times, and in other
moods, when his spirits were above the temptation of false wit,—he
would say, he found himself going off fast in a consumption; and, with
great gravity, would pretend, he could not bear the sight of a fat
horse, without a dejection of heart, and a sensible alteration in his
pulse; and that he had made choice of the lean one he rode upon, not
only to keep himself in countenance, but in spirits.
At different times he would give fifty humorous and apposite reasons
for riding a meek-spirited jade of a broken-winded horse, preferably to
one of mettle;—for on such a one he could sit mechanically, and
meditate as delightfully _de vanitate mundi et fugâ sæculi_, as with
the advantage of a death’s-head before him;—that, in all other
exercitations, he could spend his time, as he rode slowly along,—to as
much account as in his study;—that he could draw up an argument in his
sermon,—or a hole in his breeches, as steadily on the one as in the
other;—that brisk trotting and slow argumentation, like wit and
judgment, were two incompatible movements.—But that upon his steed—he
could unite and reconcile every thing,—he could compose his sermon—he
could compose his cough,——and, in case nature gave a call that way, he
could likewise compose himself to sleep.—In short, the parson upon such
encounters would assign any cause but the true cause,—and he with-held
the true one, only out of a nicety of temper, because he thought it did
honour to him.
But the truth of the story was as follows: In the first years of this
gentleman’s life, and about the time when the superb saddle and bridle
were purchased by him, it had been his manner, or vanity, or call it
what you will,—to run into the opposite extreme.—In the language of the
county where he dwelt, he was said to have loved a good horse, and
generally had one of the best in the whole parish standing in his
stable always ready for saddling: and as the nearest midwife, as I told
you, did not live nearer to the village than seven miles, and in a vile
country,—it so fell out that the poor gentleman was scarce a whole week
together without some piteous application for his beast; and as he was
not an unkind-hearted man, and every case was more pressing and more
distressful than the last;—as much as he loved his beast, he had never
a heart to refuse him; the upshot of which was generally this; that his
horse was either clapp’d, or spavin’d, or greaz’d;—or he was
twitter-bon’d, or broken-winded, or something, in short, or other had
befallen him, which would let him carry no flesh;—so that he had every
nine or ten months a bad horse to get rid of,—and a good horse to
purchase in his stead.
What the loss in such a balance might amount to, _communibus annis_, I
would leave to a special jury of sufferers in the same traffick, to
determine;—but let it be what it would, the honest gentleman bore it
for many years without a murmur, till at length, by repeated ill
accidents of the kind, he found it necessary to take the thing under
consideration; and upon weighing the whole, and summing it up in his
mind, he found it not only disproportioned to his other expences, but
withal so heavy an article in itself, as to disable him from any other
act of generosity in his parish: Besides this, he considered that with
half the sum thus galloped away, he could do ten times as much
good;—and what still weighed more with him than all other
considerations put together, was this, that it confined all his charity
into one particular channel, and where, as he fancied, it was the least
wanted, namely, to the child-bearing and child-getting part of his
parish; reserving nothing for the impotent,—nothing for the
aged,—nothing for the many comfortless scenes he was hourly called
forth to visit, where poverty, and sickness and affliction dwelt
together.
For these reasons he resolved to discontinue the expence; and there
appeared but two possible ways to extricate him clearly out of it;—and
these were, either to make it an irrevocable law never more to lend his
steed upon any application whatever,—or else be content to ride the
last poor devil, such as they had made him, with all his aches and
infirmities, to the very end of the chapter.
As he dreaded his own constancy in the first—he very chearfully betook
himself to the second; and though he could very well have explained it,
as I said, to his honour,—yet, for that very reason, he had a spirit
above it; choosing rather to bear the contempt of his enemies, and the
laughter of his friends, than undergo the pain of telling a story,
which might seem a panegyrick upon himself.
I have the highest idea of the spiritual and refined sentiments of this
reverend gentleman, from this single stroke in his character, which I
think comes up to any of the honest refinements of the peerless knight
of _La Mancha_, whom, by the bye, with all his follies, I love more,
and would actually have gone farther to have paid a visit to, than the
greatest hero of antiquity.
But this is not the moral of my story: The thing I had in view was to
shew the temper of the world in the whole of this affair.—For you must
know, that so long as this explanation would have done the parson
credit,—the devil a soul could find it out,—I suppose his enemies would
not, and that his friends could not.——But no sooner did he bestir
himself in behalf of the midwife, and pay the expences of the
ordinary’s licence to set her up,—but the whole secret came out; every
horse he had lost, and two horses more than ever he had lost, with all
the circumstances of their destruction, were known and distinctly
remembered.—The story ran like wild-fire.—“The parson had a returning
fit of pride which had just seized him; and he was going to be well
mounted once again in his life; and if it was so, ’twas plain as the
sun at noon-day, he would pocket the expence of the licence ten times
told, the very first year:—So that every body was left to judge what
were his views in this act of charity.”
What were his views in this, and in every other action of his life,—or
rather what were the opinions which floated in the brains of other
people concerning it, was a thought which too much floated in his own,
and too often broke in upon his rest, when he should have been sound
asleep.
About ten years ago this gentleman had the good fortune to be made
entirely easy upon that score,—it being just so long since he left his
parish,—and the whole world at the same time behind him,—and stands
accountable to a Judge of whom he will have no cause to complain.
But there is a fatality attends the actions of some men: Order them as
they will, they pass thro’ a certain medium, which so twists and
refracts them from their true directions——that, with all the titles to
praise which a rectitude of heart can give, the doers of them are
nevertheless forced to live and die without it.
Of the truth of which, this gentleman was a painful example.——But to
know by what means this came to pass,—and to make that knowledge of use
to you, I insist upon it that you read the two following chapters,
which contain such a sketch of his life and conversation, as will carry
its moral along with it.—When this is done, if nothing stops us in our
way, we will go on with the midwife.