he used to hunt; but finding that latterly he became a great stumbler,
he exchanged him with a dealer, who took him to Harrogate, and meeting
with Metcalf, told him he had an excellent hunter to sell at a low
price.—Metcalf desired to try how the horse leaped, and the owner
agreeing, he mounted him, and found that he could go over any wall or
fence, the height of himself when saddled. A bargain was soon struck;
and this happening at the Queen’s Head, several gentlemen who were
witnesses of the horse’s performance invited Metcalf to accompany them,
two days after, to Belmont Wood, where a pack of hounds were to throw
off.
These hounds were the joint property of Francis Trapps, Esq; and his
brother, of Nidd, near Ripley. A pack superior to this was not to be
found in the kingdom; nor were the owners themselves ever excelled in
their attention to their dogs and hunters.
The wished-for day arriving, Metcalf attended the gentlemen, and the
hounds were not long in finding. The fox took away to Plumpton Rocks,
but finding all secure there he made for Stockeld Wood, and found
matters in the same slate as at Plumpton.—He had then run about six
miles. He came back, and crossed the river Nidd near the Old Abbey, and
went on the East side of Knaresborough, to a place called Coney-Garths
(where there were earths) near Scriven. Metcalf’s horse carried him
nobly; pulling hard, and requiring proportionate resistance. The wind
being high, Metcalf lost his hat, but would not stop to recover it;
and coming to Thistle-Hill, near Knaresborough, he resolved to cross
the river at the Abbey-Mill, having often before gone, _on foot_, over
the dam-stones. When he got to the dam, he attended to the noise of
the fall, as a guide, and ranging his horse in a line with the stones,
dashed forward for some part of the way; but the stones being slippery
with a kind of moss, his horse stumbled, but recovered this and a
second blunder: the third time, however, floundering completely, away
went horse and rider into the dam. Metcalf had presence of mind to
disengage his feet from the stirrups, during the descent; but both the
horse and himself were immersed over head in water. He then quitted his
seat, and made for the opposite side, the horse following him. Having
secured his nag, he laid himself down on his back, and held up his
heels to let the water run out of his boots; which done, he quickly
re-mounted, and went up a narrow lane which leads to the road between
Knaresborough and Wetherby; then through some lanes on the North-East
side of Knaresborough; and crossing the Boroughbridge road, he got to
the Coney-Garths, where he found that the whipper-in only had arrived
before him.
Here the fox had earthed, as was expected; and the other horsemen
(who had gone over the Low Bridge, and through the town) after some
time came up.—They were much surprised at finding Metcalf there,
and attributed the soaked condition of himself and horse to profuse
sweating; nor were they undeceived till (giving up the fox) they got
to Scriven, where, upon an explanation of the affair, they laughed
heartily.
In the circle of Metcalf’s acquaintance at Knaresborough were two young
men, whose sister lived with them in the capacity of housekeeper; and
she being of a jocular turn, would often, on Metcalf’s calling at
the house, propose such whimsical schemes to him, as gave him reason
to believe that to laugh and be merry was the chief business of her
life. However, she one evening apprised him of her intention to pay him
a visit in the night, and desired him to leave his door unlocked. A
knowledge of the woman’s mirthful propensity made him at first consider
this as a joke; but, on the other hand, he thought it _possible_ that a
_real_ assignation was intended; and being too gallant to disappoint a
_lady_, he told her he would obey her orders. Too sure for the future
peace of Metcalf, the lady was punctual to her appointment; coming at
the dead time of night to his mother’s house, unawed at passing by
the _church_, whose sanction was wanting. It would be impertinent to
detain the reader on the subject of the meeting: suffice it to say,
that Metcalf too had unfortunately left his scruples at another house.
In a few months after, this tender creature accosted him in the usual
way—“I am ruined!—undone—lost for ever, if you do not make an honest
woman of me!—” &c. &c.
Whatever compunction Metcalf might have felt in a case of confiding
innocence, pleading for the only compensation in his power, he did not
think his conscience very deeply interested in the present: besides,
his heart was strongly attached to his first truly respectable and
worthy mistress.—His business, therefore, was to pacify a troublesome
client, which he did in the best manner he was able. The adventure with
this dulcinea had happened previous to the above-mentioned hunt; but
when Metcalf accompanied the gentlemen from the Coney-Garths to the
village of Scriven, he there heard, on the authority of the landlord of
the inn, that a woman had gone that day to filiate a child to him. He
endeavoured to be merry on the occasion, alledging, that it could not
be so, as he had not _seen_ the woman for several years. This produced
a laugh among the company; but with Metcalf it soon took a more serious
turn. On his return to Harrogate he employed his fellow-fidler to
procure a meeting between him and his favourite, Dorothy Benson, which
was effected with some difficulty; and he took this occasion to inform
her of his disgrace, judging it better to be before-hand with her, in
a matter which could not be long concealed.—“Ah! John,” replied she,
“thou hast got into a sad scrape: but I intreat thee, do not think
of marrying her.” Having quieted the fears of his favourite on that
score, he desired his assistant to go with him to Knaresborough, to
_sound the coast_; but before they had got half way, his companion
exclaimed, “Here is the Town-Officer coming!” Metcalf proposed walking
smartly on, without noticing him; but when they got near, the Officer,
who was a Quaker, called out, “Stop, I want to speak with thee.” He
then explained his errand, and pressed Metcalf much to marry the
woman; to which he replied, that he had no thoughts of marriage, and
desired to know whether for thirty or forty pounds in money the matter
might be made up. “Yea, friend,” said Jonathan, “perhaps I can settle
the affair for thee on those terms.” On this, Metcalf observed to
him, that he must go to Harrogate, his money being there. The Quaker
agreeing, they went together to a public-house, where Metcalf called
for a tankard of punch, drank part of it, and seeming very chearful,
said, “I must go and collect my money: as it is in various hands,
perhaps it will be an hour or more before I can return; so drink your
punch, and call for more.” This pretext succeeding, he left Jonathan
to regale himself at his own suit; and choosing the most private way
to a thick wood, he there secreted himself all day. After some hours
waiting, the man of the broad brim lost all patience, and set out in
quest of his profane ward; when meeting a gentleman, he thus accosted
him: “Friend! have thee, perchance, seen a blind fidler?” The gentleman
replied, “I thought that a person of thy cloth had not wanted a
fidler.” “I tell thee I want one at this time,” quoth the Quaker; who,
after some other fruitless inquiries, went home.
At night, Metcalf ventured to break cover; and judging it unsafe to
remain in the neighbourhood of the _hounds_, he gave his assistant
directions to put his little affairs in order—then mounting his horse,
he took the road for Scarborough.
As he was walking one day on the sands, with a friend, he resolved to
take a swim in the sea, his companion agreeing to give him an halloo
when he should think he had gone far enough outward; but the other, not
making a sufficient allowance for the noise of the sea, suffered him
to go out of hearing before he shouted, and Metcalf continued swimming
until he got out of the sight of his friend, who now suspected he
should see him no more. At length he began to reflect, that, should
he proceed on to Holland, he had nothing in his _pocket_ to make him
welcome;—so turning, and removing his hair from his ears, he thought
he heard the breakers beating against the pier which defends the Spa:
finding, by the noise, that he was at a great distance, he increased
his efforts, and happening to be right, he landed in safety, and
relieved his friend from a very painful situation.
Having an aunt at Whitby, near the Allum-works, he went there, left his
horse, and got on board an allum ship bound for London.
In London he met with a North-country man who played on the small
pipes, and who frequented the houses of many gentlemen in town. By
his intelligence Metcalf found out several who were in the habit
of visiting Harrogate; and amongst others, Colonel Liddell, who
resided in King-street, Covent-Garden, and who gave him a general
invitation to his house. The Colonel was a Member of Parliament
for Berwick-upon-Tweed, and lived at Ravensworth-Castle, near
Newcastle-upon-Tyne; and on his return from London into the North,
which generally happened in the month of May, he stopped three weeks at
Harrogate, for a number of years successively.
When the winter was over, Metcalf thought he must take a _look_ out
of London. Accordingly he set out through Kensington, Hammersmith,
Colnbrook, Maidenhead, and Reading, in Berkshire; and returned by
Windsor, and Hampton-Court, to London, in the beginning of May. In his
absence, Colonel Liddell had sent to his lodgings, to let him know that
he was going to Harrogate, and that, if agreeable to him, he might go
down either behind his coach or on the top. Metcalf, on his return,
waited upon the Colonel, and thanked him, but declined his kind offer,
observing, that he could, with great ease, walk as far in a day as he
would choose to travel. The next day, at noon, the Colonel, and his
suite, consisting of sixteen servants on horseback, set off, Metcalf
starting about an hour before them. They were to go by way of Bugden,
and he made his way to Barnet. A little way from Barnet the Bugden and
St. Albans roads part, and he had taken the latter: however, he made
good the destined stage for sleeping, which was Welling, and arrived
a little before the Colonel, who was surprized at his performance.
Metcalf set off again the next morning before his friends, and coming
to Biggleswade, found the road was crossed with water, there being
no bridge at that time. He made a circuitous cast, but found no
other way, except a foot-path which he was dubious of trusting. A
person coming up, asked, “What road are you for?”—He answered, “For
Bugden.” “You have had some liquor this morning, I suppose,” said the
stranger.—“Yes,” replied Metcalf; although he had tasted none that
day. The stranger then bid him follow, and he would bring him into the
highway. Soon after they came to some sluices, with planks laid across,
and Metcalf followed by the sound of his guide’s feet; then to a gate,
on the side of the turnpike, which being locked, he was told to climb
over. Metcalf was struck with the kind attention of his conductor,
and taking twopence from his pocket, said, “Here, good fellow, take
that, and get thee a pint of beer;” but the other declined it, saying
he was welcome. Metcalf, however, pressing the reward upon him, was
asked, “Can you see very well?” “Not remarkably well,” he replied. “My
friend,” said the stranger, “I do not mean to _tythe_ you:—I am Rector
of this parish; and so God bless you, and I wish you a good journey.”
Metcalf set forward with the parson’s benediction, and stopped every
night with the Colonel: On coming to Wetherby, he arrived at the inn
before him, as usual, and told the landlord of his approach, who asked
him by what means he had become acquainted with that, and was informed
by him how he had preceded the Colonel the whole week, this being
Saturday, and they had left town on Monday noon. The Colonel arriving,
ordered Metcalf into his room, and proposed halting till Monday;
but Metcalf replied, “With your leave, Sir, I shall go to Harrogate
to-night, and meet you there on Monday.” In truth, he was anxious to
know the worst respecting the woman who had been the cause of his
journey; and was much pleased to find matters in a better train than
he expected, for being in a comfortable way, and not inclined to be
farther troublesome. Many friends visited him on Sunday, and the next
day the Colonel arrived. But of all his friends, the dearest was at the
Royal Oak: with her he had an affectionate meeting, after an absence
of seven months. During this interval a young man had been paying his
addresses to her; and knowing that Metcalf was acquainted with the
family, he solicited him to use what interest he had in his behalf:
this, when made known to the lady by the man of her heart, afforded
them both great entertainment.
Metcalf became now in great request as a performer at Ripon assembly,
which was resorted to by many families of distinction, such as those
of Sir Walter Blacket of Newby, Sir John Wray, Sir R. Graham, ’Squire
Rhodes, ’Squire Aislaby of Studley, and many others. When he played
alone, it was usual with him, after the assembly, to set off for
Harrogate or Knaresborough; but when he had an assistant, he remained
all night at Ripon to keep him company, his partner being afraid to
ride in the dark.
Finding himself worth fifteen pounds, (a larger sum than he ever before
had to spare) he made his favourite Miss Benson his treasurer; but as
he had not yet begun to speculate in the purchase of _land_, and a
main of cocks being made in the neighbourhood, he became a party, and
drawing his cash from the hands of his fair banker, he lost two-thirds
of his whole fortune.—The remaining five pounds he laid on a horse
which was to run at York a few days after; and though he had the good
fortune to win the last wager, his general imprudence in this way
produced a little shyness from his sweetheart.
His competitor (not suspecting the intimacy between Metcalf
and the young lady) pushed his suit briskly; and after a short
time, banns were published in the churches of Knaresborough and
Kirby-Overblow.—Metcalf was much surprised, having long thought
himself secure of her affection. He now began to believe that she had
laid more stress on his late follies than he had been aware of, and the
remembrance of them gave him exquisite pain, for he loved her tenderly,
and was restrained from proposing marriage to her only by the doubts he
had of being able to support her in the manner she had been accustomed
to. On the other hand, his pride made him disdain to shew that he was
hurt, or to take any measures to prevent the match. The publication
of banns being complete, the wedding-day was appointed.—The supposed
bridegroom had provided an entertainment at his house for upwards of
two hundred people; and going with a few friends to Harrogate on the
Sunday, proposed the following day for the nuptials, which were to
be solemnized at Knaresborough, intending to return to Harrogate to
breakfast, where a bride-cake was ready, with a hamper of wine, which
latter was to have been carried to Kirby, for the use of the guests he
had invited.
On the Sunday, Metcalf riding pretty smartly past the Royal Oak,
towards the Queen’s Head, was loudly accosted in these words—“One
wants to speak with you.” He turned immediately to the stables of the
Oak, and, to his joyful surprise, found there his favourite, who had
sent her mother’s maid to call him. “Well, lass,” said he, “thou’s
going to have a merry day to-morrow; am I to be the fidler?”—“Thou
never shalt fiddle at my wedding,” replied she. “What’s the matter?
What have I done?” said Metcalf.—“Matters may not end,” said she, “as
some folks wish they should.” “What!” said he, “hadst thou rather have
me? Canst thou bear starving?”—“Yes,” said she, “with _thee_ I can!”
“Give me thy hand, then, lass,—skin for skin, it’s all done!”
The girl who had called him being present, he told her, that as she
and his horse were the only witnesses to what had passed, he would
kill the first who should divulge it.—The immediate concern was to
fix on some plan, as Miss Benson was apprehensive of being missed
by her friends.—Jack, ever prompt at an expedient, desired that she
would that night place a lighted candle in one of the windows of the
old house, as soon as the coast was clear, and herself ready to set
off, which will doubtless appear to the reader a very extraordinary
signal to a blind man; but he had conceived measures for carrying the
projected elopement into effect by the assistance of a third person.
This being approved of, she went into the house, and in a short time
was followed by Metcalf, who was warmly received by the supposed
bridegroom and company. The tankard went briskly round with “Success
to the intended couple;” in which toast, it may be readily believed,
Metcalf joined them most cordially.
Having stayed till it was near dark, he thought it time for putting
business into a proper train. Going then to a public house known by
the name of the World’s End, he inquired for the ostler, whom he knew
to be a steady fellow; and after obtaining from this man a promise
either to serve him in an affair of moment in which he was engaged, or
keep the secret, he related the particulars of his assignation, and the
intended elopement; to forward which, he desired him to let them have
his master’s mare, which he knew would carry double.—This agreed on,
he requested the further service of meeting him at the Raffle Shop (now
the Library) at ten o’clock: a whistle was to be given by the first who
got there, as a signal. They met pretty punctually; and Metcalf asked
him if he saw a star, meaning the light before mentioned: he said, he
did not; but in less than half an hour the _star_ was in the place
appointed. They then left the horses at a little distance from the
house, not choosing to venture into the court-yard, it being paved. On
the door being opened by the lady, he asked her if the was ready; to
which she replied in the affirmative.—He advised her, however, to pack
up a gown or two, as she probably might not see her mother again for
some time. The ostler having recommended the lady’s pillion to Metcalf,
in preference to that of his mistress, he asked her for it:—“O dear!”
said she, “it is in the other house; but we must have it.” She then
went to the window and called up her sister, who let her in. The
pillion and cloth were in the room where the supposed bridegroom slept;
and on his seeing her enter, she said, “I’ll take this and brush it,
that it may be ready in the morning.” “That’s well thought on, my
dear,” said he. She then came down, and all three went to the horses.
Metcalf mounted her behind his friend, then got upon his own horse, and
away they went. At that time it was not a matter of so much difficulty
to get married as it is at present; and they, with only the trouble of
riding twelve miles, and at a small expence, were united.
Metcalf left his bride, on his return, at a friend’s house within five
miles of Harrogate, but did not dismount, being in haste to return
the mare he had borrowed with _French leave_. A few minutes after
their return, Mr. Body, the landlord, called for his mare, to go to
Knaresborough, and fortunately she was ready for him.
Metcalf now went to the Queen’s Head, to perform the usual service of
playing during the breakfast half hour. His overnight’s excursion made
him rather thoughtful, having got a _bird_, but no _cage_ for it. While
he was musing on this subject, an acquaintance, who made one of the
intended bridegroom’s company the evening before, came up, and asked
him to take a glass with him. Metcalf quickly guessed what his business
was, but adjourned with him to a private room, seemingly unconcerned.
“Metcalf,” said he “a strange thing has happened since you were with
us last night, concerning Dolly Benson, who was to have been married
this morning to Anthony Dickinson.—You are suspected of knowing
something about the former; and I shall briefly state to you the
consternation which her disappearance has occasioned, and the reasons
why suspicion falls upon you. This morning, early, the bridegroom went
to Knaresborough, and informed the Rev. Mr. Collins that he and his
intended wife were coming that forenoon to be married. In his absence
Mrs. Benson and her other daughter began to prepare for breakfast; and
observing that Dolly lay very long in bed, her mother desired that she
might be called; but her usual bedfellow declaring that she had not
slept with her, she was ordered to seek her in some of the other rooms.
This was done, but in vain. They then took it for granted that she
had taken a ride with Mr. Dickinson; but he returning, could give no
account of her. All her friends began now to be very seriously alarmed;
and, amongst other fearful conjectures, supposed that she might have
fallen into the well, in attempting to draw water for breakfast; and
actually got some iron creepers, and searched the well. Her brother
then took horse, and rode to Burton-Leonard, to a young man who had
slightly paid his addresses to her, and, informing him of the distress
of the family, begged he would give information, if in his power.
The young man immediately asked him if he had seen Blind Jack; he
answered, that you were at the Oak last night, but did not in the least
suspect you.—The other, however, persisted in the opinion that you
were most likely to know where the girl was, and gave the following
incident as a reason: Being, not long since, at a dance, where Miss
Benson made one, he observed her wiping a profuse perspiration from
your face, with an handkerchief; and this act was accompanied by a look
so tender, as left no doubt in his mind of her being strongly attached
to you.”
This narrative (a part of which was no news to Metcalf) was scarcely
finished, when young Benson appeared; and Metcalf put an end to
all inquiry, by declaring the truth: and thinking it his duty to
conciliate, if possible, those whom he had offended, he employed the
softest phrases he was master of on the occasion. He begged pardon,
through their son, of Mr. and Mrs. Benson, whom he did not presume to
call father and mother, and wished them to believe that the warmth of
his passion for their daughter, with the despair of obtaining their
consent, had led him to the measures he had taken; and that he would
make them the best amends in his power, by the affectionate conduct he
should observe to his wife.
The son, in part pacified, left Metcalf, and reported this declaration
to his parents: but they were just as well pleased at it, as they would
have been at the sight of their building in flames; and, in the height
of passion, declared they would put him to death, if they met with him.
The poor forlorn Dickinson then departed, accompanied by one of Mr.
Benson’s sons. When they got near his home, they heard two sets
of bells, viz. those of Folifoot and Kirby Overblow, ringing, in
expectation of the arrival of the bride and groom; but the sound
was more like that of a knell to Dickinson, who fell from his horse
through anguish, but was relieved by the attention of his friend. The
company were surprised at not seeing the bride; but matters were soon
explained, and they were desired to partake of the fare provided for
them.