A CHAPTER EXTRAORDINARY, ADDED ON THE ADVICE OF THE AUTHOR’S FRIENDS,
FOR TO DECLARE HOW IT COME ABOUT THAT THIS BOOK WAS WROTE.
Here then, my relation should have ended, and I had laid down my pen
with joy to think that for this book, at least, there should be no
further need of mending of quills and of buying fresh paper, when
there come upon me those two good friends that stood by me through
those troubles I am about to relate, and advised me that beside all I
have done already, ’twere well also to set down a true account of the
said troubles for the sake of those that shall come after me. Being
taught, then, by experience, that my best hope lies in following the
counsels of these two persons, I do my best to obey ’em, desiring that
it may first be noted that I bear no malice against those that so
lightly gave credence to reports to my discredit, for they had much
excuse for’t. Nevertheless, I would warn my children to receive a
lesson against the too hasty judging any person upon what they may
hear said concerning him. But to my tale.
During the first six or seven years of the reign of his present
majesty my wife and I lived very quiet and retired, being occupied
with the bringing up our two sons, whereof the elder was nine years of
age at the time of which I write. But in the year 1695, I was called
suddenly to London, that I might give evidence before the Lords’ House
of Parliament on the behalf of my old Company, in the matter of a
petition brought against ’em by a certain person named Jameson. And in
this matter, which did make some noise at the time, my evidence was
considered to be of no small moment (insomuch that one of the lawyers
present told me I had saved the Company, Jameson’s petition being
dismissed), and in some way my name was brought to the king’s notice.
His majesty, having been made acquainted also with my work, which I
mentioned some while back, ‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East
India,’ sent for me and talked with me very graciously, saying that I
should by rights hold some office in the Company’s home establishment,
having such knowledge of Eastern matters. But for this I had neither
favour nor inclination, and so I told his majesty, who said that he
would fain do me some pleasure his own self, and thus I did return
home, expecting little from this flattering compliment. But the next
year I found myself pricked for High Sheriff of the county, and
perceived that ’twas this the king had signified when he spake of
procuring me some advancement.
Now this honour I was by no means loath to accept, lacking, as I hope,
neither the property nor the wit requisite for fulfilling the duties
of the office, but I could not feel surprised that many gentlemen
among my neighbours looked differently upon the matter. They were wont
to regard me extreme distrustfully as a person of outlandish manners
and given to innovation, likewise they did consider me to be but a
lukewarm and half-hearted Whig (as was indeed the truth, saving only
in the cause of the Protestant Faith), and we had also certain
differences over the sentences that were wont to be passed by the
bench of justices, whereof I was one, and did lean more to the side of
mercy than suited with their minds. But that they would make any
endeavour to hinder my accepting of the office (and that with a mighty
strong show of reason on their side), I had never so much as imagined,
and did remain in this secure and careless confidence until the very
week when I was to be sworn to the punctual performance of my duties.
’Twas on a certain Tuesday, in the morning, that the blow fell upon
me, when all the household was moved and stirred touching the great
ball to be danced the next night at Puckle Acton, my lord Duke of
London, the lieutenant of the county, coming over from Belfort with
his duchess for to do honour to the occasion. For over two hours I had
been busy in seeing that the coach and all the trappings of the horses
and the men’s liveries likewise were in good order and neat, and I was
preparing to ride abroad with my wife, when Loll Duss did bring me
word that Sir Ambrose Spencer and Mr Waterdale desired to speak with
me. And at this I was something astonished, for the first (a younger
branch of the great house settled at Althorp in our county) was a very
fanatical Whig, and had held little discourse with me since my
remaining at home in the stead of joining King William’s army. But
though amazed at his visiting at my house, I considered that he might
by now be willing to be reconciled with me, and so went into the
library, and found him there with his friend.
“Pray be seated, Sir Ambrose, and you, sir,” says I, when I had
saluted these gentlemen, and inquired after the health of my Lady
Spencer.
“Sir,” says Sir Ambrose, very stiff, “we are here on a business that
can’t fail, I fear, to be disagreeable to you. May I inquire whether
you be still minded to accept the honour of the shrievalty, or not?”
“So far as I am aware, sir,” says I, something angered at his air, “I
am to be sworn on Friday of this week.”
“Then, sir,” saith he, “’twill be our disagreeable duty to acquaint my
lord Duke, and through him his majesty, of certain facts that seem to
us to unfit you, not only for this office, but even for the company of
gentlemen.”
“You are prodigious flattering, sir,” says I, almost believing him
mad. “Pray have you forgot what is the only answer I can offer to your
words?”
“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, bringing a paper from his pocket, “before
Sir Ambrose or any other gentleman can place his sword at your
service, the charges wrote here must be disproved. This paper is the
copy of a letter wrote to Sir Ambrose by a gentleman that had the
honour of your acquaintance in the Indies.”
“And pray, sir,” says I, in great heat, “do you pretend to condemn me
on the unsupported testimony of the letter of some adventurer that
hath conceived himself disobliged by me?”
“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, “methinks you should rather thank Sir
Ambrose for his present action than revile him, when you hear the full
history on’t. Some two or three days past a number of gentlemen of
this county was met together in Northampton upon the occasion of the
horse-fair in that city. At the ordinary in the evening, your
nomination to the post of High Sheriff was mentioned and discussed as
a matter of common notoriety. On the first mention of your name in
such a connection a certain gentleman that was the guest of Mr
Willesford of Chipping Acton, and is, as I believe, a cousin of his,
displayed great concern, and on being pressed, confessed that he had
known you throughout your life in East India, and had been aware of
many things in your character and history there that had ought to
prevent your holding this office. Upon this the gentlemen that was
there did advise him very earnestly to consider what he did before
assailing in this manner the name of a person of your quality, to
which he replied with great solemnity that he could prove all his
charges, and would set ’em down in writing for to be shown to you.
Then those there, having heard all he had to say, took counsel
together to keep the matter a secret until you had been allowed to
disprove the accusations made against you, if ’twere in your power so
to do.”
“After this, sir,” says I, “you don’t need trouble yourself to mention
the name of my accuser. I recognise the hand of Mr Vane Spender.”
“You have guessed well, sir,” says Sir Ambrose, “and you will now
permit us, leaving this paper with you for your further consideration,
to depart. We were loath to bring disgrace on the son of one so
well-known and respected as Sir Harry Carlyon, and ’twas therefore
agreed among us not to publish the matter abroad on your admitting the
charges and excusing yourself from serving as sheriff.”
“I thank you for your delicacy and civility, sir,” says I. “And pray,
what if I deny the charges and accept of the shrievalty?”
“Why, then, sir,” saith he, “we shall feel compelled to take some
public notice of your conduct at the ball to-morrow night.”
“And what if by some miracle (considering the short time allowed me) I
can disprove the charges?” said I.
“In that case, sir, we shall have great pleasure in acknowledging
ourselves mistook,” says he, but not as though thinking it likely.
“I think, Sir Ambrose, that we have performed our office, and may now
let this visit be closed,” said Mr Waterdale, and I carried ’em to the
door, being mindful that, in spite of their errand, they were still my
guests. As we crossed the hall, Dorothy come down the stairs in her
riding-coat and hat, ready prepared to ride abroad with me, and both
the gentlemen bowed and saluted her.
“Sure, Sir Ambrose,” says she, “you an’t minded to depart so soon? And
you also, Mr Waterdale; it an’t so often we see you that we can suffer
you to leave us after so short a visit. Pray stay and take dinner with
us, or at least eat some little lunch before you ride home.”
“Madam,” said Mr Waterdale, with a mighty uncomfortable air, as Sir
Ambrose had also, “you see us here on a prodigious disagreeable
business, and ’twould ill beseem us to eat in your house while engaged
in’t. But permit me to assure you, madam, that whatever be the issue
of this affair, only the very greatest respect and kindness will be
felt by all the county for yourself.”
“I don’t perceive your meaning, sir,” says Dorothy, casting upon him a
look that seemed to render him doubly uneasy. “Pray, why do you
separate my name from Mr Carlyon’s? Whatever blame or unkindness be
awarded him, whether by the county or by his near neighbours, sure I
shall share the half on’t. I’ll wish you a very good day, sir, and you
also, Sir Ambrose.”
With that she swept into the chamber we had but just left, where, when
I was returned from dismissing the gentlemen, I found her reading the
paper that lay on the table. Looking up with a scared face on my
entering, “What’s this, sir?” says she.
“Heaven only knows,” says I, “though I fear it brings grievous trouble
upon us. Let us read it together, my dearest love, for sure, as you
say, it concerns us both alike.”
Dorothy spread forth the letter on the table, and smoothed it out,
then sitting down she did begin to read it, and I read it likewise
over her shoulder. It was sufficiently long, and I verily could not
forbear to marvel, as I looked upon the closeness of the writing, that
he should have wrote it who most abhorred all use of pen and ink, and
who had scarce been trusted at Surat even to make out an invoice
correctly; but I suppose that bitter hate, like love, do lend
assistance to persons in their designs.
“Honour’d Syr” (it began)--“In Obeediance too ye Commds. you lade
vpn. mee at our last Meatg., I take up my Penn (tho’ litle usd. to
soch Work), too lai befower yor. Honr. a full Act. of ye Dogs. of Mr
_Carrlyonn_ in ye _Indes_. ’Tis doubtls. Matter of comn. Rept. in Yor.
County, yt. ys. Gent. tird. erly of ye Contrt. maid forr hym by his
Fader wit. my Ld. _Branndon’s_ Dghtr., & soght Occn. too escape, ys.
comg. in Form of ye mistakn Kindnesse of a certn. Nobleman, who, beg.
greiviously disseavd. in hym, innabld. himm to inter ye Servc. of ye
Co. yt. I haue long hd. ye honr. to serue. ’Twas at ys. Tyme yt. I
first fell inn wit. him, & likd. him letle yn., and lesse ye mower I
knew of hym. Of hys injuryous Condct. toards My selfe I won’t speake,
only sayg. yt. hee mayde him Self my Innemy at all Times, not scruplg.
euen too attempt my Lyf on moer Occns. yn. one, especialy in ye Citty
of _Tangeer_, wr. he did assault mee wit. soch Fury unarmd. and
unprouoqd. as yt. he bad fare too sla me, bot was removd. fr. me by
Force of ’em yt. was prest. Both in ye Vyage to ye _Indis_ and at
_Surratt_ hee mayd him Self extream particular by his continuall
Consortg. wit. low & blackgard Fellowes, Saylors and ye like, & proud.
him Self a most pryg. & persistant Busie-Body, so yt. at last ye
Councell was fayn too send him too _Goa_ for to ridd ’em Self on hym,
not wtht. hopg., perhaps, yt. hee might fall into som Troble yt. shd.
make an End of him. Likewise at _Goa_ he did continue hys evill
Courses, frequentg. Places of comn. Amusemt. & dog. his best too becom
a Faverit wit. ye Ladys, inn wh. hee did socceade to soche a Degre as
too excyt ye Jalousy of one of ye wilde yong Gallts. yt. was of hys
Acquayntc., & ys. Personn, watchg. hys Chance, soone discoverd. Mr
_Carrlion_ pryg. into ye Misterys of yr. Relign. wit. Intent to mak a
Sport on ’em, & so dinowncd. hym too ye _Inquisition_, by ye wh. hee
was arrested, & kept thre Yeares in Prisonn, not for hys Faith, wh. he
was willg. to recant at once, bot as a Penaunce for his naughty Lyf.
At ye Expiry of ys. Tym hee was dischargd. & mayd hys Wa on Bord of
one of ye Hon. Co.’s Ships, wit. a Story of his haug. escapd. fr. a
gret Burng., & ye Ship’s Maister, beg. one of ye simple Felows wit.
whom hee had once ben frendly, did beleave his Tale, & tooke hym on
his Voyage. Now ys. Vyage proud. one of grete Desaster, soe moche so
as all on Board beleavd. they was punishd. by Heven for ye Sake of ys.
one Sinner, bot weare at Leangth rileasd. by his discertg. ye Shipp
wit. greate Effrontery at ye Towne cal’d _St Thomass_, wr. ye _French_
yn. hd. a Post. Now at ys. Place Mr _Carlion_ did carry it soe as too
gaine ye Faver of ye _French_ Captain-Generall, desclosg. to hym all
ye Seacretts of ye Co. yt. hee knewe, & instroctg. hym how hee might
best use ’em for ye Injurg. their Trade. So vsefull ded he proue him
Silf, yt. ye _French_ was abt. too adopt hym into there Seruice, wn.
there was discouerd. yt. he hd. intangld. him Self in a disgracefull
Manner wit. ye Genrall’s Doghter (ye same is now my Lady V. countesse
_Gallompry_). Ys. yong Lady beg. of tendir Yeares, Mr _Carlyonn_ had
persuaded hir to fly wit. hym, & they was gone some Wai before they
might bee stopt. ’Tis sayd by som yt. ye Lady her Selfe was veray
forward in seekg. hys Lov, & ys. I haue herd Mr _Carlyon_ repeat not
once only nor twice, hee mockg. finely at hir for hir litle Moddesty,
bot of ye Truthe of ys. I can’t speake. & upon ys. Discoverie, Mr
_Carrlion_ was expel’d wit. gret Contimpt fr. yt. Place, & did jurney
to _Bombaim_ thro’ _Duccan_ disguysd. in ye Trayn of a certaine
renegadoe _Portugall_, wit. whom hee was verrie frendly, so reachg.
_Surrat._ & here, beg. forcd. by certn. of hys Frends, agst. ye Will
of ye Rest of ye Councell, into a Place of Troste, he joynd. him Selfe
too ye Factry at _Amedavat_, & their livd. for thre Yeares in a most
naughty & ryotous Manner, so as to bee a Scandall too ye veray
Heathens ’em Selfs. Norr was ys. all, forr ’twas credibly proud. yt.
hee hd. defrawded ye Co. of grete Soms of Money, besides beg. soe
slacke in hys Busynesse yt. he loste ’em moch mower. & after ys.,
vizittg. ye Citie of _Agra_ wit. divers or. Gents. upon an Ambassage,
hee did consort yr. wit. certn. vyle & dangerous Personns, Felons &
Criminalls & ye like, & fynally, ’scapg. fr. ye Towne in greate Hast
for to avoyd ye Reward of his evill Deedes, hee dyd carry wit. hym one
of these, a renegado _Cristian_, tochg. whom no Good cd. by any Means
be sayde, & conveyd. hym out of ye Country, too ye grete Hurt &
Dammage of ye Imperour yt. rules therein. & ys. he did, rufflg. it so
brauely as yt. hee come to Blows wit. ye _Mogull_ Souldiers sent too
fetch him, bot killg. som on ’em, brogt him off, wit. ye Ayd of a Gang
of _Torys_ his Helpers, and soe had him too _Surratt_, to ye gret
Displesure of his Ma’tie’s Subjects yr., yt. must needs intertayn ys.
escapd. Fellon untill hee might returne into hys owne Country. & agayn
after ys. did Mr _Carlyonn_ shew him Self an extream bad Servt. to ye
Co., tho’ he managd. his Peckulacions wit. soch Art as ye greter Part
on’t wan’t dyscouerd. untill hee was departed. Bot ’twas a comn.
Report, & ye Cause of greate Scandall, yt. he went soe moch wit.
_Moores_ & or. _Indians_, so as many averr’d hee was a seacrett
Renegadoe. Bot it beg. at length discoverd. (& I am nt. ashamd. too
say, yt. ’twas I discoverd. ye same, forr ye wh. Cause he is greately
increast in Enmity agst. mee), yt. he had applyd. large Soms of Mony
too hys own Uses, & hd. forwarded to _Europe_ much yt. hee was gat
possesst of by no Right at all, ye Councell was advisd. too dismiss
hym wit. Disgrace. Bot ye Frends yt. hee had disceavd. was still
suffict. too influence ye Counsell, soe as all was don privily, and
not made publiq. & he levg. thre Days later for _England_ no moer was
said, tho’ ’tis still perpetually found out yt. his Thefts was euen
worse yn. yn. appear’d. I han’t herd no more concerng. hym for som
Yeares, but beg. returnd. too _England_, & vizitg. upon my Cossen
_Willsford_, I did heere by Chance yt. hee was prickt for Shirreff.
Yn. beg. assurd. yt. ys. hd. not ought take Place, I did make yse.
Matters publick, bot out of no Malis, bot only Lov of Right. Wit. ye
highest Respect,
I haue ye Honor too be,
Sirr, Yor. Honr.’s most obedt. Servt.,
V. Spender.”
“Ned,” says Dorothy, “this is worse than the worst I had feared. Tell
me, is there, in all that this person says, that one grain of truth,
whereby he might hope to establish these charges?”
“None,” says I; “at least in the charges respecting money, and in the
rest such twisting and turning of things innocent or at most only
foolish as makes ’em appear crimes.” And this I said without any grief
or bitterness that my wife should seem to doubt me, for in truth,
after reading this letter that with such devilish cunning (for indeed
no other word will name it fitly), sought to turn into evil all the
deeds and intentions of my life, I could scarce myself believe but
that I was guilty of the shameful things attributed to me.
“If they ben’t true, sure there’s some means to disprove ’em,” says
Dorothy. “Let us see what those be.”
“To my rescue at Goa,” says I, “Captain Freeman can speak, but that is
but a very small part of the whole. There’s no one nearer than Surat
could testify the falsehood of those charges that concern my life and
conversation there, and but one man even there that hath both the
power and the will to do’t.”
“And who is that?” says she.
“Mr Martin,” said I; “but, as you know, my life, he seemed to have no
present design of returning when he writ to me last, and I doubt
whether a letter should serve this turn.” For my good friend had not
yet carried out his purpose of retiring from the service, but remained
still at Surat, whence, on hearing of our marriage, he had sent my
wife a collar of pearls such as for their fineness and whiteness had
not their equal in the county, and later, when we writ him word that
we had named our second son for him, he did despatch to us, by the
hand of a sea-captain of his acquaintance, a cap of goldsmith’s work
for his godson, such as the Indian babes are wont to bear.
“And a letter should need a year and a half at the least, and more
like two years, for to go and come back,” says Dorothy.
“We can scarce look for our enemies to hold over their threatened
action for that time,” says I.
“No,” says Dorothy bitterly; “if you should now yield up the
shrievalty for peace’ sake, and write to the Indies for proofs of your
innocence, Mr Spender hath gained his point, for what will it profit
if in two years you can show yourself guiltless? We know how ’twill
be. ‘Wan’t there some strange tale touching ’Squire Carlyon?’ ‘Ay,
indeed. Such strange things was said as my lord duke was forced to
refuse him the shrievalty. ’Tis true, one heard they was contradicted
later, but such things an’t said without some truth in ’em. Oh, be
sure it wan’t all for nothing.’ Whatever we do must be done at once,
Ned, for sure if the gentlemen cut you at the ball, and refuse to
grant you satisfaction, the mischief is done.”
“And since we can’t do nothing at once,” says I, “and, on your own
showing, what is done two years hence is done too late, sure ’twere
well to resign all effort, and accept the judgment of Sir Ambrose and
his friends.”
“Shame on you, Mr Carlyon!” cried my wife, rising and standing in the
window, and lashing her petticoat angrily with the whip she held;
“sure something must be done. Will you condemn your wife and children
and yourself to infamy? Prythee, play the man, and don’t show yourself
a coward before the first misfortune that comes upon you.”
“But what’s to be done?” said I.
“Why, that’s for you to resolve,” says she. “Sure you, that’s seen so
many climates, and passed through so many strange chances, ought be
able to think of what should be done now. Go post to London if you
will, and carry thence hither Captain Freeman or any other person that
may be able to support your word. Spare no expense. What signifies
money in such a case? If disgrace be escaped, poverty is naught.”
“Spoke like my Lord Brandon’s own daughter!” says I. “Well, Dorothy,
I’ll do as you would have me (though I am well persuaded that ’twill
advantage me nothing in this present matter), since I would not that
you should believe that I slight your counsel. I han’t so many friends
that I can afford to lose any of ’em.”
“Ned,” cries Dorothy, running back to me and casting her arms about my
neck, “prythee, don’t think me hard. I did but desire to rouse you
from that despondency which is wont to seize upon you and forbid you
to act. Let us at least do what we can, for sure the weakest effort is
better than none at all, and when we have done our utmost, it may be
heaven will send us what other help we need.”
“Sure heaven hath done much already in giving me such a wife,” says I,
and kissed her, feeling that I was indeed blessed above my deserts.
“Hush!” says Dorothy on a sudden, going again to the window. “Here
come our sons. There’s no need for ’em to hear of this trouble.”
Almost as she spake, the door was burst open, and our little Bob ran
in.
“Oh, madam!” says he to his mother, “I had been looking for you. May I
have a ride on my papa’s horse? I ran on before Hal and Mr Tilney on
purpose that I might ask you.”
“We han’t gone riding this morning, my son,” says I. “But what’s that
coming up the fir-walk?”
“Oh, ’tis a coach,” says Bob, “as fine as ours but not so large, and
splashed all over with mud. There’s an old gentleman inside, that
shook his stick at me when he saw me run, and a servant like Loll Duss
riding behind.”
“Is this another messenger of disaster?” says I to Dorothy.
“Or a messenger of hope?” says she. “Do you know the gentleman, Bob?”
“No, madam, but I heard him call to Hal and bid him take a seat in the
coach with Mr Tilney, since he desired to speak with him. ‘Are you the
son of my old friend Ned Carlyon, my little man?’ says he, and Hal
says he was.”
Dorothy and I looked one at the other, for the same thought was come
in both our minds, but seemed too good to be true. But now the coach
had reached the door, and there come into the parlour Mr Tilney, the
boys’ governor, a very ingenious young man and one of excellent parts,
that had passed through his studies at the University with infinite
credit to himself, and was glad to hold this respectable place in my
family until he should have some hopes of preferment in the Church
offered him.
“Sir,” says he, “there’s a gentleman without that says he is a friend
of your honour’s, but don’t desire to send in his name. I have bid
Master Harry entertain him until I could find you.”
Still wondering whether our thought might be right, Dorothy and I went
out into the hall in time to see our son Harry assisting out of the
coach with great civility an ancient gentleman with a great white
peruke and a heavy gold-headed cane, an Indian servant standing beside
the coach-door with his master’s cloak. Seeing us, the old gentleman
held out both his hands with a merry laugh.
“Ha, Ned!” says he, “here I am, and do hope you are but half so
pleased to behold me as I to meet you again. _Love and lordship like
no fellowship_, ’tis said, but methought you would find room for your
old friend for a day or two. Pray, is this my fair friend Mrs
Carlyon?--my friend, I say, though I never yet saw her, from my
hearing so much touching her. Madam, I could well believe, but for the
presence of these young gentlemen, that you were married but a year at
most. And pray, where is my godson? Is he that naughty rogue I saw run
on but now when his governor called him back? Fie, lad, fie! Did you
never hear that _He that will not be rul’d by his owne dame, must bee
ruled by his step-dame_? this signifying that a harder discipline must
be used where a milder fails. Nay, Ned, my dear lad, I an’t
Methusalem!”
This because Dorothy and I had now conveyed him into the parlour (he
talking fast all the time, for to keep back the tears that were near
his eyes), and were desiring him to sit and rest himself in my
father’s great chair, that was never used by us, but stood ready with
its cushions even as he had last left it. But my dear Mr Martin was
like a father to me, and I would fain have him sit in Sir Harry’s
chair. And here at last we gat him seated, when he looked round upon
us with a prodigious happiness in his face.
“You will remain with us, dear sir?” says Dorothy.
“If you’ll put up with a peevish old man, madam,” says he.
“For shame, sir!” says she. “Hal, go bid Mr Martin’s coachman drive
round to the stables, and tell Loll Duss and Miles who is arrived.”
“May I go with Hal, madam, and see the horses put up?” says Bob.
“See here, my little man,” says Mr Martin, “if your governor will
suffer you, go to my servant Rum Cunder, and ask him to let you see a
certain beast that he hath in a cage. Maybe you han’t neither of you
often seen his like.”
“Oh, sir, please come at once,” says Bob in a great hurry, and departs
with his brother and Mr Tilney. Mr Martin turned to my wife and me
when the door was once shut--
“You were in some trouble when I arrived, Ned, and you also, my dear
madam. I saw so much in your faces. If you had rather that I tarried
at the inn, and not here, don’t scruple to tell me so. _A friend is
never knowne till a man have need_, and what good is he if a man don’t
dare tell him when he would fain not entertain him?”
“On the contrary, sir,” says I, “though we should at any time be ready
to welcome you with delight, yet now especially are we in such a case
as we had as soon see you as an angel from heaven.”
“An enemy hath but just made most shameful charges against my husband,
sir,” says Dorothy, “and he is in some degree minded to submit and
make no attempt to clear himself.”
“Well,” saith Mr Martin, “_Every man as he loveth, as the good man
said, when hee kist his cow_; but in this case I would say that if
these charges may be disproved, they should be so. And pray, madam,
what may they be, and who is’t brings ’em?”
For answer we did lay before him Mr Spender’s letter, which Mr Martin
read through very carefully, and then sat for some time considering,
with his chin on his hand.
“Well, sir?” saith Dorothy at last.
“I think, madam,” says he slowly, “that you were right to suppose that
I might furnish you with weapons against this person’s accusations.
When must your answer be returned to the charge, Ned?”
I told him of the ball to be danced on the next evening, and of the
threats of public insult there that I had received.
“Then this,” said he, “is my counsel. Send word at once to Sir
Ambrose, begging him and the other gentlemen that are interested in
the matter, and in especial Mr Spender himself, to meet you in a
private room at the inn an hour before the dancing begin. Say that you
hope to have an answer to the charges, but make no mention of me, and
bid your servants not betray my arrival to any one in the town. ’Tis
well I came from the t’other side of you, and so had no need to pass
through Puckle Acton.”
“Then you can confute this man Spender, sir?” asks Dorothy.
“Madam,” says he, “I make no doubt but to-morrow we shall see a very
pretty comedy played in the inn-parlour. _The False Charge, or the
Accuser Unmasked_, hath an agreeable sound, han’t it? They say, _He
that mischief hatcheth, mischief catcheth_, and methinks Mr Vane
Spender won’t find it otherwise.”
“You are indeed an angel, sir,” says Dorothy, and kissed him on the
forehead.
“Nay,” says he, “though I could wish I were, if I should always be
rewarded thus.” And so, with much laughter, to the business of writing
a billet for Loll Duss to carry to Sir Ambrose his house, and this
despatched, to talking of Surat and the sore changes there, and
likewise the great ambition and strange doings of the Emperor Auren
Zeeb in his wars in Duccan, which all was as a breath of native air to
me, and filled me with great contentment to speak on’t. And thus the
day passed agreeably enough, and the earlier part of the next
likewise, until it was high time to prepare for the ball. And for this
we dressed ourselves with prodigious care, not choosing by any lack of
neatness in our apparel to give cause for them that saw us to say that
we had lost confidence in the justice of our cause, and so sought to
move pity by our neglected aspect. And indeed, when my wife was
dressed, she looked as well as I have ever seen her, wearing a gown of
very rich brocado, the colours blue and gold, and her lace prodigious
fine. Likewise also she was wearing the pearls that Mr Martin had sent
her on our marriage, and this piece of gentle flattery did please our
old friend mightily.
Now when we were dressed, we set forth to the town my wife and Mr
Martin in the coach, and I riding beside them. And coming to the
cross-roads, whom should we meet but my lord duke and the two
duchesses, his mother and his lady, coming from Belfort, the which was
done with no small difficulty, the ways being so miry as it was hard
to get the coach along ’em. And I seeing that his grace was clearly
acquainted already of the particulars of my fancied dishonour (though
he did greet me with all kindness), thought it well to confide to him
the whole matter, and engage his help for the completer discomfiting
Mr Spender. And upon this he waxed very merry, promising himself a
huge enjoyment in the comedy we purposed to ourselves, and showed
himself very friendly towards me. Likewise the ladies also did make
much of my wife, kissing her when they met, and making her a handsome
compliment on her brave attire, bidding her also come to visit upon
them at Belfort, the which any gentlewoman in the county would be
proud to do. And being now arrived at the inn, Dorothy did wait upon
their ladyships to the chamber they had bespoke, while my lord duke
engaged the help of the landlord, and so brought Mr Martin up-stairs
into the room where the colloquy should be held, and placed him
secretly there in a window, being hid from those in the chamber.
The other gentlemen then coming in one by one, his grace sat down at
the head of the table, with Sir Ambrose and Mr Spender on either hand
beside him, and so opened the business. And I, as Mr Martin had bid
me, did proceed (Mr Spender having declared himself willing to answer
all reasonable interrogatories) to examine him straitly upon the terms
of his letter, and soon perceived, as I had expected, that he had
given himself only to invent a history that should sound likely and
convenient for the present season, looking forward to a period of two
years or thereabouts before I could obtain my justification from East
India, but had taken no thought to forge any false papers that might
maintain his slander longer. And this I considered extremely prudent
in him, since he might well believe that some traces of the
accusations would always remain against me, as Dorothy had said,
though nothing plain and clear could be alleged. But when he had
finished declaring the truth of all that he had wrote, as also of all
that he had now said, and all the gentlemen was beginning to look very
black upon me, there was a sound in the window as of a chair’s being
pushed back, and Mr Martin came out from the curtains, at sight of
whom Mr Spender turned pale, and made as though he would have fled,
but that Mr Waterdale bid him angrily remain.
“Gentlemen,” says I, “this is Mr Martin, lately in the Hon. East India
Company’s service as Accountant at Surat, which post is, I may tell
you, second only to the President himself. He hath been of my
acquaintance since first I went to the Indies, and will answer any
question you may be pleased to put to him.”
“But first,” says Mr Martin, “with your leave, gentlemen, I would fain
put one only question to Mr Spender--namely, whether he consider it
prudent for a person dismissed the Company’s service for unlawful
trafficking with interlopers to bring such charges as those in this
letter that I hold?”
The gentlemen present, not knowing the nature of the Company’s
business, did not understand this question, saving his grace, and did
ask of Mr Martin what it meant.
“The Honourable Company,” saith he, “hath the monopoly of the East
India trade in its own ports, and all those infringing this monopoly
are termed interlopers. Not two years ago it was discovered that there
was many of these interlopers trading in the Company’s ports by virtue
of permissions signed by the President of the Indies, now at Bombaim,
and upon inquiry being made, it was found that these were obtained
from Mr Spender in return for a genteel sum of money, he acting
secretary to the President, and placing by sleight of hand these
papers among those that were to be signed, without his honour’s
perceiving it. Upon this Mr Spender was dismissed the Company’s
service in disgrace, and I scarce think that this record do entitle
him to credit from you.”
The gentlemen all looked much disturbed on hearing this, and next Mr
Martin took the letter in hand, refuting each particular in turn as he
came to’t, some upon the testimony of Captain Freeman and others, but
most of ’em upon his own recollection. The few charges that he could
not treat from his personal knowledge was so small as they mattered
little beside those he was able to confute, and so great was the
contrast between his reverend aspect and the shamefaced air of Mr
Spender, that none could doubt whether of the two should be believed.
“Now, sir,” says my lord duke, “what have you to say in answer to this
gentleman?” looking for some further bravado from my accuser.
“I must regret that I was misinformed, your grace,” stammered he, and
did push back his chair for to depart.
“You do well to leave us, sir, indeed,” says his grace coldly. “I
presume, gentlemen, that there an’t no doubt in any of your minds but
that Mr Carlyon hath fully vindicated his honour?”
“If you desire satisfaction from me, Mr Carlyon, I shall be happy to
receive any friend of yours,” says Sir Ambrose gruffly.
“And so shall we all,” says another gentleman, Mr Spender and his
cousin Mr Willesford being by this time departed.
“Nay, gentlemen,” says Mr Martin, very earnestly, “I do entreat you to
entertain no thought of having recourse to that most foolish and
unchristian custom of the duello. My lord duke, sure your grace must
agree with me. Is it reasonable that Mr Carlyon, who hath but just
vindicated his honour, should now be forced to peril his life against
each of these gentlemen in turn, through no fault of his own? Sure
there’s no pagans would behave so wildly.”
“You are right, sir,” says his grace, “Mr Carlyon’s honour is now
established beyond a doubt, and I think he won’t deny but these
gentlemen have all acted in good faith. ’Tis my express desire that
you be all reconciled, and that the matter drop here. Pray give me
your hand, my good cousin Carlyon.”
He grasped my hand very heartily, and after him each of the gentlemen
in his turn, and Mr Martin, with great joy, last of all.
“And now,” said his grace, “I’m well assured that the gentlewomen are
believing us lost, or busy hatching a conspiracy, at the very least.
If you be of my mind, let us rejoin ’em, and quiet their anxieties.”
So we all to find our wives, and then to the ball-room on the
ground-floor of the inn, where was dancing kept up until very late,
his grace leading out my wife, and she having such a radiant air by
reason of her gladness as that all others, and not I alone, saw her to
be the finest woman in the room. And so at last home, thanking God
very heartily for His great goodness and mercy towards us.
Now the next day Mr Martin, in talking with my wife and me, did
counsel me to write in full a history of my life, setting down in
order all that was befallen me, to the intent that should these
slanders be revived in later years, our children should find their
answer ready to their hand, and so defend not my honour only, but that
of Madam Heliodora, so foully assailed by my accuser. And this I have
now done, writing all my history for my children’s sake with much time
and labour, and designing to lay the book away safely in the cabinet
wherein my wife keeps her most precious jewels, that so our sons may
not be troubled with fears of evil should no necessity arise, and yet
may have help at hand when they shall find the need on’t. And in this
book, lest I should in any way obscure the truth, I have striven to
extenuate nothing that might appear blameable in my own nature or
carriage, but in like manner as I have faithfully set down the
perverse humours and youthful passions that did lead me into
wrong-doing, so also have I not scrupled to bring forward those things
which, in my plainer judgment, may serve in some measure to account
for, though by no means to excuse, my evil deeds. Such, then, was my
design in the writing this history, and though the composure on’t have
cost me infinite pains, yet I don’t consider the price to be too dear,
but toil well expended, if, in addition to the good mentioned above,
the perusing it may avail to keep any offspring of mine from any of
those pitfalls wherein I fell.
E. CARLYON.
====
_Notandum._--That I have read through this book, and do confirm all
that is wrote in’t to be true, in so far as the matters therein
related came under my cognisance, and for the rest, I am confident in
the good faith of my friend, Mr Edward Carlyon.
And to this I set my hand and seal,
(Signed) Robt. Martin,
Of the Bathe, in the county of Somerset, gentleman.
At Ellswether, this 23_d day of September_ 1698.
APPENDICES.
APPENDIX I.
THE NATIVE RACES OF INDIA.
The early European travellers and sojourners in India designated the
inhabitants generally by the name of Indians or Indosthans. Of these
they recognised two main divisions, Moors and Gentues. The word
_Gentues_, which has survived in certain parts of India to our own day
in the form Gentoos, is, as Fryer tells us in his ‘New Account of East
India and Persia,’ “the _Portugal_ idiom for _Gentiles_,” and
signifies the whole Hindu and aboriginal (or non-Aryan)
population--that is to say, all the peoples of India with the
exception of the Mussulmans, Parsees, and Jews. Of the Gentues, the
race which came most frequently in contact with the English factories
in Western India was that of the Mahrattas, Marathas, or Marhatas,
under their great chief Sivaji and his successors. The Christians of
St Thomas, incidentally alluded to in the text, belong to the
non-Aryan races of Southern India. The other great division, the
Moors, comprises all the Mahommedan invaders and their descendants,
from the time of the earliest raids in the seventh century, together
with the converts gained from among the Hindu and aboriginal races.
This name, also, survives to the present day in the “Moormen” of
Bengal and Ceylon. Until shortly before the date of our story, the
results of these earlier invasions of India were apparent in the
existence of the Mahommedan kingdoms of Bijapur, Golconda, Gujerat,
and others, which were gradually swept away by the growing Mogul
power. The name _Moguls_ was used to distinguish from the general mass
of Moors the later Persian and Afghan invaders, often of high rank in
their own country, who entered India in the earlier ages as leaders of
predatory bands, and at a later date with peaceful intentions, to gain
power and honour in the service of the emperors of their own race at
Delhi. The Parsees (spelt Parseys or Parsies), and the Black Jews of
Malabar, are frequently mentioned by old writers, as also an African
colony of Abyssinians not far from Surat.
APPENDIX II.
THE SPELLING OF PROPER NAMES.
In dealing with foreign names, the English author of the sixteenth,
seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries pursued one unfailing method. In
the case of European personal names, if he could find an English
equivalent, he used that, and if not, he resorted to a Latin form,
boldly rendering Emil by Æmilius, for instance. Sometimes he even
applied this method to surnames, as the forms Thuanus and Montisquius,
found for De Thou and Montesquieu in the ‘Book of Martyrs,’ will
testify. As an example of a foreign Christian name replaced by its
English equivalent, we need only recall that of the famous Don John of
Austria. Mr Carlyon is, therefore, only following the custom of his
time when he renders Sebastiaõ, Francisco, and Deodoro as Sebastian,
Francis, and Theodorus. In the same way Madam Heliodora’s real name
was Françoise Marie Louise Anne Aimée (or Amantine) Héliodore, and
her father’s Gaspard Dieudonné. With regard to names of places, the
case was different. It was only occasionally that an English form
could be used, as with Gascoign for Gascogne (a closer approximation
than our own Gascony), and St Thomas for San Thomé. The effort of the
writer seems generally to have been to make the names look as English
as possible. Hence we have Dhilly for Delhi, and Geminy for Jumna. He
had a marked objection to the letters _b_ and _k_, and a fondness for
_v_, _x_, and _z_. _J_ and _sh_ he often replaced by _ch_ or _s_.
Indian personal names come under the same category, for which reason I
have left them to the last. Here, as with the place-names, our
author’s spelling was strictly phonetic, in so far as he could make it
so. Loll Duss, Cogia Bux, and Rum Cunder are recognisable as Lal Das,
Khoja Baksh, and Ram Chanda; but Madda Gi is not easy to interpret as
Madhoji, and the modern spelling of Vincaly I have not been able to
discover. Eusoff is Yusuf. What adds to the difficulty of identifying
these Eastern names is that in many cases the chronicler adopted them
from a Portuguese or Dutch predecessor, who had left his own mark upon
them in the shape of a previous modification of the spelling in
accordance with his national taste. I have thought it better in all
cases to leave the names in the text in their original form (and so
also with a few misspelt English and Indian words), merely explaining
in a note those about which there might be some doubt, thus retaining
the quaint effect.
APPENDIX III.
PRIVATE TRADING BY THE COMPANY’S SERVANTS.
In the early days of the East India Company, its relations with its
_employés_ were of a kind which seems very strange to modern ideas.
Those in its service were expected to work at starvation wages, a
usage which dated probably from the time when the Company (like others
of its kind) was a mere association of adventurers for purposes of
trade, each man investing what he could spare in the general fund, and
receiving in return board and lodging and a small sum as pocket-money,
until, on the termination of the adventure, the profits could be
equally divided. Applied to a permanent undertaking, and to men who
had no property to invest, but depended for their livelihood on what
they could earn, this system was certain to break down, and the
natural result was that the Company’s servants made use of the
information they gained in their official capacity to engage in trade
on their own account. The Company looked askance at this, but it was
impossible to prevent private trading so long as a writer was forced
to serve for five years for £10 a-year (about £30 of our money), and
even a full merchant earned only £40 a-year. This
penny-wise-and-pound-foolish policy was, nevertheless, persisted in,
with the natural consequence that while the Company’s servants grew
rich by means of private ventures, the Company’s own trade barely paid
its expenses.
APPENDIX IV.
OLD AND NEW GOA AND MODERN GOA.
The Goa of our days is not that known to the visitors of the
seventeenth century. The quarter which they called Old Goa has
disappeared from the earth, and the splendid city of New Goa is the
Old Goa of to-day. Its greatness began to decay with the decline of
the Portuguese power in India, and the removal of the government to
Panjim, nearer the mouth of the river, completed its ruin. Dr Claudius
Buchanan, who visited it in 1808, describes it as a city of churches,
but observes that there were seldom any worshippers besides the
officiating priests. Since his day matters have gone steadily from bad
to worse, and the population, thinned by pestilence and emigration, is
now scarcely that of a small village. Churches and public buildings
alike have fallen into decay, and the ruins are fast being overspread
by the growth of tropical vegetation. Panjim, the “New Goa” of to-day,
is about three miles from the mouth of the river, and enjoys the small
remains of the state and commerce which once made Goa the chief city
of the Indies.
APPENDIX V.
THE FRENCH AT SAN THOMÉ.
The seizure and occupation of San Thomé by the French after their
departure from Trincomalee is a historical fact. The place, which is
also called Mailapur or Meliapore (the peacock city), is now a mere
suburb of Madras. Its earlier vicissitudes are detailed in the text.
The French took possession of it in 1672, and after sustaining a two
years’ blockade, enforced both by land and sea, marched out with the
honours of war in 1674. Accounts vary somewhat as to the exact dates
and other details connected with this siege. I have followed Fryer’s
narrative, as being that of a contemporary. The first head of the
expedition was Caron, who was drowned in a shipwreck after being
summoned back to France to give an account of himself. The next leader
whose name has been preserved is François Martin, the founder of
Pondichery, but as Fryer speaks of a “viceroy,” to whom the credit of
the long and skilful defence was due, I have ventured to introduce the
character of the Marquis de Tourvel. In any case, the incidents
(including that of the stratagem by which the Dutch fleet was
temporarily driven away) are real, the persons only fictitious. The
history of this little band of Frenchmen, as also their subsequent
adventures at Pondichery, reads like a romance.
APPENDIX VI.
THE HISTORICAL BASIS OF THIS STORY.
In writing ‘In Furthest Ind,’ my object has not been so much to
trace the course of any definite series of events, as to give a
general idea of the fortunes and misfortunes likely to fall to the lot
of an Englishman in the East during the earlier stages of what it is
correct to call the Expansion of England. Hence I have left it to
historians to follow the precise details of the relations which
existed between the English at Surat and Bombay, Sivaji, and the
government of Aurangzib, and have avoided as far as possible
introducing real personages into the story. This naturally involves a
fictitious element in the events in which the characters take part,
although the incidents are in the main true in their origin, if not in
their arrangement. Thus, the account of the dealings between Sivaji
and the French is true, but the personal adventures of the Vicomte de
Galampré are fictitious, and the two occasions on which Sivaji
appears are not historical, although they may be paralleled many times
over from his life. The history of the French at San Thomé has been
fully dealt with in a preceding note. Although Mr Carlyon’s escape
from the _Auto da Fé_ is fictitious, yet many of its details are
taken from an actual case. In a word, my effort has been rather to
present a picture than to construct a history, selecting from the mass
of available material such data as might best contribute to the result
in view.
THE END.
ENDNOTES.
[1] _servant_] Suitor.
[2] _Bristow_] Bristol.
[3] _the post of writer_] Afterwards called cadet.
[4] _laced waistcoat_] Jacket-bodice.
[5] _harness_] Armour.
[6] _escrotore_] Escritoire.
[7] _the book_] Evidently Lord Broghill’s ‘Parthenissa.’
[8] _January 1663-64_] 1664 by our reckoning.
[9] _with the family_] Household.
[10] _original_] Origin.
[11] _letters of mart_] It is possible that this spelling may give a
clue to the generally disputed origin of this word.
[12] _fusees_] Muskets.
[13] _Gamboa_] Gambia.
[14] _Bon Esperanzo_] Properly spelt Boa Esperança, the Cape of Good
Hope.
[15] _polite_] Civilised.
[16] _Cangoxima_] Kagoshima.
[17] _Ceilon_] Ceylon.
[18] _Swally_] Suwali.
[19] See Appendix for the races of India.
[20] _customers_] Custom-house officers.
[21] _go-downs_] Sheds or warehouses.
[22] _Dhilly_] Delhi. See Appendix for spelling of proper names.
[23] _Auren Zeeb_] Aurangzib.
[24] _Morattys_] Mahrattas.
[25] _Moruchtraw_] Maharashtra.
[26] _Seva Gi_] Sivaji.
[27] _Visiapour_] Now Bijapur.
[28] _Bounceloe_] Now spelt Shahji Bonsla.
[29] _Caun_] Khan.
[30] _Duccan and also of Conchon_] The Deccan (or Dakhan) and the
Konkan.
[31] _road_] Raid.
[32] _Lord Malbery_] Marlborough; not the famous duke.
[33] _Bombaim_] Bombay.
[34] _ancient_] Ensign.
[35] _Brachmines_] Brahmins.
[36] _Juddah_] Jeddah.
[37] _plate of China_] Porcelain.
[38] _banyans_] _Bunnias_ or _baniyas_.
[39] _lunch_] This name was given to any slight or impromptu meal.
[40] _thé_] Tea.
[41] _particular_] Peculiar.
[42] _palepuntz_] Punch.
[43] _acquavitæ_] Brandy.
[44] _musters_] Patterns.
[45] _Persian and the Indostan languages_] Apparently Urdu.
[46] _attempted_] Attacked.
[47] _Samba Gi_] Sambhaji.
[48] _succades_] Sweetmeats.
[49] See Appendix on private trading by the Company’s servants.
[50] _caphalay_] Kafila.
[51] _punctilio_] Etiquette; sometimes used to mean personal dignity.
[52] _Loll Duss_] In modern spelling, Lal Das.
[53] _Agoada_] Aqueduct.
[54] _garden-houses_] Country-houses.
[55] _hidolgoos_] Hidalgos.
[56] _causey_] Causeway.
[57] See note on Goa in Appendix.
[58] _worth some thousand pagodoes_] One thousand pagodas = about
£400.
[59] _sacristan_] Probably _sacristy_ is meant.
[60] _Franciscus Xeverius_] Better known as Francis Xavier.
[61] _Paulistins_] Not to be confounded with the Regular Clerks of St
Paul, or Barnabites, who are a distinct Order.
[62] _governor_] Tutor.
[63] _state_] Cloth of estate, canopy.
[64] _ducket_] Ducat.
[65] _jacolatt_] Chocolate.
[66] _peunes_] Properly spelt _peons_.
[67] _Coffrees_] From the Arabic _kafir_, meaning infidel.
[68] _Inquisidors_] The Spanish spelling used at the time.
[69] _crotchet_] Crosslet, little cross.
[70] _Portingale_] Portugal.
[71] _chirurgion_] Surgeon.
[72] _fetiscero_] From the Portuguese _feitiço_ = magic; hence our
word _fetich_.
[73] _antics_] Fools,--as we should say, clowns.
[74] _Aucto de Fie_] Generally spelt _Auto da Fé_.
[75] _cavalieros_] This word probably owes its origin to a confusion
between the Italian _cavaliere_ and the Spanish _caballero_.
[76] _Vexilla Regis prodeunt_] Known to our hymn-books as “The royal
banners forward go.”
[77] _White or Austin Friars_] Augustinians. This is an error on Mr
Carlyon’s part. The White Friars are the Carmelites.
[78] _slops_] Very wide breeches, sometimes called petticoats.
[79] _Hoor! Hoor! Mohawdio!_] The famous Mahratta war-cry, “_Hur! Hur!
Mahadeo!_”
[80] _Stewart_] The contemporary spelling.
[81] _walk and conversation_] Conduct.
[82] _St Thomas_] Really called San Thomé.
[83] _ancient_] Ensign or standard.
[84] _state_] Cloth of estate, canopy.
[85] _nightgown_] Dressing-gown.
[86] See Appendix for the French at San Thomé.
[87] _Gulconda_] The Mohammedan kingdom of Golconda.
[88] _Mechlapatan_] Masulipatam.
[89] _pharmaund_] Firman.
[90] _Indosthans_] Hindus.
[91] _Maderas_] Madras.
[92] _constitution_] Character or temperament.
[93] _a sealed letter_] _Lettre de cachet._
[94] _theorba_] Or theorbo, a kind of large lute.
[95] _offices_] Services.
[96] _the old cardinal_] Richelieu.
[97] _lace-bands_] Apparently cravats.
[98] _sorbet_] Sherbet.
[99] _painted calicut_] Printed calico.
[100] _Amidavat_] Ahmedabad.
[101] _Phoolcherry_] Now Pondichery.
[102] _servant_] Suitor.
[103] _Geminy_] Jumna.
[104] _well enough seen_] Skilled.
[105] _Brodra_] Baroda.
[106] _Rashpoots_] Rajputs.
[107] _Oudyepour_] Udaipur.
[108] _caravan-serawes_] Caravanserais.
[109] _Brachmine_] Brahmin.
[110] _druggerman_] Dragoman.
[111] _metchids or mosqueys_] Masjids or mosques.
[112] _wonder of the world and delight of all beholders_] The Taj
Mahal.
[113] _Shaw Jehaun_] Shah Jehan.
[114] _cistery_] Query, cutchery?
[115] _shash_] Sash.
[116] _ombrahs_] Nobles.
[117] _Swisse_] Switzerland.
[118] _hucca_] Hookah or huqa.
[119] _Ferringhee_] The evolution of this word is curious: Frank,
Frangi, Farangi, Ferringhee. The last form is the incorrect spelling
of that preceding it.
[120] _stop-watch_] Repeater.
[121] _resentiments_] Not _resentments_, but _sentiments_. Compare the
French _ressentiments_.
[122] _Gualleyor and Zauncy_] Gwalior and Jhansi.
[123] _Eusoff_] Yusuf.
[124] _picked_] Peaked.
[125] _mosch_] Mosque.
[126] _consented_] Agreed.
[127] _Row_] Rao.
[128] _Cogia Bux_] In modern spelling, Khoja Baksh.
[129] _Madda Gi_] Madhoji.
[130] _Seta Bye_] Sita Bai.
[131] _hollowed_] The spelling _hollow_ for _halloo_ is still
preserved in the colloquial pronunciation.
[132] _commerce_] Communication.
[133] _Gascoign_] Gascony.
[134] _toys_] This word was then equivalent to _curiosities_.
[135] _portraits in little_] Miniatures.
[136] _fellow_] Companion.
[137] _megrims_] Headache.
[138] _right of propriety_] Proprietorship.
[139] _Lady Barbary_] Barbara.
[140] _felon for the faith’s sake_] _Forçat pour la foi._
[141] _Roan_] Rouen.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.
This book is part of the author’s “Indian Historical Series.” The full
series being: _In Furthest Ind_, _Like Another Helen_, and _The Great
Proconsul_.
A letter in Chapter XII contains two words (_Condicons_ and
_Consolacon_) which have a tilde on the second _c_. As this character
isn’t available in the current UTF-8 specification, _c_ is substituted.
Alterations to the text:
Convert footnotes to endnotes.
Fix a few quotation mark pairings.
[Chapter II]
Change “Now _tha_ his majesty was happily returned” to _that_.
[Chapter VI]
“how should it _signifiy_ to us on whose side we fought?” to
_signify_.
[Chapter XX]
“so great was the contrast _beween_ his reverend aspect” to _between_.
[End of text]