THE MAN OF SAMARIA.
''Tis no other than the Fair Maid of Ilminster!' said Mr. Penne,
with surprise. 'Madam, with submission, is it safe--is it
prudent--for one who walked with the Maids of Taunton on a certain
memorable day, to venture openly into the streets of this city at
such a time? Judge Jeffreys doth approach to hold his Court. Thy
friends are in prison or in hiding. The Maids are scattered all.'
'I sought shelter,' I said, 'at the house of Susan Blake, the
schoolmistress.'
'How? You have not heard, then? Miss Susan Blake is dead.'
'She is dead?'
'She died in Dorchester Jail, whither she was sent, being specially
exempted from any pardon. 'Twas fever carried her off. She is dead!
Alas! the waste of good lives! She might have bought her freedom
after a while, and then--but--well, 'tis useless to lament these
mishaps.'
'Alas! alas!' I cried, wringing my hands. 'Then am I in evil plight
indeed! All, all are dead!--all my friends are dead!'
'Madam,' he replied very kindly, 'not all your friends, if I may say
so. I have, I assure you, a most compassionate heart. I bleed for
the sufferings of others; I cannot rest until I have brought relief.
This is my way. Oh! I take not credit to myself therefor. It is that
I am so constituted; I am not proud or uplifted on this account.
Only tell me your case, entrust your safety to me. You may do so
safely if you reflect for one moment, because--see--one word from
me and you would be taken to prison by yon worthy clergyman, who is
none other than the Rev. Mr. Walter Harte, the Vicar of Taunton.
No one is more active against the rebels, and he would rejoice in
committing thee on the charge of having been among the Maids. A word
from me would, I say, cause you to be hauled to jail; but, observe,
I do not speak that word--God forbid that I should speak that word!'
'Oh, Sir!' I said, 'this goodness overwhelms me.'
'Then, Madam, for greater privacy, let us go back into the house and
converse there.'
So we went back into the empty house and sat in the back parlour.
'As for the nature of your trouble, Madam,' he began, 'I hope you
have no dear brothers or cousins among those poor fellows in Taunton
Jail.'
'No, Sir; my only brother is at Ilminster, and my cousins are far
away in New England.'
'That is well. One who, like myself, is of a compassionate
disposition, cannot but bewail the grievous waste in jail fever,
smallpox, scarlet fever, or putrid throat (to say nothing of the
hangings), which now daily happens in the prison. What doth it avail
to hang and quarter a man, when he might be usefully set to work
upon his Majesty's Plantations? It is a most sinful and foolish
waste, I say'--he spoke with great sincerity and warmth--'and a
robbing of the pockets of honest merchants.'
'Indeed, Sir,' I said, 'your words prove the goodness of your heart.'
'Let my deeds rather than my words prove that. How fare the
prisoners with whom you are most concerned?'
'Alas! Sir Christopher is dead! and my father hath also died of his
wound.'
'So?--indeed? More waste! They are dead. More waste! But one was
old: had Sir Christopher been sent to the Plantations, his value
would have been but small, though, indeed, a ransom--but he is dead;
and your father, being wounded--but they are dead, and so no more
need be said. There are, however, others, if I remember aright?'
'There is my brother in Ilminster Prison, and----'
'Yes; the two young gentlemen--Challis is their name--in Exeter. I
have seen them and conversed with them. Strong young men, especially
one of them. 'Tis sad, indeed, to think that they may be cut off in
the very bloom of their age when they would command so high a price
in Jamaica or Barbadoes. I ventured to beg before their trial that
they would immediately begin to use whatever interest they might be
able to command in order to get their sentence (which was certain)
commuted. Many will be suffered to go abroad--why not these young
gentlemen? But they have no interest, they assured me; and therefore
I fear that they will die. 'Tis most sad. They cannot hang all--that
is quite true; but then these young gentlemen were officers in the
army, and therefore an example will be made of them if they have no
interest at Court.'
'Well, Sir,' I told him, pleased to find him of such a kindly and
thoughtful disposition, 'you will be glad to hear that they are
already pardoned, and have been presented by the King to a gentleman
at Court.'
'Aha! Sayest thou so?' His eyes glittered, and he rubbed his hands.
'This is, indeed, joyful news. One of them, Mr. Robin Challis, is a
goodly lad, like to whom there are few sent out to the Plantations.
He will certainly fetch a good price. The other, Mr. Humphrey, who
is somewhat crooked, will go for less. Who hath obtained the gift of
these young gentlemen?'
'It is a person named Mr. Nipho.'
'Mr. Jerome Nipho. I know him well. He is a good Catholic--I mean a
Papist--and is much about the Court. He is lucky in having had many
prisoners given to him. And now, Madam, I hope you will command my
services.'
'In what way, Sir?'
'In this way. I am, as I have told you'--here he wagged his head
and winked both his eyes, and laughed pleasantly--'one of those
foolish busybodies who love to be still doing good to their
fellow-creatures. To do good is my whole delight. Unfortunately,
the opportunities are rare of conferring exemplary benefit upon my
fellow-men. But here the way seems clear.'
He rubbed his hands and laughed again, repeating that the way was
clear before him, so that I believed myself fortunate in falling in
with so virtuous a person.
'Oh, Sir,' I cried, 'would that the whole world would so live and so
act!'
'Truly, if it did, we should have the prisons cleared. There should
be no more throwing away of good lives in hanging; no more waste
of stout fellows and lusty wenches by fever and small-pox. All
should go to the Plantations--all. Now, Madam, to our business,
which is the advantage of these young gentlemen. Know, therefore,
that Mr. Jerome Nipho, with all those who have received presents of
prisoners, straightway sells them to persons who engage to transport
them across the seas to his Majesty's Plantations in Jamaica,
Virginia, or elsewhere. There they are bound to work for a certain
term of years. Call it not work, however,' he added quickly; 'say
rather that they are invited every day to exercise themselves in
the cotton and the sugar fields. The climate is delightful; the
sky is seldom clouded; there are never any frosts or snows; it is
always summer; the fruits are delicious; they have a kind of spirit
distilled from the sugar canes which is said to be finer and more
wholesome than the best Nantz; the food is palatable and plentiful,
though plain. The masters or employers (call them rather friends)
are gentlemen of the highest humanity, and the society is composed
of sober merchants, wealthy planters, and gentlemen, like your
brother, who have had the misfortune to differ in opinions from the
Government.'
'Why, Sir,' I said, 'I have always understood that the transported
prisoners are treated with the greatest inhumanity: forced to work
in heat such as we never experience, driven with the lash, and
half-starved, so that none ever come back.'
He shook his head gently. 'See now,' he said, 'how prejudices
arise. Who could have thought that the Plantations should be thus
regarded? 'Tis true that there are estates cultivated by convicts
of another kind--I mean robbers, highwaymen, petty thieves, and
the like. Bristol doth every year send away a shipload at least of
such. Nay, 'tis reported that rather than hang murderers and the
like the Bristol merchants buy them of the magistrates; but this
is out of the kindness of their hearts. Madam,' he thrust his hand
into his bosom and looked me in the face, 'I myself am sometimes
engaged in that trade. I myself buy these unhappy prisoners and send
them to estates where I know they will be treated with the greatest
kindness. Do I look like a dishonest man, Madam? As for my name it
is George Penne, and I am known to every man of credit in Bristol.
Do I talk like one who would make money out of his neighbours'
sufferings? Nay, if that is so, let us part at once and say no more.
Madam, your humble servant--no harm is done: your humble servant,
madam.' He put his hat under his arm, and made as if he would go;
but I begged him to remain, and to advise me further in the matter.
Then I asked him if transported persons ever came home again.
'Surely,' he replied, 'some of them come home laden with gold. Some,
possessed of places both of honour and of profit, who return to
visit their friends, and then go back to the new country. It is a
very Eldorado, or land of gold, to those who are willing to work;
and for those who have money and choose to buy exemption from work,
it is only an agreeable residence in cheerful society for a certain
term of years. Have you, by chance, Madam, any friends who can
influence Mr. Jerome Nipho?'
'No, Sir, I have none.'
'Then will I myself communicate with that gentleman. Understand,
Madam, that I shall have to pay him so much a head for every
prisoner; that I shall be engaged to place every man on board ship;
that the prisoners will then be taken across the seas and again
sold. But in the case of those who have money, a ransom can be
procured, by means of which they will not have to work.'
So far he had spoken in the belief that I was at Taunton on my
brother's business, or that of my friends. I told him, therefore,
that certain events had occurred which would prevent me from
seeing the prisoners at Exeter. And because I could not forbear
from weeping while I spoke, he very earnestly begged me to inform
him fully in every particular as to my history, adding that his
benevolence was not confined to the unhappy case of prisoners, but
that it was ready to be extended in any other direction that happy
chance might offer.
Therefore, being, as you have seen, so friendless and so ignorant,
and so fearful of falling into my husband's hands, and at the same
time so grateful to this good man for his kindly offers (indeed,
I took him for an instrument provided by Heaven for the safety
promised in my vision of the night), that I told him everything
exactly, concealing nothing. Nay, I even told him of the bag of
gold which I had tied round my waist--a thing which I had hitherto
concealed, because the money was not mine, but Barnaby's. But I told
it to Mr. Penne.
While I related my history he interrupted me by frequent
ejaculations, showing his abhorrence of the wickedness with which
Benjamin compassed his design, and when I finished, he held up his
hands in amazement.
'Good God!' he cried; 'that such a wretch should live! That he
should be allowed still to cumber the earth! What punishment were
fitting for this devil in the shape of a man? Madam, your case is,
indeed, one that would move the heart of Nero himself. What is to be
done?'
'Nay, that I know not. For if I go back to our village he will find
me there; and if I find out some hiding-place he will seek me out
and find me; I shall never know rest or peace again. For of one
thing am I resolved--I will die--yea, I will indeed die--before I
will become his wife more than I am at present.'
'I cannot but commend that resolution, Madam. But, to be plain with
you, there is no place in the world more unsafe for you than Taunton
at this time. Therefore, if you please, I will ride with you to
Bristol without delay.'
'Sir, I cannot ask this sacrifice of your business.'
'My business lies at Bristol. I can do no more here until Judge
Jeffreys hath got through his hangings, of which, I fear, there
may be many, and so more sinful waste of good convicts. Let us,
therefore, hasten away as quickly as may be; as for what shall be
done afterwards, that we will consider on the way.'
Did ever a woman in misfortune meet with so good a man? The
Samaritan himself was not of better heart.
Well, to be brief, half an hour afterwards we mounted and rode to
Bristol, by way of Bridgwater (this town was even more melancholy
than Taunton), taking three days; the weather being now wet and
rainy, so that the ways were bad. Now, as we rode along--Mr.
Penne and I--side by side, and his servant behind, armed with
a blunderbuss, our conversation was grave, turning chiefly on
the imprudence of the people in following Monmouth, when they
should have waited for the gentry to lead the way. I found my
companion (whom I held to be my benefactor) sober in manners and in
conversation; no drunkard; no user of profane oaths; and towards me,
a woman whom he had (so to say) in his own power, he behaved always
with the greatest ceremony and politeness. So that I hoped to have
found in this good man a true protector.
When we reached Bristol he told me that, for my better safety, he
would lodge me apart from his own house; and so took me to a house
in Broad Street, near St. John's Gate, where there was a most
respectable old lady of grave aspect, though red in the cheeks.
'I have brought you, Madam,' he said, 'to the house of a lady whose
virtue and piety are well known.'
'Sir,' said the old lady, 'this house is well known for the piety of
those who use it. And everybody knows that you are all goodness.'
'No,' said Mr. Penne; 'no man is good. We can but try our best. In
this house, however, Madam, you will be safe. I beg and implore you
not at present to stir abroad, for reasons which you very well know.
This good woman has three or four daughters in the house, who are
sometimes, I believe, merry----'
'Sir,' said the old lady, 'children will be foolish.'
'True, true,' he replied laughing. 'Take care, then, that they
molest not Madam.'
'No, Sir; they shall not.'
'Then, Madam, for the moment I leave you. Rest and be easy in your
mind. I have, I think, contrived a plan which will answer your case
perfectly.'
In the evening he returned and sent me word, very ceremoniously,
that he desired the favour of a conversation with me. As if there
could be anything in the world that I desired more!
'Madam,' he said, 'I have considered carefully your case, and I can
find but one advice to give.'
'What is it, Sir?'
'We might,' he went on, 'find a lodging for you in some quiet Welsh
town across the Channel. At Chepstow, for instance, or at Newport,
you might find a home for a while. But, the country being greatly
inflamed with dissensions, there would everywhere be the danger of
some fanatical busybody inquiring into your history--whence you
came, why you left your friends--and so forth. And, again, in every
town there are women (saving your presence, Madam), whose tongues
tittle-tattle all day long. Short work they make of a stranger. So
that I see not much safety in a small town. Then, again, you might
find a farm-house where they would receive you; but your case is
not that you wish to be hidden for a time, as one implicated in
the Monmouth business. Not so; you desire to be hidden all your
life, or for the whole life of the man who, if he finds you, may
compel you to live with him, and to live for--how long? Sixty years,
perhaps, in a dull and dirty farm-house, among rude boors, would be
intolerable to a person of your manners and accomplishments.'
'Then, Sir, in the name of Heaven'--for I began to be wearied with
this lengthy setting up of plans only to pull them down again--'what
shall I do?'
'You might go to London. At first I thought that London offered
the best hope of safe retreat. There are parts of London where
the gentlemen of the robe are never seen, and where you might be
safe. Thus, about the eastern parts of the city there are never
any lawyers at all. There you might be safe. But yet--it would be
a perpetual risk. Your face, Madam, if I may say so, is one which
will not be quickly forgotten when it hath once been seen--you would
be persecuted by would-be lovers; you would go in continual terror,
knowing that one you fear was living only a mile away from you.
You would have to make up some story, to maintain which would be
troublesome; and presently the time would come when you would have
no more money. What, then, would you do?'
'Pray, Sir, if you can, tell me what you think I should do, since
there are so many things that I cannot do.'
'Madam, I am going to submit to you a plan which seems to me at once
the safest and the best. You have, you tell me, cousins in the town
of Boston, which is in New England.'
'Yes, I have heard my father speak of his cousins.'
'I have myself visited that place, and have heard mention of certain
Eykins as gentlemen of substance and reputation. I propose, Madam,
that you should go to these cousins, and seek a home among them.'
'Leave England? You would have me leave this country and go across
the ocean to America?'
'That is my advice. Nay, Madam'--he assumed a most serious
manner--'do not reject this advice suddenly; sleep upon it. You are
not going among strangers, but among your own people, by whom the
name of your pious and learned father is doubtless held in great
honour. You are going from a life (at best) of danger and continual
care to a place where you will be certainly free from persecution.
Madam, sleep upon it.'