After a consultation with his mother our worthy hero prepared for his
journey to this once celebrated Spa, which possessed even then a certain
local celebrity, that subsequently widened to an ampler range. The
little village was filled with invalids of all classes; and even the
farmers' houses in the vicinity were occupied with individuals in quest
of health. The family of the Goodwins, however, were still in deep
affliction, although Alice, for the last few days, was progressing
favorably. Still, such was her weakness, that she was unable to walk
unless supported by two persons, usually her maid and her mother or her
father. The terrible influence of the Evil Eye had made too deep and
deadly an impression ever, she feared, to be effaced; for, although
removed from Woodward's blighting gaze, that eye was perpetually upon
her, through the medium of her strong but diseased imagination. And who
is there who does not know how strongly the force of imagination acts?
On this subject she had now become a perfect hypochondriac. She could
not shake it off, it haunted her night and day; and even the influence
of society could scarcely banish the dread image of that mysterious and
fearful look for a moment.
The society at Ballyspellan was, as the society in such places usually
is, very much mixed and heterogeneous. Many gentry were there--gentlemen
attempting to repair constitutions broken down by dissipation and
profligacy; and ladies afflicted with a disease peculiar, in those days,
to both sexes, called the spleen--a malady which, under that name,
has long since disappeared, and is now known by the title of nervous
affection. There was a large public room, in imitation of the more
celebrated English watering-places, where the more respectable portion
of the company met and became acquainted, and where, also, balls and
dinners were occasionally held. Not a wreck of this edifice is now
standing, although, down to the days of Swift and Delany, it possessed
considerable celebrity, as is evident from the ingenious verses written
by his friend to the Dean upon this subject.
The principal individuals assembled at it on this occasion were Squire
Manifold, whose complaint, as was evident by his three chins, consisted
in a rapid tendency to obesity, which his physician had told him might
be checked, if he could prevail on himself to eat and drink with a less
gluttonous appetite, and take more exercise. He had already had a fit
of apoplexy, and it was the apprehension of another, with which he was
threatened, that brought him to the Spa. The next was Parson Topertoe,
whose great enemy was the gout, brought on, of course, by an ascetic and
apostolic life. The third was Captain Culverin, whose constitution had
suffered severely in the wars, but which he attempted to reinvigorate
by a course of hard drinking, in which he found, to his cost, that the
remedy was worse than the disease. There were also a great variety of
others, among whom were several widows whose healthy complexions were
anything but a justification for their presence there, especially in the
character of invalids. Mr. Goodwin, his wife, and daughter, we need not
enumerate. They lodged in the house of a respectable farmer, who lived
convenient to the village, where they found themselves exceedingly snug
and comfortable. In the next house to them lodged a Father Mulrenin, a
friar, who, although he attended the room and drank the waters, was an
admirable specimen of comic humor and robust health. There was also
a Miss Rosebud, accompanied by her mother, a blooming widow, who had
married old Rosebud, a wealthy bachelor, when he was near sixty. The
mother's complaint was also the spleen, or vapors; indeed, to tell the
truth, she was moved by an unconquerable and heroic determination to
replace poor old Rosebud by a second husband. The last whom we shall
enumerate, although not the least, was a very remarkable character of
that day, being no other than Cooke, the Pythagorean, from the county of
Waterford. He held, of course, the doctrines of Pythagoras, and believed
in the transmigration of souls. He lived upon a vegetable diet, and
wore no clothing which had been taken or made from the wool or skins of
animals, because he knew that they! must have been killed before these
_exuviae_ could be applied to human use. His dress, consequently, during
the inclemency of winter and the heats of summer, consisted altogether
of linen, and even his shoes were of vegetable fabric. Our readers,
consequently, need not feel surprised at the complaint of the
philosopher, which was a chronic and most excruciating rheumatism that
racked every bone in his Pythagorean body. He was, however, like a
certain distinguished teetotaler and peace preserver of our own city and
our own day, a mild and benevolent man, whose monomania affected nobody
but himself, and him it did affect through every bone of his body. He
was attended by his own servants, especially by his own cook--for he was
a man of wealth and considerable rank in the country--in order that he
could rely upon their fidelity in seeing that nothing contrary to his
principles might be foisted upon him. He had his carriage, in which
he drove out every day, and into which and out of which his servants
assisted him. We need scarcely assure our readers that he was the
lion of the place, or that no individual there excited either so much
interest or curiosity. Of the many others of various, but subordinate
classes we shall not speak. Wealthy farmers, professional men, among
whom, however, we cannot omit Counsellor Puzzlewell, who, by the way,
had one eye upon Miss Rosebud and another upon the comely-widow herself,
together with several minor grades down to the very paupers of society,
were all there.
About this period it was resolved to have a dinner, to be followed by a
ball in the latter part of the evening. This was the project of Squire
Manifold, whose physician attended him like, or very unlike, his shadow,
for he was a small thin man, with sharp eyes and keen features, and so
slight that if put into the scale against the shadow he would scarcely
weigh it up. The squire's wife, who was a cripple, insisted that he
should accompany her husband, in order to see that he might not gorge
himself into the apoplectic fit with which he was threatened. His first
had a peculiar and melancholy, though, to spectators, a ludicrous effect
upon him. He was now so stupid, and made such blunders in conversation,
that the comic effect of them was irresistible; especially to to those
who were not aware of the cause of it, but looked upon the whole thing
as his natural manner. He had been, ever since his arrival at the
accursed Spa, kept by Doctor Doolittle upon short commons, both as
to food and drink; and what with the effect of the waters, and severe
purgatives administered by the doctor, he felt himself in a state
little short of purgatory itself. The meagre regimen to which he was so
mercilessly subjected gave him the appetite of a shark, Indeed, the bill
of fare prescribed for him was scarcely sufficient to sustain a boy of
twelve years of age. In consequence of this he had got it into his
head that the season was a season of famine, and on this calamitous
dispensation of Providence he kept harping from morning to night. The
idea of the dinner, however, was hailed by them all as a very agreeable
project, for which the squire, who only thought of the opportunity it
would give himself to enjoy a surfeit, was highly complimented. It was
to be in the shape of a modern table d'hote: every gentleman was to pay
for himself and such of his party as accompanied him to it. Even
the Pythagorean relished the proposal, for although peculiar in his
opinions, he was sufficiently liberal, and too much of a gentleman,
to quarrel with those who differed from him. Mr. Goodwin, too, was
a consenting party, and mentioned the subject to Alice in a cheerful
spirit, and with a hope that she might be able to rally and attend it.
She promised to do so if she could; but said it chiefly depended on
the state of health in which she might find herself. Indeed, if ever
a beautiful and interesting girl was to be pitied, she, most
unquestionably, was an object of the deepest compassion.
It was not merely what she had to suffer from the Evil Eye of the demon
Woodward, but from the fact which had reached her ears of what she
considered the profligate conduct of his brother Charles, once her
betrothed lover. This latter reflection, associated with the probability
of his death, when joined to the terrible malady which Woodward had
inflicted on her, may enable our readers to perceive what the poor girl
had to suffer. Still she told her father that she would be present if
her health permitted her, “especially,” she added, “as there was no
possibility of Woodward being among the guests.”
“Why, my dear child,” said her father, “what could put such an absurd
apprehension into your head?”
“Because, papa, I don't think he will ever let me out of his power until
he kills me. I don't think he will come here; but I dread to return
home, because I fear that if I do he will obtrude himself on me; and I
feel that another gaze of his eye would occasion my death.”
“I would call him out,” replied the father, “and shoot him like a dog,
to which honest and faithful animal it is a sin to compare the villain.”
“And then I might be left fatherless!” she exclaimed. “O, papa, promise
me that you never will have recourse to that dreadful alternative.”
“But my darling, I only said so upon the supposition of your death by
him.”
“But mamma!”
“Come, come, Alice, get up your spirits, and be able to attend this
dinner. It will cheer you and do you good. We have been discussing
soap bubbles. Give up thinking of the scoundrel, and you will soon
feel yourself well enough. In about another month we will start for
Killarney, and see the lakes and the magnificent scenery by which they
are surrounded.”
“Well, dear papa, I shall go to this dinner if I am at all able; but
indeed I do not expect to be able.”
In the meantime every preparation was made for the forthcoming banquet.
It was to be on a large scale, and many of the neighboring gentry
and their families were asked to it, The knowledge that Cooke, the
Pythagorean, was at the Well had taken wind, and a strong curiosity
had gone abroad to see him. This eccentric gentleman's appearance was
exceedingly original, if not startling. He was, at least, six feet
two, but so thin, fleshless, and attenuated, that he resembled a living
skeleton. This was the more strange, inasmuch as in his earlier days he
had been robust and stout, approaching even to corpulency. His dress was
as remarkable as his person, if not more so. It consisted of bleached
linen, and was exceedingly white; and so particular was he in point of
cleanliness, that he put on a fresh dress every day. He wore a pair of
long pantaloons that, unfortunately for his symmetry, adhered to his
legs and thighs as closely as the skin; and as the aforesaid legs
and thighs were skeletonic, nothing could be more ludicrous than his
appearance in them. His vest was equally close; and as the hanging cloak
which he wore over it did not reach far enough down his back, it was
impossible to view him behind without convulsive laughter. His shoes
were made of some description of foreign bark, which had by some
chemical process been tanned into toughness, and on his head he wore
a turban of linen, made of the same material which furnished his
other garments. Altogether, a more ludicrous figure could not be seen,
especially if a person happened to stand behind him when he bowed.
Notwithstanding all this, however, he possessed the manners and bearing
of a gentleman; the only thing remarkable about him, beyond what we have
described, being a peculiar wildness of the eyes, accompanied, however,
by an unquestionable expression of great benignity.
We leave the company at the Well preparing for the forthcoming
dinner and return to Rathfillan House, where Harry Woodward is making
arrangements for his journey to Ballyspellan, which now we believe goes
by the name of Johnstown. Under every circumstance of his life he was a
plotter and a planner, and had at all times some private speculation in
view. On the present occasion, in addition to his murderous design
upon Miss Goodwin, he resolved to become a wife-hunter, for, being well
acquainted, as he was, with the tone and temper of English society at
its most celebrated watering places, and. the matrimonial projects and
intrigues which abound at them, he took it for granted that he might
stand a chance of making a successful hit with a view to matrimony. One
thing struck him, however, which was, that he had no horse, and could
not go there mounted, as a gentleman ought. It is true his step-father
had several horses, but not one of them beyond the character of a
common hack. He resolved, therefore, to purchase a becoming nag for his
journey, and with this object he called upon a neighboring farmer, named
Murray, who possessed a very beautiful animal, rising four, and which he
learned was to be disposed of.
“Mr. Murray,” said he, “I understand you have a young horse for sale.”
“I have, sir,” replied Murray; “and a better piece of flesh is not in
the country he stands in.”
“Could I see him?”
“Certainly, sir, and try him, too. He is not flesh and bone at all,
sir--devil a thing he is but quicksilver. Here, Paudeen, saddle Brien
Boro for this gentleman. You won't require wings, Mr. Woodward; Brien
Boro will show you how to fly without them.”
“Well,” replied Woodward, “trial's all; but at any rate, I'm willing to
prefer good flesh and bone to quicksilver.”
In a few minutes the horse was brought out, saddled and bridled, and
Woodward, who certainly was an excellent horseman, mounted him and tried
his paces.
“Well, sir,” said Murray, “how do you like him?”
“I like him well,” said Woodward. “His temper is good, I know, by his
docility to the bit.”
“Yes, but you haven't tried him at a ditch; follow me and I'll show you
as pretty a one as ever a horse crossed, and you may take my word it
isn't every horse could cross it. You have a good firm seat, sir; and I
know you will both do it in sportsman-like style.”
Having reached the ditch, which certainly was a rasper, Woodward reined
round the animal, who crossed it like a swallow.
“Now,” said Murray, “unless you wish to ride half a mile in order to get
back, you must cross it again.”
This was accordingly done in admirable style, both by man and horse;
and Woodward, having ridden him back to the farmyard, dismounted, highly
satisfied with the animal's action and powers.
“Now, Mr. Murray,” said he, “what's his price?”
“Fifty guineas, sir; neither more nor less.”
“Say thirty and we'll deal.”
“I don't want money, sir,” replied the sturdy farmer, “and I won't part
with the horse under his value. I will get what I ask for him.”
“Say thirty-five.”
“Not a cross under the round half hundred; and I'm glad it is not your
mother that is buying him.”
“Why so?” asked Woodward; and his eye darkly sparkled with its malignant
influence.
“Why, sir, because if I didn't sell him to her at her own terms, he
would be worth very little in a few days afterwards.”
The observation was certainly an offensive one, especially when made to
her son.
“Will you take forty for him?” asked Woodward, coolly.
“Not a penny, sir, under what I said. You are clearly a good judge of a
horse, Mr. Woodward, and I wonder that a gentleman like you would offer
me less than I ask, because you cannot but know that it is under his
value.”
“I will give no more,” replied Woodward; “so there is an end to it. Let
me see the horse's eyes.”
He placed himself before the animal, and looked steadily into his eyes
for about five minutes, after which he said,--
“I think, Mr. Murray, you would have acted more prudently had you taken
my offer. I bade you full value for the horse.”
To Murray's astonishment the animal began to tremble excessively; the
perspiration was seen to flow from him in torrents; he appeared feeble
and collapsed; and seemed scarcely able to stand on his limbs, which
were shaking as if with terror under him.
“Why, Mr. Murray,” said Woodward, “I am very glad I did not buy him;
the beast is ill, and will be for the dogs of the neighborhood in three
days' time.”
“Until the last five minutes, sir, there wasn't a sounder horse in
Europe.”
“Look at him now, then,” said Woodward; “do you call that a sound horse?
Take him into the stable; before the expiration of three days you will
be flaying him.”
His words were prophetic. In three days' time the fine and healthy
animal was a carcass.
“Ah!” said the farmer, when he saw the horse lying dead before him,
“this fellow is his mother's son. From the time he looked into the
horse's eyes the poor beast sank so rapidly that he didn't pass the
third day alive. And there are fifty guineas out of my pocket. The curse
of God on him wherever he goes!”
Woodward provided himself, however, with another horse, and in due time
set out for the Spa at Ballyspellan.
The dinner was now fixed for a certain day, and Squire Manifold
felt himself in high spirits as often as he could recollect the
circumstance--which, indeed, was but rarely, the worthy epicure's memory
having nearly abandoned him. Topertoe, of the gout, and he were
old acquaintances and companions, and had spent many a merry night
together--both, as the proverb has it, being tarred with the same stick.
Topertoe was as great a glutton as the other, but without his desperate
voracity in food, whilst in drink he equalled if he did not surpass him.
Manifold would have forgotten every thing about the dinner had he not
from time to time been reminded of it by his companion.
“Manifold, we will have a great day on Thursday.”
“Great!” exclaimed Manifold, who in addition to his other stupidities,
was as deaf as a post; “great--eh? What size will it be?”
“What size will it be? Why, confound it, man, don't you know what I'm
saying?”
“No, I don't--yes, I do--you are talking about something great. O, I
know now--your toe you mean--where the gout lies. They say, it begins at
the great toe, and goes up to the stomach. I suppose Alexander the Great
was gouty and got his name from that.”
“I'm talking of the great dinner we're I to have on Thursday,” shouted
Topertoe. “We'll have a splendid feed then, my famous old trencherman,
and I'll take care that Doctor Doolittle shall not stint you.”
“There won't be any toast and water--eh?”
“Devil a mouthful; and we are to have the celebrated Cooke, the
Pythagorean.”
“Ay, but is he a good cook?”
“He's the celebrated Pythagorean, I tell you.”
“Pythagorean--what's that? I thought you said he was a cook. Does he
understand venison properly? O, good Lord! what a life I'm leading!
Toast and water--toast and water. But it's all the result of this
famine. And yet they know I'm wealthy. I say, what's this your name is?”
“Never mind that--an old acquaintance. Hell and torments! what's this?
O!”
“The weather's pleasant, Topertoe. I say, Topertoe, what's this your
name is?”
“O! O!” exclaimed Topertoe, who felt one or two desperate twinges of
his prevailing malady; “curse me, Manifold, but I think I would exchange
with you; your complaint is an easy one compared to mine. You are a mere
block, and will pop off without pain, instead of being racked like a
soul in perdition as I am.”
“Your soul in perdition--well I suppose it will. But don't groan and
scream so--you I are not there yet; when you are you will have plenty
of time to groan and scream. As for myself, I will be likely to sleep
it out there. I think, by the way, I had the pleasure of knowing you
before; your face is familiar to me. What's this you call the man that
attends sick people?”
“A doctor. O! O! Hell and torments! what is this? Yes, a doctor. O! O!”
“Ay, a doctor. Confound me, but I think my head's going around like
a top. Yes, a--a--a--a doctor. Well, the doctor says that I and Parson
Topertoe led a nice life of it--one a glutton and the other a drunkard.
Do you know Topertoe? Because if you don't I do. He is a damned
scoundrel, and squeezed his tithes out of the people with pincers of
blood.”
“Manifold, your gluttony has brought you to a fine pass. Are you alive
or not?”
“Eh? Curse all dry toast and water! But it's all the consequence of this
year of famine. Pray, sir, what do you eat?”
“Beef, mutton, venison, fowl, ham, turbot, salmon, black sole, with all
the proper and corresponding sauces and condiments.”
“O Lord! and no toast and water, beef tea, and oatmeal gruel? Heavens!
how I wish this year of famine was past. It will be the death of me.
I say, what's this your name is? Your face is familiar to me somehow.
Could you aid me in poisoning the--the--what you call him--ay, the
doctor?”
“Nothing more easily done, my dear Manifold. Contrive to let him take
one of his own doses, and he's done for.”
“Wouldn't ratsbane do? I often think he's a rat.”
“In face and eyes he certainly looks very like one.”
“Are you aware, sir, that my wife's a cripple? She's paralyzed in her
lower limbs.”
“I am perfectly aware of that melancholy fact.”
“Are you aware that she's jealous of me?”
“No, not that she's jealous of you now; but perfectly aware that she had
good cause to be so.”
“Ay, but the devil of it is that the paralysis you speak of never
reached her tongue.”
“I speak of--'twas yourself spoke of it.”
“She sent me here because it happens to be a year of famine--what is
commonly called a hard season--and she stitched the little blasted
doctor to me that I might die legitimately under medical advice. Isn't
that very like murder--isn't it?”
“Ah, my dear friend, thank God that you are not a parson, having a
handsome wife and a handsome curate, with the gout to support you and
keep you comfortable. You would then feel that there are other twinges
worse than those of the gout.”
“Ay, but is there anything wrong about your head?”
“Heaven knows. About a twelvemonth ago I felt as if there were two
sprouts budding out of my forehead, but on putting up my hand I
could feel nothing. It was as smooth as ever. It must have been
hypochondriasis. The curate, though, is a handsome dog, and, like
yourself, it was my wife sent me here.”
“Is your wife a cripple?”
“Faith, anything but that.”
“How is her tongue? No paralysis in that quarter?”
“On the contrary, she is calm and soft-spoken, and perfectly sweet and
angelic in her manner.”
“But was it in consequence of the famine she sent you here? Toast and
water!--toast and water! O Lord!”
This dialogue took place in Manifold's lodgings, where Topertoe, aided
by a crutch and his servant, was in the habit of visiting him. To
Manifold, indeed, this was a penal settlement, in consequence of the
reasons which we have already stated.
The Pythagorean, as well as Topertoe, was also occasionally forced to
the use of crutches; and it was certainly a strange and remarkable thing
to witness two men, each at the extreme point of social indulgence,
and each departing from reason and common-sense, suffering from the
consequences of their respective errors; Manifold, a most voracious
fellow, knocked on the head by an attack of apoplexy, and Cooke, the
philosopher, suffering the tortures of the damned from a most violent
rheumatism, produced by a monomania which compelled him to decline
the simple enjoyment of reasonable food and dress. Cooke's monomania,
however, was a rare one. In Blackwood's Magazine there appeared, several
years ago, an admirable writer, whose name we now forget, under the
title of a modern Pythagorean; but that was merely a _nom de guerre_,
adopted, probably, to excite a stronger interest in the perusal of his
productions. Here, however, was a man in whom the principle existed upon
what he considered rational and philosophic grounds. He had gotten
the philosophical blockhead's crotchet into his head, and carried the
principle, in a practical point of view, much further than ever the old
fool himself did in his life.