CHAPTER XVIII.

_The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned

the violent scene in the preceding chapter._

Betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities.

She had good-nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortunately, her

constitution was composed of those warm ingredients which, though the

purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were

by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an

inn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all

complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army,

who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together;

and, above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coachmen,

and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing,

flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the

whole armoury of love, against them.

Betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in this

dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign

of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did

indeed raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon

to cool.

While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the

army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inoffensive

squires, and some of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms!

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy

passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. She was

long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a

neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw

hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her.

She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which

had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed, those other

ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too

absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This

latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely constant

to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and

now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her favours.

Mr Tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on

this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying

tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing

her lips; for, as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to

Mrs Tow-wouse, so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current in

one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs Tow-wouse is

thought to have perceived this abatement, and, probably, it added very

little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as

true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous

of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.

Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking

to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and

better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her

passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her

modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly

insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him

with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had

ever seen.

Joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to

see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too

far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was obliged,

contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking

her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door.

How ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own power;

that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent

strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor weak woman,

be ravished against his will!

Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and

lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one

moment she thought of stabbing Joseph; the next, of taking him in her

arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more

prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but,

whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented

himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c.,

that her distracted mind could resolve on none. In this perturbation of

spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed was

not made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened at

that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she

attempted to retire; but he called her back, and, taking her by the

hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft

things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses,

that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and

which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay

them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--the

vanquished fair one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who

had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when Mrs Tow-wouse

unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we

have before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any

farther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from

us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married

himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of

Betty, the submission of Mr Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed

on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being

reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in

the like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be

reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a

day during the residue of his life.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

_Of Divisions in Authors_.

There are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest

to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring,

which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. Among

those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of

dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least

considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret,

common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only to

swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be

extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are

filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram,

stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum

total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last.

But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other

instances we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own; and

indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method; for, first,

those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or

resting-place where he may stop and take a glass or any other

refreshment as it pleases him. Nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be

scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. As to

those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be

regarded as those stages where in long journies the traveller stays some

time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts

he hath already passed through; a consideration which I take the liberty

to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity may

be, I would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; for

if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions of

nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. A

volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or

seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon.

Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter but so many

inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the same metaphor),

informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if he

likes not, he may travel on to the next; for, in biography, as we are

not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians,

so a chapter or two (for instance, this I am now writing) may be often

passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscriptions I

have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated

Montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another; nor some

title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all.

There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our

readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too

mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into

the science of authoring. To mention, therefore, but one which is most

obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its

leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers who (though they

read with great improvement and advantage) are apt, when they return to

their study after half-an-hour's absence, to forget where they left off.

These divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. Homer not only

divided his great work into twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to

the twenty-four letters to which he had very particular obligations),

but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked

them all separately, delivering only one book at a time (probably by

subscription). He was the first inventor of the art which hath so long

lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought to such

perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal

to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease

the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner

for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire.

Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his

modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to

no more than half the merit of the Greek; for the same reason, our

Milton went originally no farther than ten; till, being puffed up by the

praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the

Roman poet.

I shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very

learned criticks have done; who have with infinite labour and acute

discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what

require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which I

think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first.

I will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: that it

becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to

joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader

and the carver. And now, having indulged myself a little, I will

endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt

impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of

this book.

CHAPTER II.

_A surprizing instance of Mr Adams's short memory, with the unfortunate

consequences which it brought on Joseph._

Mr Adams and Joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an

accident determined the former to return with his friend, which

Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. This

accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to

London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had

mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a

pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs Adams, who thought

her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had

carefully provided him.

This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the

opening the saddlebags; who, having heard his friend say he carried with

him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers

who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there

was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were

deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, "Bless me, sir, where are your

sermons?" The parson answered, "There, there, child; there they are,

under my shirts." Now it happened that he had taken forth his last

shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. "Sure, sir," says

Joseph, "there is nothing in the bags." Upon which Adams, starting, and

testifying some surprize, cried, "Hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not

here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind."

Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his

friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his

journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with

the utmost expedition. "No, thank you, child," answered Adams; "it shall

not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless I

had my discourses with me, which are _ut ita dicam_, the sole cause, the

_aitia monotate_ of my peregrination? No, child, as this accident hath

happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you;

which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This

disappointment may perhaps be intended for my good." He concluded with a

verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes it

rains, and sometimes the sun shines.

Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which

the parson expressed of returning with him; and now the bill was called

for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr

Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able

to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be

surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he

had borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who

had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner

of the coach, then lived within three miles of him; for so good was the

credit of Mr Adams, that even Mr Peter, the Lady Booby's steward, would

have lent him a guinea with very little security.

[Illustration]

Mr Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having

agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who

have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. The two

travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now,

as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the

custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to

dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and

then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he unties

him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his

fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is

that method of travelling so much in use among our prudent ancestors,

who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not

use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beasts

themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days

when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to

mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at law

condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk

kicking his heels behind him.

Adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on Joseph's beginning

the journey on horseback, and Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when

the hostler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his

residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr Adams had paid all; but this

matter, being referred to Mr Tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of

the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice; for this was a fresh

instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of

parts, but that continual hurry in which parson Adams was

always involved.

Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sum

due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for Adams, who had borrowed the

beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could

feed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for Adams

had divided the last shilling with him). Now, though there have been

some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with

sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in

his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient to

extricate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next

time, to which Mrs Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such was

Joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression even on that piece of

flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart). Joseph

would have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not,

when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out

that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused

Mrs Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph she did not conceive a

man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered

he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not

part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire

in the county was worth. "A pretty way, indeed," said Mrs Tow-wouse, "to

run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a

value for it! I never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many

shillings as it would change for."--"Not to preserve my life from

starving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would I part with this dear

piece!" answered Joseph. "What," says Mrs Tow-wouse, "I suppose it was

given you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been the

present of a virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it.

My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for

him."--"No, no, I can't part with the horse, indeed, till I have the

money," cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly commended by a lawyer then

in the yard, who declared Mr Tow-wouse might justify the detainer.

As we cannot therefore at present get Mr Joseph out of the inn, we shall

leave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, his

mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage in

Aeschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, without

suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller.

At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the summit of a

hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that he could not see any

sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not

apprehend any mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he

missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason which

presented itself to him was, that he had met with an acquaintance who

had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse.

He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that

he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large water, which,

filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading

through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner

got to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the

hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without

wetting his shoes.

His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he

began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no farther,

and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return back, he wished to

find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and

refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reason

than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat

himself down on a stile, and pulled out his Aeschylus.

A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him if he could direct him

to an alehouse. The fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the

house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being

of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose and be d---n'd. Adams told

him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about

angrily; but, perceiving Adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go

on without taking any farther notice.

A horseman, following immediately after, and being asked the same

question, answered, "Friend, there is one within a stone's throw; I

believe you may see it before you." Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried,

"I protest, and so there is;" and, thanking his informer, proceeded

directly to it.

CHAPTER III.

_The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with Mr

Adams's inquiry into the religion of his host._

He had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated

himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their horses

to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent shower of rain

coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little

room by themselves, not perceiving Mr Adams.

One of these immediately asked the other, "If he had seen a more comical

adventure a great while?" Upon which the other said, "He doubted

whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his

corn and hay." But the former answered, "Undoubtedly he can; it is an

adjudged case, and I have known it tried."

Adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined

to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind him,

overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this

was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon

inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse

was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for.

The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew

no more than Joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was,

however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which was

now very violent, was over.

The three travellers then sat down together over a mug of good beer;

when Adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the

road, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no sooner

mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the

most opprobrious terms. The English language scarce affords a single

reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him

likewise with many particular facts. He said, "He no more regarded a

field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had

injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's

heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to

refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice." He said,

"That he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other

instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might

justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that he

never kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a justice,"

continued he, "he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits just

as he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; the

devil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried

before some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estate

in the neighbourhood, I would sell it for half the value rather than

live near him."

Adams shook his head, and said, "He was sorry such men were suffered to

proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any man above the law."

The reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who

had first mentioned his name to Adams began to assure him "that his

companion was a prejudiced person. It is true," says he, "perhaps, that

he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath

always made the party ample satisfaction: that so far from tyrannising

over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several

farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with

them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of

them had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of peace

in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had decided many

difficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity

and the highest wisdom; and he verily believed, several persons would

give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings

of any other great man." He had just finished his encomium when his

companion returned and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which

they presently mounted their horses and departed.

Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of

the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he began

to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen.

"No, no, master," answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "I know

the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the

gentlemen who spoke of him. As for riding over other men's corn, to my

knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard

he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not

so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of

his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know several who have guns in

their houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; and

I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say

he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best;

but for my own part, I know all his servants, and never heard from any

of them that he was either one or the other."--"Aye! aye!" says Adams;

"and how doth he behave as a justice, pray?"--"Faith, friend," answered

the host, "I question whether he is in the commission; the only cause I

have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two

persons who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determined

that justly, for I heard the whole matter."--"Which did He decide it in

favour of?" quoth Adams.--"I think I need not answer that question,"

cried the host, "after the different characters you have heard of him.

It is not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are drinking in

my house; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."--"God

forbid!" said Adams, "that men should arrive at such a pitch of

wickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a little

private affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I

rather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons;

for there are many houses on the road."--"Why, prithee, friend," cries

the host, "dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy

life?"--"Never a malicious one, I am certain," answered Adams, "nor with

a design to injure the reputation of any man living."--"Pugh! malicious;

no, no," replied the host; "not malicious with a design to hang a man,

or bring him into trouble; but surely, out of love to oneself, one must

speak better of a friend than an enemy."--"Out of love to yourself, you

should confine yourself to truth," says Adams, "for by doing otherwise

you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can

hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by any

trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in

comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter." Upon which the host,

taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding,

"He was for something present."--"Why," says Adams very gravely, "do not

you believe another world?" To which the host answered, "Yes; he was no

atheist."--"And you believe you have an immortal soul?" cries Adams. He

answered, "God forbid he should not."--"And heaven and hell?" said the

parson. The host then bid him "not to profane; for those were things not

to be mentioned nor thought of but in church." Adams asked him, "Why he

went to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct

in life?" "I go to church," answered the host, "to say my prayers and

behave godly."--"And dost not thou," cried Adams, "believe what thou

hearest at church?"--"Most part of it, master," returned the host. "And

dost not thou then tremble," cries Adams, "at the thought of eternal

punishment?"--"As for that, master," said he, "I never once thought

about it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug

is out, shall I draw another?"

Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the

door. The coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress what

passengers he had in his coach? "A parcel of squinny-gut b--s," says he;

"I have a good mind to overturn them; you won't prevail upon them to

drink anything, I assure you." Adams asked him, "If he had not seen a

young man on horseback on the road" (describing Joseph). "Aye," said

the coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance

redeemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time,

had not the storm driven him to shelter." "God bless her!" said Adams,

in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this

charitable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his old

acquaintance, Madam Slipslop? Hers indeed was not so great, because she

had been informed by Joseph that he was on the road. Very civil were the

salutations on both sides; and Mrs Slipslop rebuked the hostess for

denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed the

poor woman had not erred designedly; for Mrs Slipslop asked for a

clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling

to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such

operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with

black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black

hatband, had nothing black about it.

Joseph was now come up, and Mrs Slipslop would have had him quit his

horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he absolutely

refused, saying, he thanked Heaven he was well enough recovered to be

very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to

ride in a coach while Mr Adams was on horseback.

Mrs Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach

put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow in a

livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at length

agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph

should proceed on horseback.

They had not proceeded far before Mrs Slipslop, addressing herself to

the parson, spoke thus:--"There hath been a strange alteration in our

family, Mr Adams, since Sir Thomas's death." "A strange alteration

indeed," says Adams, "as I gather from some hints which have dropped

from Joseph."--"Aye," says she, "I could never have believed it; but the

longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath given

you hints." "But of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with

me," cries the parson: "he forced me to promise before he would

communicate anything. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave

in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady,

and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a Christian,

and with a young lad her own servant." "These things are no secrets to

me, I assure you," cries Slipslop, "and I believe they will be none

anywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved

more like a mad woman than anything else." "Truly, I am heartily

concerned," says Adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. Indeed, I

have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the

service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." "O Mr

Adams," says Slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing.

Many things have been given away in our family, I do assure you, without

her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to brag;

but indeed I can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the

poor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As for

my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have

done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quiet

life, Heaven rest his soul! I am confident he is there, and enjoys a

quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here."--Adams answered,

"He had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he

remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had

not formerly been of another opinion." "I don't know," replied she,

"what I might once think; but now I am confidous matters are as I tell

you; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, I

say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry all

things with a grave face."

Thus Mr Adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great

house which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach,

spying it, cried, "Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can

justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty

and the author of her own calamity." This was abundantly sufficient to

awaken the curiosity of Mr Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole

company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's

history, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something

remarkable.

The lady, who was perfectly well-bred, did not require many entreaties,

and having only wished their entertainment might make amends for the

company's attention, she began in the following manner.

CHAPTER IV.

_The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt._

Leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and

well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which often

attracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor is

this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour

which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the

vivacity for true understanding.

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers

in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety,

and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly; where she

had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity,

with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other

woman present.

Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries

towards her, Horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all

his competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he

happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the

musick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She

affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst she

inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of Horatio, that she

often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension.

"Pray, madam," says Adams, "who was this squire Horatio?"

Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to

the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a

barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed

handsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. His

temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of

moroseness. He had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which

he indulged rather too much.

This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora,

was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The

whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a

confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her;

for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it

is highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before you

have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects

and desires to hear it.

But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt

to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see the little

advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it

was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as

to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose

fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their

company as his for her.

"I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good" (says the lady

who refused Joseph's entrance into the coach), "nor shall I wonder at

anything she doth in the sequel."

The lady proceeded in her story thus: It was in the midst of a gay

conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora,

that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that

he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. "Are you

sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. "I hope," answered he,

"you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must

depend on the event."

Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it

till another time; but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the

difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate,

that she at last yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they

turned aside into an unfrequented walk.

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a

strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora,

who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep

sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable,

he cried out in a faltering accent, "O Leonora! is it necessary for me

to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be

founded? Must I say there is something belonging to you which is a bar

to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must be

miserable!"--"What can that be?" replied Leonora. "No wonder," said he,

"you are surprized that I should make an objection to anything which is

yours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches

of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. Oh, it is that

which you must part with to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or rather

will she, doubt longer? Let me then whisper it in her ears--It is your

name, madam. It is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for

ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable,

and will render me the happiest of mankind."

Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look as she could

possibly put on, told him, "That had she suspected what his declaration

would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that

he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her

back as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much as

herself, did.

"More fool he," cried Slipslop; "it is a sign he knew very little of our

sect."--"Truly, madam," said Adams, "I think you are in the right: I

should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried

matters so far." But Mrs Grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such

fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick.

Well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many

weeks had not passed after this interview before Horatio and Leonora

were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremonies except

the last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything was

in the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting Horatio in

possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter

from each of them, which I have got by heart, and which will give you no

small idea of their passion on both sides.

Mrs Grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being put to the

vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach; parson

Adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence.

HORATIO TO LEONORA.

"How vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the

absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it

have some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to the

society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might

have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed

my absence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when

your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, I am

always desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so

delicate, that I cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into

those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover

will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To

fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a

nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate

passion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we

consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full

extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may

give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous

to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her

kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue,

which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost

rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. It is, therefore, with a

view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cultivate it so purely

in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the

uneasiness I bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world

allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions.

"Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blest

day, when I shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, that

the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no

person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since

none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of

spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of

my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your

happiness."

LEONORA TO HORATIO.[A]

[A] This letter was written by a young lady on reading the former.

"The refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word

and action ever since I had the first pleasure of knowing you, that I

thought it impossible my good opinion of Horatio could have been

heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my

amusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I

confess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there

so far exceeding what I thought could come even from you (although I

know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centred

in your breast), that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection

that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.

"Oh, Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares

are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who

best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your

affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! In

such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the

unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we

are mortal.

"If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them

undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning

tedious to you, what anxious hours must I spend, who am condemned by

custom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them

to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer Horatio's

heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious

designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it! But,

indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation,

it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally

natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am I ashamed to own it:

and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that prevents my being in that

most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of

being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces

me to condemn."

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the

day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when

the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty

miles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. It seems, it

is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these sessions,

not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the

law of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and

gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as they

modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the

true knowledge of the law.

"You are here guilty of a little mistake," says Adams, "which, if you

please, I will correct: I have attended at one of these

quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices,

instead of learning anything of them."

It is not very material, said the lady. Hither repaired Horatio, who, as

he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at

present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to

spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing

himself in it.

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her

window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the

completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these

remarkable words, "Oh, I am in love with that equipage!" which, though

her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since

remembered.

In the evening an assembly was held, which Leonora honoured with her

company; but intended to pay her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing

to dance in his absence.

Oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they

have often good inclinations in making them!

The gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. His

clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage could be. He soon

attracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk

waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant.

"Madam," said Adams, "if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know

how this gentleman was drest."

Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut velvet coat of

a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with

gold; his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with

gold likewise. I cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress; but

it was all in the French fashion, for Bellarmine (that was his name) was

just arrived from Paris.

This fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in

the assembly than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he

stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so

if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far before

he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily

discovered where his admiration was settled. The other ladies began to

single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be

Bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible

means, to prevent: many of them saying to Leonora, "O madam! I suppose

we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and then

crying out, in Bellarmine's hearing, "Oh! Leonora will not dance, I

assure you: her partner is not here." One maliciously attempted to

prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she

might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme

proved abortive.

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every

woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her

head was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she would

speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as

she would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage

her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. She had never

tasted anything like this happiness. She had before known what it was to

torment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole

assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast

profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was

nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish

tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into

several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as

absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the

stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from that

admiration, over every woman in the room.

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having inquired who she was,

advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with

her, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. She danced

with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she

was capable of feeling.

At these words, Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies,

who told him, "They hoped he was not ill." He answered, "He groaned only

for the folly of Leonora."

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not

to rest. She tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of

sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine

clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had

been the subject of their conversation.

In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on

her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well

pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself,

notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a Croesus or

an Attalus).--"Attalus," says Mr. Adams: "but pray how came you

acquainted with these names?" The lady smiled at the question, and

proceeded. He was so pleased, I say, that he resolved to make his

addresses to her directly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much

warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and

obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would

quickly declare in favour of a coach and six.

Thus what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so

long obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry

possessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty had

employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in

twenty-four hours.

Here Adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smoke

him, took no notice.

From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's visit,

Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio; but he now began, though an

unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the

charming Bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so

far. "Yet why," says she, "should I wish to have seen him before; or

what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover,

almost my husband? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer than Bellarmine?

Aye, but Bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he

must be allowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I, no

longer ago than yesterday, love Horatio more than all the world? Aye,

but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat on

me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well,

and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised

Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen

him first, I should certainly have preferred him. Did not the dear

creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she was

laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an

instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those

things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the

difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of

one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no

more than one rival; but by marrying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of

all my acquaintance. What happiness! But can I suffer Horatio to die?

for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die:

if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? besides,

Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." She was thus arguing with

herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little

relieved her anxiety for the present.

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her

aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for Leonora. He was

no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this

occasion. "You see, child," says she, "what fortune hath thrown in your

way; and I hope you will not withstand your own preferment." Leonora,

sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her

engagements to Horatio. "Engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "you

should thank Heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to

break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in a

coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? But Bellarmine drives

six, and Horatio not even a pair."--"Yes, but, madam, what will the

world say?" answered Leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"The world is

always on the side of prudence," cries the aunt, "and would surely

condemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. Oh!

I know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, by

your objection. O' my conscience! the world is wiser. I have lived

longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not anything worth our

regard besides money; nor did I ever know one person who married from

other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it.

Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow,

who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from

his travels. All the world must allow Bellarmine to be a fine gentleman,

positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man."--"Perhaps, madam, I

should not doubt, if I knew how to be handsomely off with the

other."--"Oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "You know your father

hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part I thought

it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but I'll

disengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you

shall have no farther trouble."

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and

Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the

next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented

should be consummated at his return.

The aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being left together,

Bellarmine began in the following manner: "Yes, madam; this coat, I

assure you, was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor even

to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut.

If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy

English rascal can do nothing like it. Pray, how do you like my

liveries?" Leonora answered, "She thought them very pretty."--"All

French," says he, "I assure you, except the greatcoats; I never trust

anything more than a greatcoat to an Englishman. You know one must

encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a

place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! But for myself, I

would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a

single rag of English work about me: and I am sure, after you have made

one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your

own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be

to your beauty; I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since

I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!"

With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his

beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered

the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the surprize of Leonora.

"Poor woman!" says Mrs Slipslop, "what a terrible quandary she must be

in!"--"Not at all," says Mrs Grave-airs; "such sluts can never be

confounded."--"She must have then more than Corinthian assurance," said

Adams; "aye, more than Lais herself."

A long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. If

the familiar entrance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into

Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bellarmine no less surprized

Horatio. At length Leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress

of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the

reason of so late a visit. "I should indeed," answered he, "have made

some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in

company assured me I do not break in upon your repose." Bellarmine rose

from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed an

opera tune, while Horatio, advancing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper

if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with

a smile, or rather sneer, "No, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding,

"she could not guess the meaning of his question." Horatio told her

softly, "It did not arise from jealousy."--"Jealousy! I assure you, it

would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of

those airs." These words a little surprized Horatio; but, before he had

time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "He

feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman."--"I

can have no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor any other,

which need be any secret to you."

"You'll pardon me," said Horatio, "if I desire to know who this

gentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets."--"You'll know

soon enough," cries Leonora; "but I can't guess what secrets can ever

pass between us of such mighty consequence."--"No, madam!" cries

Horatio; "I am sure you would not have me understand you in

earnest."--"'Tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you understand me;

but I think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood at

all, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do not

deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint."

"Madam," said Horatio, "I did not imagine any engagement with a

stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit

impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between

persons in our situation." "Sure you are in a dream," says she, "or

would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pretensions a common

acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding."

"Sure," said he, "I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be

really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed

between us?" "Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before this

gentleman?" "D--n me, affront the lady," says Bellarmine, cocking his

hat, and strutting up to Horatio: "does any man dare affront this lady

before me, d--n me?" "Hark'ee, sir," says Horatio, "I would advise you

to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived if this lady

has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." "Sir,"

said Bellarmine, "I have the honour to be her protector; and, d--n me,

if I understand your meaning." "Sir," answered Horatio, "she is rather

your protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see I am

prepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "Oh! _serviteur tres

humble_," says Bellarmine: "_Je vous entend parfaitment bien_." At which

time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, entered the room, and

soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never more

awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in

his three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections of

Leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had

given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired

Bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by laying

violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave

without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his

rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion

might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that

Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier

as Bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his

own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action.

They at length therefore agreed to permit Bellarmine to retire to his

lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which

he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the

nuptials at his return.

But, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the

countenance; and many a grave and plain man will, on a just provocation,

betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a

fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will

more prudently decline it.

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, with

the dismal account that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio;

that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the

wound mortal. She immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the

room in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the

agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose

at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to

comfort her niece. She told her, "While there was life there was hope;

but that if he should die her affliction would be of no service to

Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep

her some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened,

her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavour

to regain the affections of Horatio." "Speak not to me," cried the

disconsolate Leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor Bellarmine has

lost his life? Have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked

steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of this

age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyes

still fixed on the glass)? Am I not the murderess of the finest

gentleman? No other woman in the town could have made any impression on

him." "Never think of things past," cries the aunt: "think of regaining

the affections of Horatio." "What reason," said the niece, "have I to

hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and

it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me,

contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio (at which words she

burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give

up my affections for him; had it not been for you, Bellarmine never

would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed

by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; I

should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it was

you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and

forced me to lose my dear Horatio for ever."

The aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words; she, however,

rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a

purse, began: "I am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. Those who

advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return:

I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with

Horatio, at any rate."--"That may not be in your power yet," answered

Leonora, "though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it,

after the presents you have received from him." (For indeed true it is,

that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from

Horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that Bellarmine, when he

breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a

brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had

touched of the other.)

The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought a letter

into the room, which Leonora, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with

great eagerness opened, and read as follows:--

"MOST DIVINE CREATURE,--The wound which I fear you have heard I

received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my

heart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. Those are

the only cannons by which I am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of

being soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would do

me an honour which I have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, your

absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by,

"Madam,

"_Avec toute le respecte_ in the world,

"Your most obedient, most absolute _Devote_,

"BELLARMINE."

As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bellarmine's recovery, and

that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger,

she presently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soon

reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more

Christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is

possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had

given her concerning the presents. She might apprehend such rumours,

should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting

church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in

her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established.

Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine with greater force, after

its small relaxation, than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a

visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable

prudence, advised her to decline: "For," says she, "should any accident

intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour with

this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she

is married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility

of the affair's breaking off." Leonora said, "She should be indifferent

to whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely

placed her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it

was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts

of mankind." She, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all

the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon

executed her resolution.

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn

where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr

Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the

reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartily

desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could

scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition.

CHAPTER V.

_A dreadful quarrel which happened at the Inn where the company dined,

with its bloody consequences to Mr Adams._

As soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr Adams, as was

his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sitting

by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which Mr

Adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling,

that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well as his

master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he

was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This

foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was

accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when he

bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself

forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received

any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling many paces' distance,

and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever.

Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an

excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, falling

with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the

good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with some

camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered

the kitchen.

He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune before the

host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr Tow-wouse's gentle

disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and

everything in it but his guests.

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance

of a traveller, from "God bless your honour," down to plain "Coming

presently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out,

without considering his circumstances, "What a pox is the woman about?

why don't you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them what they

will have for dinner." "My dear," says she, "you know they can have

nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and

really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." At which words

she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening

to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not

stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's

leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles he

would find a surgeon to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetched two

strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head,

muttered aloud, He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for

he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a

dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three

sharp replies, till Joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself to

his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams)

scornfully repeating the word "betters," flew into a rage, and, telling

Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk

into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, Adams

dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the

blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host, being

unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of Adams's

figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's

nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. Upon which he again

assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on

the floor.

The hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved,

seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to

his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appearance,

was the last he would ever receive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood,

which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her

hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, discharged

it into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much the

greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so

large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more

horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which

was perceived by Mrs Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant.

This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and

patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion,

flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with

some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at

the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequent

practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of

delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his

chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which

had entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning to

stir; whilst Mrs Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her

left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman

began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.

There happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who

arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr

Tow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we

have before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with Adams. There

was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to Italy; all

whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen,

where the several combatants were found in the postures already

described.

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being

satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having no

appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the

eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the

whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no

longer for this world. But the host, who had now recovered from his

blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this

apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and

telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled,

like a b--as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid

her, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared

much the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a

quantity of hair, which Mrs Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.

The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs Grave-airs, desired her not to

be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said, to

their _disgracia_, the English were _accustomata_ to: adding, it must

be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from

Italy; the Italians not being addicted to the _cuffardo_ but _bastonza_,

says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the

ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could

not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, "Sir, I am far from

accusing you." He then returned to the lady, and cried, "I find the

bloody gentleman is _uno insipido del nullo senso_. _Dammato di me_, if

I have seen such a _spectaculo_ in my way from Viterbo."

One of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of this

bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow,

whispered in his ear, "He'd warrant he would recover."--"Recover!

master," said the host, smiling: "yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying

with a blow or two neither; I am not such a chicken as that."--"Pugh!"

said the gentleman, "I mean you will recover damages in that action

which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be

returned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and

courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action

against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with

a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn

blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages

for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth a

shilling! I don't care," continued he, "to intermeddle in these cases;

but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the

truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your

nostrils. You may take your own opinion; but was I in your

circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold

into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your

jury were Christians, they must give swinging damages. That's

all."--"Master," cried the host, scratching his head, "I have no stomach

to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two

of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both

lawed themselves into a gaol." At which words he turned about, and began

to inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have

been a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his

defence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the Italian

traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage.

Whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have

seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on

the side of Mr Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately.

He said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband,

for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he

said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. Adams

answered, If it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted

the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first

blow. "I am sorry you own it too," cries the gentleman; "for it could

not possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present but

the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would

consequently say nothing but what made for you."--"How, sir," says

Adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in

cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me,

and my order, I should think you affronted both." At the word order, the

gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of

knights); and, turning hastily about, said, "Every man knew his own

business."

Matters being now composed, the company retired to their several

apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the success

of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the

contending parties; and the traveller went to his repast, crying, "As

the Italian poet says--

'_Je voi_ very well _que tutta e pace_,

So send up dinner, good Boniface.'"

The coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose

entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs insisting,

against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a

footman into the coach; for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A

young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged it

with almost tears in her eyes. Mr Adams prayed, and Mrs Slipslop

scolded; but all to no purpose. She said, "She would not demean herself

to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the

master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but would

suffer no such fellow to come in."--"Madam," says Slipslop, "I am sure

no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."--"I don't know,

madam," says the lady; "I am not much used to stage-coaches; I seldom

travel in them."--"That may be, madam," replied Slipslop; "very good

people do; and some people's betters, for aught I know." Miss Grave-airs

said, "Some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some

people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part,

she was not used to converse with servants." Slipslop returned, "Some

people kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thanked

Heaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more

under her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in the

kingdom." Miss Grave-airs cried, "She believed her mistress would not

encourage such sauciness to her betters."--"My betters," says Slipslop,

"who is my betters, pray?"--"I am your betters," answered Miss

Grave-airs, "and I'll acquaint your mistress."--At which Mrs Slipslop

laughed aloud, and told her, "Her lady was one of the great gentry; and

such little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in

stagecoaches, would not easily come at her."