THOMAS GENT AND ALICE GUY, A TRUE TALE, SHOWING THAT A WOMAN'S
CONSTANCY WILL NOT ALWAYS HOLD OUT LONGER THAN TROY TOWN, AND YET THE
WOMAN MAY NOT BE THE PARTY WHO IS MOST IN FAULT.
_Io dico, non dimando
Quel che tu vuoi udir, perch' io l'ho visto
Ove s' appunta ogni ubi, e ogni quando._
DANTE.
The person whom the Doctor employed in collecting certain books for
him, and whom Peter Hopkins had employed in the same way, was that
Thomas Gent of whom it was incidentally said in the 47th Chapter that
he published the old poem of Flodden Field from a transcript made by
Daniel's kind hearted schoolmaster Richard Guy, whose daughter he
married. Since that chapter was written an account of Gent's life,
written by himself in 1746, when he was in his 53d year, and in his
own handwriting, was discovered by Mr. Thorpe the bookseller among a
collection of books from Ireland, and published by him, with a
portrait of the author copied from a fine mezzotinto engraving by
Valentine Green, which is well known to collectors. Gent was a very
old man when that portrait was taken; and his fine loose-flowing
silver hair gave great effect to a singularly animated and cheerful
face. His autobiography is as characteristic as John Dunton's, and
like it contains much information relating to the state of the press
in his days, and the trade of literature. A few curious notices occur
in it of the manners and transactions of those times. But the portion
pertinent to the business of these volumes is that which in its
consequences led him to become the Doctor's purveyor of old books in
the ancient city of York.
Gent, though descended, he says, from the Gents of Staffordshire, was
born in Dublin: his parents were good people in humble life, who
trained him up in the way he should go, gave him the best education
their means could afford and apprenticed him to a printer, from whom
after three years' service he ran away, because of the brutal usage
which he received. He got on board ship with little more than a
shilling in his pocket, and was landed at Parkgate to seek his
fortune. But having made good use of the time which he had served with
his tyrannical master, he obtained employment in London, and made
himself useful to his employers. After having been four years there,
he accepted an offer from Mr. White, who, as a reward for printing the
Prince of Orange's Declaration when all the printers in London refused
to undertake so dangerous a piece of work, was made King's printer for
York and five other counties. Mr. White had plenty of business, there
being few printers in England, except in London, at that time; “None,”
says Gent, “I am sure, at Chester, Liverpool, Whitehaven, Preston,
Manchester, Kendal, and Leeds. The offer was eighteen pounds a year,
with board, washing and lodging, and a guinea to bear his charges on
the road. Twenty shillings of this I offered,” he says, “to Crofts the
carrier, a very surly young fellow as ever I conversed with, but he
would have five or six shillings more; finding him so stiff with me, I
resolved to venture on foot. He set out with his horses on Monday, and
the next morning, being the 20th of April, 1714, I set forward and had
not, I think, walked three miles, when a gentleman's servant with a
horse ready saddled and himself riding another overtook me, and for a
shilling, with a glass or so on the road, allowed me to ride with him
as far as Caxton, which was the period of his journey.”
Having reached York about twelve o'clock on the Sunday following, and
found the way to Mr. White's house the door was opened by the
head-maiden. “She ushered me,” says Gent, “into the chamber where Mrs.
White lay something ill in bed; but the old gentleman was at his
dinner, by the fire side, sitting in a noble arm-chair, with a good
large pie before him, and made me partake heartily with him. I had a
guinea in my shoe lining, which I pulled out to ease my foot; at which
the old gentleman smiled, and pleasantly said, it was more than he had
ever seen a journeyman save before. I could not but smile too, because
my trunk, with my clothes and eight guineas, was sent, about a month
before to Ireland, where I was resolved to go and see my friends had
his place not offered to me as it did.”
Gent was as happy as he could wish here, and as he earned money bought
clothes to serve him till he should rejoin his trunk in Dublin, which
at the year's end he determined to do, refusing to renew his
engagement till he had visited his parents. “Yet,” says he, “what made
my departure somewhat uneasy, I scarce then well knew how, was through
respect of Mrs. Alice Guy, the young woman who I said, first opened
the door to me, upper maiden to Mrs. White, who I was persuaded to
believe had the like mutual fondness for me—she was the daughter of
Mr. Richard Guy, schoolmaster at Ingleton, near Lancashire; had very
good natural parts, quick understanding, was of a fine complexion, and
very amiable in her features. Indeed I was not very forward in love,
or desire of matrimony, till I knew the world better, and consequently
should be more able to provide such a handsome maintenance as I
confess I had ambition enough to desire; but yet my heart could not
absolutely slight so lovely a young creature as to pretend I had no
esteem for her charms, which had captivated others, and particularly
my master's grandson, Mr. Charles Bourne, who was more deserving than
any. However I told her (because my irresolution should not anticipate
her advancement,) that I should respect her as one of the dearest of
friends; and receiving a little dog from her as a companion on the
road, I had the honour to be accompanied as far as Bramham Moor by my
rival.”
He was received by his parents like the Prodigal son, and had engaged
himself as journeyman in Dublin, when his old master Powell employed
officers to seize him for leaving his apprenticeship. It was in vain
that his father and a friendly brother-in-law offered a fair sum for
his release, while he concealed himself; more was demanded than would
have been proper for them to give; there was no other remedy than to
leave Ireland once more, and as about that time he had received a
letter from his dearest at York, saying that he was expected there,
thither purely again to enjoy her company, he resolved to direct his
course. His friends were much concerned at their parting, “but my
unlucky whelp,” says he, “that a little before while taking a glass
with Mr. Hume (the printer with whom I had engaged), had torn my new
hat in pieces, seemed nowise affected by my taking boat; so I let the
rascal stay with my dear parents who were fond of him for my sake, as
he was of them for his own; nor was he less pleasant by his tricks to
the neighbourhood, who called him Yorkshire, from the country whence I
brought him.”
There is a chasm in this part of the manuscript: it appears, however,
that he remained some months at York, and then went to London, where
he was as careful as possible in saving what he had earned, “but yet,”
says he, “could not perceive a prospect of settlement whereby to
maintain a spouse like her as I judged she deserved, and I could not
bear the thoughts to bring her from a good settlement, without I could
certainly make us both happy in a better.” He went on, however,
industriously and prosperously, had “the great happiness” in the year
1717 of being made freeman of the company of Stationers, and in the
same year commenced citizen of London, his share of the treat that day
with other expences coming to about five pounds. Now that he was
beyond his reach, his old tyrant in Dublin was glad to accept of five
pounds for his discharge; this money he remitted, and thus became
absolutely free both in England and Ireland, for which he gave sincere
thanks to the Almighty.
“And now,” says he, “I thought myself happy, when the thoughts of my
dearest often occurred to my mind: God knows it is but too common, and
that with the best and most considerate persons, that something or
other gives them disquietude or makes them seek after it.” A
partnership at Norwich was offered him, and he accepted it; but a few
hours afterwards there came a mournful letter from his parents, saying
that they were very infirm, and extremely desirous to see him once
more before they died. It is to Gent's honour that he immediately gave
up his engagement at Norwich, though the stage coach had been ordered
to receive him. The person whom he recommended in his stead, was Mr.
Robert Raikes, who when Gent wrote these memoirs was settled as a
master in Gloucester; he became the father of a singularly prosperous
family, and one of his sons his successor in the printing office is
well known as the person who first established Sunday schools.
Yet though Gent acted under an impulse of natural duty on this
occasion, he confesses that he was not without some cause for self
reproach: “I wrote,” said he, “a lamenting letter to my dear in York,
bewailing that I could not find a proper place as yet to settle in,
told her that I was leaving the kingdom, and reminded her by what had
past that she could not be ignorant where to direct if she thought
proper so to do; that I was far from slighting her, and resigned her
to none but the protection of Heaven. But sure never was poor creature
afflicted with such melancholy as I was upon my journey, my soul did
seem to utter within me, ‘wretch that I am, what am I doing, and
whither going?’ My parents, it's true, as they were constantly most
affectionate, so indeed they are, especially in far advanced years,
peculiar objects of my care and esteem; but am I not only leaving
England, the Paradise of the world, to which as any loyal subject I
have now an indubitable right, but am I not also departing, for aught
I know for ever, from the dearest creature upon earth? from her that
loved me when I knew not well how to respect myself; who was wont to
give me sweet counsel in order for my future happiness, equally
partook of those deep sorrows which our tender love had occasioned,
was willing to undergo all hazards with me in this troublesome life,
whose kind letters had so often proved like healing balm to my
languishing condition, and whose constancy, had I been as equally
faithful and not so timorous of being espoused through too many
perplexing doubts, would never have been shaken, and without question
would have promoted the greatest happiness for which I was created.”
These self-reproaches, which were not undeserved, made him ill on the
road. He reached Dublin, however, and though the employment which he
got there was not nearly so profitable as what he had had in London,
love for his parents made him contented, “and took,” he says, “all
thoughts of further advantages away, till Mr. Alexander Campbell, a
Scotchman in the same printing office with me, getting me in liquor,
obtained a promise that I should accompany him to England, where there
was a greater likelihood of prosperity. Accordingly he so pressed me,
and gave such reasons to my dear parents that it was not worth while
to stay there for such small business as we enjoyed, that they
consented we should go together: but alas! their melting tears made
mine to flow, and bedewed my pillow every night after that I lodged
with them. ‘What Tommy,’ my mother would sometimes say, ‘this English
damsel of yours, I suppose, is the chiefest reason why you slight us
and your native country!’ ‘Well,’ added she, ‘the ways of Providence I
know are unsearchable; and whether I live to see you again or no, I
shall pray God to be your defender and preserver!’—I thought it not
fit to accumulate sorrows to us all, by returning any afflictive
answers; but taking an opportunity whilst she was abroad on her
business, I embarked with my friend once more for England.”
Tommy, however, made the heart of his English damsel sick with hope
long deferred. He was provident overmuch; and this he acknowledges
even when endeavouring to excuse himself:—“all that I had undergone I
must confess,” he says, “I thought were but my just deserts for being
so long absent from my dear,” (it had now been an absence of some
years,) “and yet I could not well help it. I had a little money it is
very true, but no certain home wherein to invite her. I knew she was
well fixed; and it pierced me to the very heart to think, if through
any miscarriage or misfortune I should alter her condition for the
worse instead of the better. Upon this account my letters to her at
this time were not so amorously obliging as they ought to have been
from a sincere lover; by which she had reason, however she might have
been mistaken, to think that I had failed in my part of those tender
engagements which had passed between us.”
Gent had sometimes the honour of being the Bellman's poet, and used to
get heartily treated for the Christmas verses which he composed in
that capacity. One lucky day he happened to meet his friend Mr. Evan
Ellis, who was the Bellman's printer in ordinary: “Tommy,” said his
friend, “I am persuaded that sometime or other you'll set up a press
in the country, where I believe you have a pretty northern lass at
heart; and as I believe you save money and can spare it, I can help
you to a good pennyworth preparatory to your design.” Accordingly upon
this recommendation he purchased at a cheap price a considerable
quantity of old types, which Mr. Mist, the proprietor of a journal
well known at that time by his name, had designed for the furnace. To
this he added a font almost new, resolving to venture in the world
with his dearest, who at first, he says, gave him encouragement. He
does not say that she ever discouraged him, and his own resolution
appears to have been but half-hearted. His purse being much exhausted
by these purchases, he still worked on for further supplies; by and by
he bought a new font, and so went on increasing his stock, working for
his old first master and for himself also, and occasionally employing
servants himself, though the fatigue was exceedingly great and almost
more than he could go through. Alas the while for Alice Guy, who was
now in the tenth year of her engagement to lukewarm Thomas!
Lukewarm Thomas imagined “things would so fall out that after some
little time he should have occasion to invite his dear to London.” But
let him tell his own story. “One Sunday morning, as my shoes were
japanning by a little boy at the end of the lane, there came Mr. John
Hoyle, who had been a long time in a messenger's custody on suspicion
for reprinting _Vox Populi Vox Dei_, under direction of Mrs. Powell
with whom he wrought as journeyman; ‘Mr. Gent,’ said he, ‘I have been
at York to see my parents, and am but just as it were returned to
London. I am heartily glad to see you, but sorry to tell you that you
have lost your old sweetheart; for I assure you that she is really
married to your rival Mr. Bourne!’ I was so thunderstruck that I could
scarcely return an answer,—all former thoughts crowding into my mind,
the consideration of spending my substance on a business I would not
have engaged in as a master but for her sake, my own remissness that
had occasioned it, and withal that she could not in such a case be
much blamed for mending her fortune,—all these threw me under a very
deep concern.”
He consoled himself as Petrarch had done: and opening his old vein of
poetry and bell-metal, gave some vent to his passion by writing a copy
of verses to the tune of “Such charms has Phillis!” then much in
request, and proper for the flute. He entitled it “The Forsaken
Lover's Letter to his former Sweetheart.” “When I had done,” says he,
“as I did not care that Mr. Midwinter (his master) should know of my
great disappointment, I gave the copy to Mr. Dodd, who printing the
same sold thousands of them, for which he offered me a price; but as
it was on my own proper concern, I scorned to accept of anything
except a glass of comfort or so.” If the Forsaken Lover's Lamentation
had been sung about the streets of York, Mrs. Bourne might have
listened to it without suspecting that she was the treacherous maid,
who for the sake of this world's splendour had betrayed her only sweet
jewel, left him to languish alone, and broken his heart,
Proving that none could be falser than she.
Conscience would never have whispered to her that it was lukewarm
Thomas who closed his complaint with the desperate determination
expressed in the ensuing stanza.
Now to the woods and groves I'll be ranging,
Free from all women I'll vent forth my grief:
While birds are singing and sweet notes exchanging
This pleasing concert will yield me relief.
Thus like the swan before its departing
Sings forth its elegy in melting strains,
My dying words shall move all the kind powers above
To pity my fate, the most wretched of swains.
He neither went to the woods, nor died; but entered into an engagement
with Mr. Dodd's widow to manage her printing business, being the more
willing to enter into the service of this gentlewoman since he was
disappointed of his first love. The widow was a most agreeable person,
daughter to a sea captain, and had been educated at the boarding
school at Hackney: Dodd was her second husband, and she had been left
with a child by each. “I thought her,” says Gent, “worthy of the best
of spouses; for sure there never could be a finer economist or sweeter
mother to her dear children, whom she kept exceedingly decent. I have
dined with her; but then as in reason I allowed what was fitting for
my meals, and her conversation, agreeably to her fine education,
almost wounded me with love, and at the same time commanded a becoming
reverence. What made her excellent carriage the more endearing was,
that I now must never expect to behold my first love at York: though I
heard by travellers that not only she, but her husband used to enquire
after me. Indeed I was sensible that Mr. Bourne, though a likely young
man, was not one of the most healthful persons; but far from imagining
otherwise then that he might have outlived me who then was worn to a
shadow. But, see the wonderful effects of Divine Providence in all
things!
“It was one Sunday morning that Mr. Philip Wood, a quondam partner at
Mr. Midwinter's, entering my chambers where I sometimes used to employ
him too when slack of business in other places—‘Tommy,’ said he, ‘all
these fine materials of yours, must be moved to York!’ At which
wondering, ‘what mean you?’ said I. ‘Aye,’ said he, ‘and you must go
too, without its your own fault; for your first sweetheart is now at
liberty, and left in good circumstances by her dear spouse, who
deceased but of late.’ ‘I pray heaven,’ answered I, ‘that his precious
soul may be happy: and for aught I know it may be as you say, for
indeed I think I may not trifle with a widow as I have formerly done
with a maid.’ I made an excuse to my mistress that I had business in
Ireland, but that I hoped to be at my own lodgings in about a month's
time; if not, as I had placed every thing in order, she might easily
by any other person carry on the business. But she said she would not
have any beside me in that station I enjoyed, and therefore should
expect my return to her again: but respectfully taking leave, I never
beheld her after, though I heard she was after very indifferently
married. I had taken care that my goods should be privately packed up,
and hired a little warehouse and put them in ready to be sent, by sea
or land, to where I should order: and I pitched upon Mr. Campbell my
fellow traveller, as my confidant in this affair, desiring my cousins
to assist him; all of whom I took leave of at the Black Swan in
Holborn, where I had paid my passage in the stage coach, which brought
me to York in four days time. Here I found my dearest once more,
though much altered from what she was about ten years before that I
had not seen her. There was no need for new courtship; but decency
suspended the ceremony of marriage for some time: till my dearest at
length, considering the ill consequence of delay in her business, as
well as the former ties of love that passed innocently between us by
word and writing, gave full consent to have the nuptials
celebrated,”—and performed accordingly they were, “in the stately
cathedral,” the very day of Archbishop Blackburne's installation.