Influenced by such considerations, he yielded to the first importunity

of the beldame, whom he dismissed at a very small distance from the

village, after he had earnestly exhorted her to quit such an atrocious

course of life, and atone for her past crimes, by sacrificing her

associates to the demands of justice. She did not fail to vow a perfect

reformation, and to prostrate herself before him for the favour she had

found; then she betook herself to her habitation, with full purpose of

advising her fellow-murderers to repair with all despatch to the

village, and impeach our hero, who, wisely distrusting her professions,

stayed no longer in the place than to hire a guide for the next stage,

which brought him to the city of Chalons-sur-Marne.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

HE ARRIVES AT PARIS, AND IS PLEASED WITH HIS RECEPTION.

He was not so smitten with the delightful situation of this ancient

town, but that he abandoned it as soon as he could procure a

post-chaise, in which he arrived at Paris, without having been exposed

to any other troublesome adventure upon the road. He took lodgings at a

certain hotel in the Fauxbourg de St. Germain, which is the general

rendezvous of all the strangers that resort to this capital; and now

sincerely congratulated himself upon his happy escape from his

Hungarian connexions, and from the snares of the banditti, as well as

upon the spoils of the dead body, and his arrival at Paris, from whence

there was such a short conveyance to England, whither he was attracted,

by far other motives than that of filial veneration for his native

soil.

He suppressed all his letters of recommendation, which he justly

concluded would subject him to a tedious course of attendance upon the

great, and lay him under the necessity of soliciting preferment in the

army, than which nothing was farther from his inclination; and resolved

to make his appearance in the character of a private gentleman, which

would supply him with opportunities of examining the different scenes

of life in such a gay metropolis, so as that he should be able to

choose that sphere in which he could move the most effectually to his

own advantage. He accordingly hired an occasional domestic, and under

the denomination of Count Fathom, which he had retained since his

elopement from Renaldo, repaired to dinner at an ordinary, to which he

was directed as a reputable place, frequented by fashionable strangers

of all nations.

He found this piece of information perfectly just; for he no sooner

entered the apartment, than his ears were saluted with a strange

confusion of sounds, among which he at once distinguished the High and

Low Dutch, barbarous French, Italian, and English languages. He was

rejoiced at this occasion of displaying his own qualifications, took

his place at one of the three long tables, betwixt a Westphalian count

and a Bolognian marquis, insinuated himself into the conversation with

his usual address, and in less than half an hour, found means to accost

a native of each different country in his own mother-tongue.

Such extensive knowledge did not pass unobserved. A French abbe, in a

provincial dialect, complimented him upon his retaining that purity in

pronunciation, which is not to be found in the speech of a Parisian.

The Bolognian, mistaking him for a Tuscan, “Sir,” said he, “I presume

you are from Florence. I hope the illustrious house of Lorrain leaves

you gentlemen of that famous city no room to regret the loss of your

own princes.” The castle of Versailles becoming the subject of

conversation, Monsieur le Compte appealed to him, as to a native

German, whether it was not inferior in point of magnificence to the

chateau of Grubenhagen. The Dutch officer, addressing himself to

Fathom, drank to the prosperity of Faderland, and asked if he had not

once served in garrison at Shenkenschans; and an English knight swore,

with great assurance, that he had frequently rambled with him at

midnight among the hundreds of Drury.

To each person he replied in a polite, though mysterious manner, which

did not fail to enhance their opinion of his good breeding and

importance; and, long before the dessert appeared, he was by all the

company supposed to be a personage of great consequence, who for some

substantial reasons, found it convenient to keep himself incognito.

This being the case, it is not to be doubted that particular civilities

were poured upon him from all quarters. He perceived their sentiments,

and encouraged them, by behaving with that sort of complaisance which

seems to be the result of engaging condescension in a character of

superior dignity and station. His affability was general but his chief

attention limited to those gentlemen already mentioned, who chanced to

sit nearest him at table; and he no sooner gave them to understand that

he was an utter stranger in Paris, than they unanimously begged to have

the honour of making him acquainted with the different curiosities

peculiar to that metropolis.

He accepted of their hospitality, accompanied them to a coffee-house in

the afternoon, from whence they repaired to the opera, and afterwards

adjourned to a noted hotel, in order to spend the remaining part of the

evening. It was here that our hero secured himself effectually in the

footing he had gained in their good graces. He in a moment saw through

all the characters of the party, and adapted himself to the humour of

each individual, without descending from that elevation of behaviour

which he perceived would operate among them in his behalf. With the

Italian he discoursed on music, in the style of a connoisseur; and

indeed had a better claim to that title than the generality of those

upon whom it is usually conferred; for he understood the art in theory

as well as in practice, and would have made no contemptible figure

among the best performers of the age.

He harangued upon taste and genius to the abbe, who was a wit and

critic, ex officio, or rather ex vestitu for a young pert Frenchman,

the very moment he puts on the petit collet, or little band, looks upon

himself as an inspired son of Apollo; and every one of the fraternity

thinks it incumbent upon him to assert the divinity of his mission. In

a word, the abbes are a set of people that bear a strong analogy to the

templars in London. Fools of each fabric, sharpers of all sorts, and

dunces of every degree, profess themselves of both orders. The templar

is, generally speaking, a prig, so is the abbe: both are distinguished

by an air of petulance and self-conceit, which holds a middle rank

betwixt the insolence of a first-rate buck and the learned pride of a

supercilious pedant. The abbe is supposed to be a younger brother in

quest of preferment in the church—the Temple is considered as a

receptacle or seminary for younger sons intended for the bar; but a

great number of each profession turn aside into other paths of life,

long before they reach these proposed goals. An abbe is often

metamorphosed into a foot soldier; a templar sometimes sinks into an

attorney’s clerk. The galleys of France abound with abbes; and many

templars may be found in our American plantations; not to mention those

who have made a public exit nearer home. Yet I would not have it

thought that my description includes every individual of those

societies. Some of the greatest scholars, politicians, and wits, that

ever Europe produced, have worn the habit of an abbe; and many of our

most noble families in England derive their honours from those who have

studied law in the Temple. The worthy sons of every community shall

always be sacred from my censure and ridicule; and, while I laugh at

the folly of particular members, I can still honour and revere the

institution.

But let us return from this comparison, which some readers may think

impertinent and unseasonable, and observe, that the Westphalian count,

Dutch officer, and English knight, were not excepted from the

particular regard and attention of our adventurer. He pledged the

German in every bumper; flattered the Hollander with compliments upon

the industry, wealth, and policy of the Seven United Provinces; but he

reserved his chief battery for his own countryman, on the supposition

that he was, in all respects, the best adapted for the purposes of a

needy gamester. Him, therefore, he cultivated with extraordinary care

and singular observance; for he soon perceived him to be a humourist,

and, from that circumstance, derived an happy presage of his own

success. The baronet’s disposition seemed to be cast in the true

English mould. He was sour, silent, and contemptuous; his very looks

indicated a consciousness of superior wealth; and he never opened his

mouth, except to make some dry, sarcastic, national reflection. Nor was

his behaviour free from that air of suspicion which a man puts on when

he believes himself in a crowd of pick-pockets, whom his caution and

vigilance set at defiance. In a word, though his tongue was silent on

the subject, his whole demeanour was continually saying, “You are all a

pack of poor lousy rascals, who have a design upon my purse. ’Tis true,

I could buy your whole generation, but I won’t be bubbled, d’ye see; I

am aware of your flattery, and upon my guard against all your knavish

pranks; and I come into your company for my own amusement only.”

Fathom having reconnoitred this peculiarity of temper, instead of

treating him with that assiduous complaisance, which he received from

the other gentlemen of the party, kept aloof from him in the

conversation, with a remarkable shyness of distant civility, and seldom

took notice of what he said, except with a view to contradict him, or

retort some of his satirical observations. This he conceived to be the

best method of acquiring his good opinion; because the Englishman would

naturally conclude he was a person who could have no sinister views

upon his fortune, else he would have chosen quite a different manner of

deportment. Accordingly, the knight seemed to bite at the hook. He

listened to Ferdinand with uncommon regard; he was even heard to

commend his remarks, and at length drank to their better acquaintance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH ADDRESS IN A NOCTURNAL RIOT.

The Italian and the abbe were the first who began to grow whimsical

under the influence of the burgundy; and, in the heat of their

elevation, proposed that the company should amuse themselves during the

remaining part of the night, at the house of an obliging dame, who

maintained a troop of fair nymphs for the accommodation of the other

sex. The proposal was approved by all, except the Hollander, whose

economy the wine had not as yet invaded; and, while he retreated

soberly to his own lodgings, the rest of the society adjourned in two

coaches to the temple of love, where they were received by the

venerable priestess, a personage turned of seventy, who seemed to

exercise the functions of her calling, in despite of the most cruel

ravages of time; for age had bent her into the form of a Turkish bow.

Her head was agitated by the palsy, like the leaf of the poplar tree;

her hair fell down in scanty parcels, as white as the driven snow; her

face was not simply wrinkled, but ploughed into innumerable furrows;

her jaws could not boast of one remaining tooth; one eye distilled a

large quantity of rheum, by virtue of the fiery edge that surrounded

it; the other was altogether extinguished, and she had lost her nose in

the course of her ministration. The Delphic sibyl was but a type of

this hoary matron, who, by her figure, might have been mistaken for the

consort of Chaos, or mother of Time. Yet there was something

meritorious in her appearance, as it denoted her an indefatigable

minister to the pleasure of mankind, and as it formed an agreeable

contrast with the beauty and youth of the fair damsels that wantoned in

her train. It resembled those discords in music, which, properly

disposed, contribute to the harmony of the whole piece; or those

horrible giants, who, in the world of romance, used to guard the gates

of the castle in which the enchanted damsel was confined.

This Urganda seemed to be aware of her own importance, and perfectly

well acquainted with the human appetite; for she compelled the whole

company to undergo her embrace. Then a lacquey, in magnificent livery,

ushered them into a superb apartment, where they waited some minutes,

without being favoured with the appearance of the ladies, to the

manifest dissatisfaction of the abbe, who, sending for the gouvernante,

reprimanded her severely for her want of politesse. The old lady, who

was by no means a pattern of patience and submission, retorted his

reproaches with great emphasis and vivacity. Her eloquence flowed

altogether in the Covent Garden strain; and I question whether the

celebrated Mother Douglas herself could have made such a figure in an

extemporaneous altercation.

After having bestowed upon the abbe the epithets of saucy insignificant

pimp, she put him in mind of the good offices which he had received at

her hands; how she had supplied him with bed, board, and bedfellow, in

his greatest necessity; sent him abroad with money in his pockets—and,

in a word, cherished him in her bosom, when his own mother had

abandoned him to distress. She then reviled him for presuming to

affront her before strangers, and gave the company to understand, that

the young ladies would wait upon them as soon as they could be

confessed and receive absolution from a worthy cordelier, who was now

employed in performing that charitable office. The gentlemen were

satisfied with this remonstrance, which argued the old lady’s pious

concern for the souls that were under her care, and our adventurer

proposed an accommodation betwixt her and the abbe, who was prevailed

upon to ask her pardon, and received her blessing upon his knees.

This affair had not been long adjusted, when five damsels were

introduced in a very gay dishabille, and our hero was complimented with

the privilege of choosing his Amanda from the whole bevy. When he was

provided, the others began to pair themselves, and, unhappily, the

German count chanced to pitch upon the same nymph who had captivated

the desires of the British knight. A dispute immediately ensued; for

the Englishman made his addresses to the lady, without paying the least

regard to the priority of the other’s claim; and she, being pleased

with his attachment, did not scruple to renounce his rival, who swore

by the thunder, lightning, and sacrament, that he would not quit his

pretensions for any prince in Christendom, much less for a little

English cavalier, whom he had already honoured too much in

condescending to be his companion.

The knight, provoked at this stately declaration, which was the

immediate effect of anger and ebriety, eyed his antagonist with a most

contemptuous aspect, and advised him to avoid such comparisons for the

future. “We all know,” said he, “the importance of a German count; I

suppose your revenue amounts to three hundred rix-dollars; and you have

a chateau that looks like the ruins of an English gaol. I will bind

myself to lend you a thousand pounds upon a mortgage of your estate,

(and a bad bargain I am sure I shall have,) if I do not, in less than

two months, find a yeoman of Kent, who spends more in strong ale than

the sum-total of your yearly income; and, were the truth known, I

believe that lace upon your coat is no better than tinsel, and those

fringed ruffles, with fine Holland sleeves, tacked to a shirt of brown

canvas, so that, were you to undress yourself before the lady, you

would only expose your own poverty and pride.”

The count was so much enraged at these sarcastic observations, that his

faculty of speech was overwhelmed by his resentment; though, in order

to acquit himself of the Englishman’s imputation, he forthwith pulled

off his clothes with such fury, that his brocade waistcoat was tore

from top to bottom. The knight, mistaking his meaning, considered this

demeanour as a fair challenge, to try which was the better man in the

exercise of boxing; and, on that supposition, began to strip in his

turn, when he was undeceived by Fathom, who put the right

interpretation upon the count’s behaviour, and begged that the affair

might be compromised. By this time the Westphalian recovered the use of

his tongue, and with many threats and imprecations, desired they would

take notice how falsely he had been aspersed, and do him justice in

espousing his claim to the damsel in question.

Before the company had time or inclination to interest themselves in

the quarrel, his opponent observed that no person who was not a mere

German, would ever dream of forcing the inclinations of a pretty girl,

whom the accidents of fortune had subjected to his power; that such

compulsion was equivalent to the most cruel rape that could be

committed; and that the lady’s aversion was not at all surprising; for,

to speak his own sentiments, were he a woman of pleasure, he would as

soon grant favours to a Westphalian hog, as to the person of his

antagonist. The German, enraged at this comparison, was quite abandoned

by his patience and discretion. He called the knight an English clown,

and, swearing he was the most untoward beast of a whole nation of

mules, snatched up one of the candlesticks, which he launched at him

with such force and violence, that it sung through the air, and,

winging its flight into the ante-chamber, encountered the skull of his

own valet, who with immediate prostration received the message of his

master.

The knight, that he might not be behindhand with the Westphalian in

point of courtesy, returned the compliment with the remaining

chandelier, which also missed its mark, and, smiting a large mirror

that was fixed behind them, emitted such a crash as one might expect to

hear if a mine were sprung beneath a manufacture of glass. Both lights

being thus extinguished, a furious combat ensued in the dark; the

Italian scampered off with infinite agility, and, as he went

downstairs, desired that nobody would interpose, because it was an

affair of honour, which could not be made up. The ladies consulted

their safety in flight; Count Fathom slyly retired to one corner of the

room; while the abbe, having upon him the terrors of the commissaire,

endeavoured to appease and part the combatants, and, in the attempt,

sustained a random blow upon his nose, which sent him howling into the

other chamber, where, finding his band besmeared with his own blood, he

began to caper about the apartment, in a transport of rage and

vexation.

Meanwhile, the old gentlewoman being alarmed with the noise of the

battle, and apprehensive that it would end in murder, to the danger and

discredit of herself and family, immediately mustered up her myrmidons,

of whom she always retained a formidable band, and, putting herself at

their head, lighted them to the scene of uproar. Ferdinand, who had

hitherto observed a strict neutrality, no sooner perceived them

approach, than he leaped in between the disputants, that he might be

found acting in the character of a peacemaker; and, indeed, by this

time, victory had declared for the baronet, who had treated his

antagonist with a cross-buttock, which laid him almost breathless on

the floor. The victor was prevailed upon, by the entreaties of Fathom,

to quit the field of battle, and adjourn into another room, where, in

less than half an hour, he received a billet from the count, defying

him to single combat on the frontiers of Flanders, at an appointed time

and place. The challenge was immediately accepted by the knight, who,

being flushed with conquest, treated his adversary with great contempt.

But, next day, when the fumes of the burgundy were quite exhaled, and

the adventure recurred to his remembrance and sober reflection, he

waited upon our adventurer at his lodgings, and solicited his advice in

such a manner, as gave him to understand that he looked upon what had

happened as a drunken brawl, which ought to have no serious

consequences. Fathom foreseeing that the affair might be managed for

his own interest, professed himself of the baronet’s opinion; and,

without hesitation, undertook the office of a mediator, assuring his

principal, that his honour should suffer no stain in the course of his

negotiation.

Having received the Englishman’s acknowledgments for this instance of

friendship, he forthwith set out for the place of the German’s

habitation, and understanding he was still asleep, insisted upon his

being immediately waked, and told, that a gentleman from the chevalier

desired to see him, upon business of importance which could not be

delayed. Accordingly, his valet-de-chambre, pressed by Fathom’s

importunities and remonstrances, ventured to go in and shake the count

by the shoulder; when this furious Teutonian, still agitated by the

fever of the preceding night, leaped out of bed in a frenzy, and

seizing his sword that lay upon a table, would have severely punished

the presumption of his servant, had not he been restrained by the

entrance of Ferdinand, who, with a peremptory countenance, gave him to

understand that the valet had acted at his immediate instigation; and

that he was come, as the Englishman’s friend, to concert with him

proper measures for keeping the appointment they had made at their last

meeting.

This message effectually calmed the German, who was not a little

mortified to find himself so disagreeably disturbed. He could not help

cursing the impatience of his antagonist, and even hinting that he

would have acted more like a gentleman and good Christian, in

expressing a desire of seeing the affair accommodated, as he knew

himself to be the aggressor, consequently the first offender against

the laws of politeness and good-fellowship. Fathom, finding him in a

fit temper of mind, took the opportunity of assenting to the

reasonableness of his observation. He ventured to condemn the

impetuosity of the baronet, who, he perceived, was extremely nice and

scrupulous in the punctilios of honour; and said it was a pity that two

gentlemen should forfeit each other’s friendship, much less expose

their lives, for such a frivolous cause. “My dear count,” cried the

Westphalian, “I am charmed to find your sentiments so conformable to my

own. In an honourable cause, I despise all danger; my courage, thank

Heaven! has been manifested in many public engagements as well as in

private rencounters; but, to break with my friend, whose eminent

virtues I admire, and even to seek his life, on such a scandalous

occasion, for a little insignificant w—-e, who, I suppose, took the

advantage of our intoxication, to foment the quarrel: by Heaven! my

conscience cannot digest it.”

Having expressed himself to this purpose, he waited impatiently for the

reply of Ferdinand, who, after a pause of deliberation, offered his

services in the way of mediation; though, he observed, it was a matter

of great delicacy, and the event altogether uncertain. “Nevertheless,”

added our adventurer, “I will strive to appease the knight, who, I

hope, will be induced by my remonstrances to forget the unlucky

accident, which hath so disagreeably interrupted your mutual

friendship.” The German thanked him for this proof of his regard, which

yielded him more satisfaction on account of the chevalier than of

himself. “For, by the tombs of my fathers,” cried he, “I have so little

concern for my personal safety, that, if my honour were interested, I

durst oppose myself singly to the whole ban of the empire; and I am now

ready, if the chevalier requires it, to give him the rendezvous in the

forest of Senlis, either on horseback or on foot, where this contest

may be terminated with the life of one or both of us.”

Count Fathom, with a view to chastise the Westphalian for this

rhodomontade, told him, with a mortifying air of indifference, that if

they were both bent upon taking the field, he would save himself the

trouble of interposing farther in the affair; and desired to know the

hour at which it would suit him to take the air with the baronet. The

other, not a little embarrassed by this question, said, with a

faltering tongue, he should be proud to obey the chevalier’s orders;

but, at the same time, owned he should be much better pleased if our

hero would execute the pacific proposal he had made. Fathom accordingly

promised to exert himself for that purpose, and returned to the knight,

with whom he assumed the merit of having tranquillised the rage of an

incensed barbarian, who was now disposed to a reconciliation upon equal

terms. The baronet overwhelmed him with caresses and compliments upon

his friendship and address; the parties met that same forenoon, as if

by accident, in Fathom’s apartment, where they embraced each other

cordially, exchanged apologies, and renewed their former

correspondence.

Our adventurer thought he had good reason to congratulate himself upon

the part he had acted in this pacification. He was treated by both with

signal marks of particular affection and esteem. The count pressed him

to accept, as a token of his attachment, a sword of very curious

workmanship, which he had received in a present from a certain prince

of the empire. The knight forced upon his finger a very splendid

diamond ring, as a testimony of his gratitude and esteem. But there was

still another person to be appeased, before the peace of the whole

company could be established. This was no other than the abbe, from

whom each of the reconciled friends received at dinner a billet couched

in these words:—

“I have the honour to lament the infinite chagrin and mortification

that compels me to address myself in this manner to a person of your

rank and eminence, whom I should do myself the pleasure of waiting upon

in person, were I not prevented by the misfortune of my nose, which was

last night most cruelly disarranged, by a violent contusion I had the

honour to receive, in attempting to compose that unhappy fracas, at the

house of Madame la Maquerelle; and what puts the finishing stroke to my

mishap, is my being rendered incapable of keeping three or four

assignations with ladies of fashion, by whom I have the honour to be

particularly esteemed. The disfiguration of my nose, the pain I have

undergone, with the discomposure of brain which it produced, I could

bear as a philosopher; but the disappointment of the ladies, my glory

will not permit me to overlook. And as you know the injury was

sustained in your service, I have the pleasure to hope you will not

refuse to grant such reparation as will be acceptable to a gentleman,

who has the honour to be with inviolable attachment,—

Sir, your most devoted slave,

PEPIN CLOTHAIRE CHARLE HENRI LOOUIS BARNABE DE FUMIER.”

This epistle was so equivocal, that the persons to whom it was

addressed did not know whether or not they ought to interpret the

contents into a challenge; when our hero observed, that the ambiguity

of his expressions plainly proved there was a door left open for

accommodation; and proposed that they should forthwith visit the writer

at his own apartment. They accordingly followed his advice, and found

the abbe in his morning gown and slippers, with three huge nightcaps on

his head, and a crape hat-band tied over the middle of his face, by way

of bandage to his nose. He received his visitors with the most

ridiculous solemnity, being still a stranger to the purport of their

errand; but soon as the Westphalian declared they were come in

consequence of his billet, in order to ask pardon for the undesigned

offence they had given, his features retrieved their natural vivacity,

and he professed himself perfectly satisfied with their polite

acknowledgment. Then they condoled him upon the evil plight of his

nose, and seeing some marks upon his shirt, asked with seeming concern,

if he had lost any blood in the fray? To this interrogation he replied,

that he had still a sufficient quantity left for the occasions of his

friends; and that he should deem it his greatest glory to expend the

last drop of it in their service.

Matters being thus amicably adjusted, they prevailed upon him to unease

his nose, which retained no signs of the outrage he had suffered; and

the amusements of the day were concerted. It was in consequence of this

plan, that, after the comedy, they were entertained at the count’s

lodgings, where quadrille was proposed by the abbe, as the most

innocent pastime, and the proposal was immediately embraced by all

present, and by none with more alacrity than by our adventurer, who,

without putting forth a moiety of his skill, went home with twenty

louis clear gain. Though, far from believing himself greatly superior

to the rest of the party, in the artifices of play, he justly suspected

that they had concealed their skill, with a view of stripping him on

some other occasion; for he could not suppose that persons of their

figure and character should be, in reality, such novices as they

affected to appear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

HE OVERLOOKS THE ADVANCES OF HIS FRIENDS, AND SMARTS SEVERELY FOR HIS

NEGLECT.

Steeled with this cautious maxim, he guarded himself from their united

endeavours, in sundry subsequent attacks, by which his first conjecture

was confirmed, and still came off conqueror, by virtue of his

unparalleled finesse and discretion; till at length they seemed to

despair of making him their prey, and the count began to drop some

hints, importing a desire of seeing him more closely united to the

views and interest of their triumvirate. But Ferdinand, who was

altogether selfish, and quite solitary in his prospects, discouraged

all those advances, being resolved to trade upon his own bottom only,

and to avoid all such connexions with any person or society whatever;

much more, with a set of raw adventurers whose talents he despised.

With these sentiments, he still maintained the dignity and reserve of

his first appearance among them, and rather enhanced than diminished

that idea of importance which he had inspired at the beginning;

because, besides his other qualifications, they gave him credit for the

address with which he kept himself superior to their united designs.

While he thus enjoyed his pre-eminence, together with the fruits of his

success at play, which he managed so discreetly as never to incur the

reputation of an adventurer, he one day chanced to be at the ordinary,

when the company was surprised by the entrance of such a figure as had

never appeared before in that place. This was no other than a person

habited in the exact uniform of an English jockey. His leathern cap,

cut bob, fustian frock, flannel waistcoat, buff breeches, hunting-boots

and whip, were sufficient of themselves to furnish out a phenomenon for

the admiration of all Paris. But these peculiarities were rendered

still more conspicuous by the behaviour of the man who owned them. When

he crossed the threshold of the outward door, he produced such a sound

from the smack of his whip, as equalled the explosion of an ordinary

cohorn; and then broke forth into the halloo of a foxhunter, which he

uttered with all its variations, in a strain of vociferation that

seemed to astonish and confound the whole assembly, to whom he

introduced himself and his spaniel, by exclaiming, in a tone something

less melodious than the cry of mackerel or live cod, “By your leave,

gentlevolks, I hope there’s no offence, in an honest plain Englishman’s

coming with money in his pocket, to taste a bit of your Vrench frigasee

and ragooze.”

This declaration was made in such a wild, fantastical manner, that the

greatest part of the company mistook him for some savage monster or

maniac, and consulted their safety by starting up from table, and

drawing their swords. The Englishman, seeing such a martial apparatus

produced against him, recoiled two or three steps, saying, “Waunds! a

believe the people are all bewitched. What, do they take me for a beast

of prey? is there nobody here that knows Sir Stentor Stile, or can

speak to me in my own lingo?” He had no sooner pronounced these words,

than the baronet, with marks of infinite surprise, ran towards him,

crying, “Good Heaven! Sir Stentor, who expected to meet with you in

Paris?” Upon which, the other eyeing him very earnestly, “Odds

heartlikins!” cried he, “my neighbour, Sir Giles Squirrel, as I am a

living soul!” With these words he flew upon him like a tiger, kissed

him from ear to ear, demolished his periwig, and disordered the whole

economy of his dress, to the no small entertainment of the company.

Having well-nigh stifled his countryman with embraces, and besmeared

himself with pulville from head to foot, he proceeded in this manner,

“Mercy upon thee, knight, thou art so transmographied, and bedaubed,

and bedizened, that thou mought rob thy own mother without fear of

information. Look ye here now, I will be trussed, if the very bitch

that was brought up in thy own bosom knows thee again. Hey, Sweetlips,

here hussy, d—n the tuoad, dos’t n’t know thy old measter? Ey, ey, thou

may’st smell till Christmas, I’ll be bound to be hanged, knight, if the

creature’s nose an’t foundered by the d——d stinking perfumes you have

got among you.”

These compliments being passed, the two knights sat down by one

another, and Sir Stentor being asked by his neighbour, upon what errand

he had crossed the sea, gave him to understand, that he had come to

France, in consequence of a wager with Squire Snaffle, who had laid a

thousand pounds, that he, Sir Stentor, would not travel to Paris by

himself, and for a whole month appear every day at a certain hour in

the public walks, without wearing any other dress than that in which he

saw him. “The fellor has got no more stuff in his pate,” continued this

polite stranger, “than a jackass, to think I could not find my way

hither thof I could not jabber your French lingo. Ecod! the people of

this country are sharp enough to find out your meaning, when you want

to spend anything among them; and, as for the matter of dress,

bodikins! for a thousand pound, I would engage to live in the midst of

them, and show myself without any clothes at all. Odds heart! a

true-born Englishman needs not be ashamed to show his face, nor his

backside neither, with the best Frenchman that ever trod the ground.

Thof we Englishmen don’t beplaister our doublets with gold and silver,

I believe as how we have our pockets better lined than most of our

neighbours; and for all my bit of a fustian frock, that cost me in all

but forty shillings, I believe, between you and me, knight, I have more

dust in my fob, than all those powdered sparks put together. But the

worst of the matter is this; here is no solid belly-timber in this

country. One can’t have a slice of delicate sirloin, or nice buttock of

beef, for love nor money. A pize upon them! I could get no eatables

upon the ruoad, but what they called bully, which looks like the flesh

of Pharaoh’s lean kine stewed into rags and tatters; and then their

peajohn, peajohn, rabbet them! One would think every old woman of this

kingdom hatched pigeons from her own body.”

It is not to be supposed that such an original sat unobserved. The

French and other foreigners, who had never been in England, were struck

dumb with amazement at the knight’s appearance and deportment; while

the English guests were overwhelmed with shame and confusion, and kept

a most wary silence, for fear of being recognised by their countryman.

As for our adventurer, he was inwardly transported with joy at sight of

this curiosity. He considered him as a genuine, rich country booby, of

the right English growth, fresh as imported; and his heart throbbed

with rapture, when he heard Sir Stentor value himself upon the lining

of his pockets. He foresaw, indeed, that the other knight would

endeavour to reserve him for his own game; but he was too conscious of

his own accomplishments to think he should find great difficulty in

superseding the influence of Sir Giles.

Meanwhile, the new-comer was by his friend helped to some ragout, which

pleased his palate so well, that he declared he should now make a

hearty meal, for the first time since he had crossed the water; and,

while his good-humour prevailed, he drank to every individual around

the table. Ferdinand seized this opportunity of insinuating himself

into his favour, by saying in English, he was glad to find there was

anything in France that was agreeable to Sir Stentor. To this

compliment the knight replied with an air of surprise: “Waunds! I find

here’s another countryman of mine in this here company. Sir, I am proud

to see you with all my heart.” So speaking, he thrust out his right

hand across the table, and shook our hero by the fist, with such

violence of civility, as proved very grievous to a French marquis, who,

in helping himself to soup, was jostled in such a manner, as to

overturn the dividing-spoon in his own bosom. The Englishman, seeing

the mischief he had produced, cried, “No offence, I hope,” in a tone of

vociferation, which the marquis in all probability misconstrued; for he

began to model his features into a very sublime and peremptory look,

when Fathom interpreted the apology, and at the same time informed Sir

Stentor, that although he himself had not the honour of being an

Englishman, he had always entertained a most particular veneration for

the country, and learned the language in consequence of that esteem.

“Blood!” answered the knight, “I think myself the more obliged to you

for your kind opinion, than if you was my countryman in good earnest.

For there be abundance of we English—no offence, Sir Giles—that seem to

be ashamed of their own nation, and leave their homes to come and spend

their fortunes abroad, among a parcel of—you understand me, sir—a word

to the wise, as the saying is.”—Here he was interrupted by an article

of the second course, that seemed to give him great disturbance. This

was a roasted leveret, very strong of the fumet, which happened to be

placed directly under his nose. His sense of smelling was no sooner

encountered by the effluvia of this delicious fare, than he started up

from table, exclaiming, “Odd’s my liver! here’s a piece of carrion,

that I would not offer to e’er a hound in my kennel; ’tis enough to

make any Christian vomit both gut and gall;” and indeed by the wry

faces he made while he ran to the door, his stomach seemed ready to

justify this last assertion.

The abbe, who concluded, from these symptoms of disgust, that the

leveret was not sufficiently stale, began to exhibit marks of

discontent, and desired that it might be brought to the other end of

the table for his examination. He accordingly hung over it with the

most greedy appetite, feasting his nostrils with the steams of animal

putrefaction; and at length declared that the morceau was passable,

though he owned it would have been highly perfect, had it been kept

another week. Nevertheless, mouths were not wanting to discuss it,

insipid as it was; for in three minutes there was not a vestige to be

seen of that which had offended the organs of Sir Stentor, who now

resumed his place, and did justice to the dessert. But what he seemed

to relish better than any other part of the entertainment, was the

conversation of our adventurer, whom, after dinner, he begged to have

the honour of treating with a dish of coffee, to the seeming

mortification of his brother knight, over which Fathom exulted in his

own heart.

In short, our hero, by his affability and engaging deportment,

immediately gained possession of Sir Stentor’s good graces, insomuch,

that he desired to crack a bottle with him in the evening, and they

repaired to an auberge, whither his fellow-knight accompanied him, not

without manifest signs of reluctance. There the stranger gave a loose

to jollity; though at first he d—-ed the burgundy as a poor thin

liquor, that ran through him in a twinkling, and, instead of warming,

cooled his heart and bowels. However, it insensibly seemed to give the

lie to his imputation; for his spirits rose to a more elevated pitch of

mirth and good-fellowship; he sung, or rather roared, the Early Horn,

so as to alarm the whole neighbourhood, and began to slabber his

companions with a most bear-like affection. Yet whatever haste he made

to the goal of ebriety, he was distanced by his brother baronet, who

from the beginning of the party had made little other use of his mouth

than to receive the glass, and now sunk down upon the floor, in a state

of temporary annihilation.

He was immediately carried to bed by the direction of Ferdinand, who

now saw himself in a manner possessor of that mine to which he had made

such eager and artful advances. That he might, therefore, carry on the

approaches in the same cautious manner, he gradually shook off the

trammels of sobriety, gave a loose to that spirit of freedom which good

liquor commonly inspires, and, in the familiarity of drunkenness, owned

himself head of a noble family of Poland, from which he had been

obliged to absent himself on account of an affair of honour, not yet

compromised.

Having made this confession, and laid strong injunctions of secrecy

upon Sir Stentor, his countenance seemed to acquire from every

succeeding glass a new symptom of intoxication. They renewed their

embraces, swore eternal friendship from that day, and swallowed fresh

bumpers, till both being in all appearance quite overpowered, they

began to yawn in concert, and even nod in their chairs. The knight

seemed to resent the attacks of slumber, as so many impertinent

attempts to interrupt their entertainment; he cursed his own propensity

to sleep, imputing it to the d—-ed French climate, and proposed to

engage in some pastime that would keep them awake. “Odd’s flesh!” cried

the Briton, “when I’m at home, I defy all the devils in hell to fasten

my eyelids together, if so be as I’m otherwise inclined. For there’s

mother and sister Nan, and brother Numps and I, continue to divert

ourselves at all-fours, brag, cribbage, tetotum, husslecap, and

chuck-varthing, and, thof I say it, that should n’t say it, I won’t

turn my back to e’er a he in England, at any of these pastimes. And so,

Count, if you are so disposed, I am your man, that is, in the way of

friendship, at which of these you shall please to pitch upon.”

To this proposal Fathom replied, he was quite ignorant of all the games

he had mentioned; but, in order to amuse Sir Stentor, he would play

with him at lansquenet, for a trifle, as he had laid it down for a

maxim, to risk nothing considerable at play. “Waunds!” answered the

knight, “I hope you don’t think I come here in quest of money. Thank

God! I have a good landed estate worth five thousand a year, and owe no

man a halfpenny; and I question whether there be many counts in your

nation—no offence, I hope—that can say a bolder word. As for your

lambskin net, I know nothing of the matter; but I will toss up with you

for a guinea, cross or pile, as the saying is; or, if there’s such a

thing in this country as a box and dice, I love to hear the bones

rattle sometimes.”

Fathom found some difficulty in concealing his joy at the mention of

this last amusement, which had been one of his chief studies, and in

which he had made such progress, that he could calculate all the

chances with the utmost exactness and certainty. However, he made shift

to contain himself within due bounds, and, with seeming indifference,

consented to pass away an hour at hazard, provided the implements could

be procured. Accordingly, the landlord was consulted, and their desire

gratified; the dice were produced, and the table resounded with the

effects of their mutual eagerness. Fortune, at first, declared for the

Englishman, who was permitted by our adventurer to win twenty broad

pieces; and he was so elated with his success, as to accompany every

lucky throw with a loud burst of laughter, and other savage and simple

manifestations of excessive joy, exclaiming, in a tone something less

sweet than the bellowing of a bull, “Now for the main, Count,—odd! here

they come—here are the seven black stars, i’faith. Come along, my

yellow boys—odd’s heart! I never liked the face of Lewis before.”

Fathom drew happy presages from these boyish raptures, and, after

having indulged them for some time, began to avail himself of his

arithmetic, in consequence of which the knight was obliged to refund

the greatest part of his winning. Then he altered his note, and became

as intemperate in his chagrin, as he had been before immoderate in his

mirth. He cursed himself and his whole generation, d—-ed his bad luck,

stamped with his feet upon the floor, and challenged Ferdinand to

double stakes. This was a very welcome proposal to our hero, who found

Sir Stentor just such a subject as he had long desired to encounter

with; the more the Englishman laid, the more he lost, and Fathom took

care to inflame his passions, by certain well-timed sarcasms upon his

want of judgment, till at length he became quite outrageous, swore the

dice were false, and threw them out at the window; pulled off his

periwig, and committed it to the flames, spoke with the most rancorous

contempt of his adversary’s skill, insisted upon his having stripped

many a better man, for all he was a Count, and threatening that, before

they parted, he should not only look like a Pole, but also smell like a

pole-cat.

This was a spirit which our adventurer industriously kept up, observing

that the English were dupes to all the world; and that, in point of

genius and address, they were no more than noisy braggadocios. In

short, another pair of dice was procured, the stakes were again raised,

and, after several vicissitudes, fortune declared so much in favour of

the knight, that Fathom lost all the money in his pocket, amounting to

a pretty considerable sum. By this time he was warmed into uncommon

eagerness and impatience; being equally piqued at the success and

provoking exultations of his antagonist, whom he now invited to his

lodgings, in order to decide the contest. Sir Stentor complied with

this request; the dispute was renewed with various success, till,

towards daylight, Ferdinand saw this noisy, raw, inexperienced

simpleton, carry off all his ready cash, together with his jewels, and

almost everything that was valuable about his person; and, to crown the

whole, the victor at parting told him with a most intolerable sneer,

that as soon as the Count should receive another remittance from

Poland, he would give him his revenge.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

HE BEARS HIS FATE LIKE A PHILOSOPHER; AND CONTRACTS ACQUAINTANCE WITH A

VERY REMARKABLE PERSONAGE.

This was a proper subject for our hero to moralise upon; and

accordingly it did not pass without his remarks; he found himself

fairly foiled at his own weapons, reduced to indigence in a foreign

land, and, what he chiefly regretted, robbed of all those gay

expectations he had indulged from his own supposed excellence in the

wiles of fraud; for, upon a little recollection, he plainly perceived

he had fallen a sacrifice to the confederacy he had refused to join;

and did not at all doubt that the dice were loaded for his destruction.

But, instead of beating his head against the wall, tearing his hair,

imprecating vain curses upon himself, or betraying other frantic

symptoms of despair, he resolved to accommodate himself to his fate,

and profit by the lesson he had so dearly bought.

With this intention, he immediately dismissed his valet, quitted his

lodgings, retired to an obscure street on the other side of the river,

and, covering one eye with a large patch of black silk, presented

himself in quality of a musician to the director of the opera, who,

upon hearing a trial of his skill, received him into the band without

further question. While he continued in this situation, he not only

improved his taste and execution in music, but likewise found frequent

opportunities to extend his knowledge of mankind; for, besides the

employment he exercised in public, he was often concerned in private

concerts that were given in the hotels of noblemen; by which means he

became more and more acquainted with the persons, manners, and

characters of high life, which he contemplated with the most

industrious attention, as a spectator, who, being altogether

unconcerned in the performance, is at more liberty to observe and enjoy

the particulars of the entertainment.

It was in one of those assemblies he had the pleasure of seeing his

friend Sir Stentor, dressed in the most fashionable manner, and

behaving with all the overstrained politesse of a native Frenchman. He

was accompanied by his brother knight and the abbe; and this

triumvirate, even in Fathom’s hearing, gave a most ludicrous detail of

the finesse they had practised upon the Polish Count, to their

entertainer, who was ambassador from a certain court, and made himself

extremely merry with the particulars of the relation. Indeed, they made

shift to describe some of the circumstances in such a ridiculous light,

that our adventurer himself, smarting as he was with the disgrace,

could not help laughing in secret at the account. He afterwards made it

his business to inquire into the characters of the two British knights,

and understood they were notorious sharpers, who had come abroad for

the good of their country, and now hunted in couple among a French

pack, that dispersed themselves through the public ordinaries, walks,

and spectacles, in order to make a prey of incautious strangers.

The pride of Ferdinand was piqued at this information; and he was even

animated with the desire of making reprisals upon this fraternity, from

which he ardently longed to retrieve his honour and effects. But the

issue of his last adventure had reinforced his caution; and, for the

present, he found means to suppress the dictates of his avarice and

ambition; resolving to employ his whole penetration in reconnoitring

the ground, before he should venture to take the field again. He

therefore continued to act the part of a one-eyed fiddler, under the

name of Fadini, and lived with incredible frugality, that he might save

a purse for his future operations. In this manner had he proceeded for

the space of ten months, during which he acquired a competent knowledge

of the city of Paris, when his curiosity was attracted by certain

peculiarities in the appearance of a man who lived in one of the upper

apartments belonging to the house in which he himself had fixed his

habitation.

This was a tall, thin, meagre figure, with a long black beard, an

aquiline nose, a brown complexion, and a most piercing vivacity in his

eyes. He seemed to be about the age of fifty, wore the Persian habit,

and there was a remarkable severity in his aspect and demeanour. He and

our adventurer had been fellow-lodgers for some time, and, according to

the laudable custom in these days, had hitherto remained as much

estranged to one another, as if they had lived on opposite sides of the

globe; but of late the Persian seemed to regard our hero with

particular attention; when they chanced to meet on the staircase, or

elsewhere, he bowed to Ferdinand with great solemnity, and complimented

him with the pas. He even proceeded, in the course of this

communication, to open his mouth, and salute him with a good-morrow,

and sometimes made the common remarks upon the weather. Fathom, who was

naturally complaisant, did not discourage these advances. On the

contrary, he behaved to him with marks of particular respect, and one

day desired the favour of his company to breakfast.

This invitation the stranger declined with due acknowledgment, on

pretence of being out of order; and, in the meantime, our adventurer

bethought himself of questioning the landlord concerning his outlandish

guest. His curiosity was rather inflamed than satisfied with the

information he could obtain from this quarter; for all he learned was,

that the Persian went by the name of Ali Beker, and that he had lived

in the house for the space of four months, in a most solitary and

parsimonious manner, without being visited by one living soul; that,

for some time after his arrival, he had been often heard to groan

dismally in the night, and even to exclaim in an unknown language, as

if he had laboured under some grievous affliction; and though the first

transports of his grief had subsided, it was easy to perceive he still

indulged a deep-rooted melancholy; for the tears were frequently

observed to trickle down his beard. The commissaire of the quarter had

at first ordered this Oriental to be watched in his outgoings,

according to the maxims of the French police; but his life was found so

regular and inoffensive, that this precaution was soon set aside.

Any man of humane sentiments, from the knowledge of these particulars,

would have been prompted to offer his services to the forlorn stranger;

but as our hero was devoid of all these infirmities of human nature, it

was necessary that other motives should produce the same effect. His

curiosity, therefore, joined with the hopes of converting the

confidence of Ali to his own emolument, effectually impelled him

towards his acquaintance; and, in a little time, they began to relish

the conversation of each other. For, as the reader may have already

observed, Fathom possessed all the arts of insinuation, and had

discernment enough to perceive an air of dignity in the Persian, which

the humility of his circumstances could not conceal. He was, moreover,

a man of good understanding, not without a tincture of letters,

perfectly well bred, though in a ceremonious style, extremely moral in

his discourse, and scrupulously nice in his notions of honour.

Our hero conformed himself in all respects to the other’s opinions, and

managed his discretion so as to pass upon him for a gentleman reduced

by misfortunes to the exercise of an employment which was altogether

unsuitable to his birth and quality. He made earnest and repeated

tenders of his good offices to the stranger, and pressed him to make

use of his purse with such cordial perseverance, that, at length, Ali’s

reserve was overcome, and he condescended to borrow of him a small sum,

which in all probability, saved his life; for he had been driven to the

utmost extremity of want before he would accept of this assistance.

Fathom, having gradually stole into his good graces, began to take

notice of many piteous sighs that escaped him in the moments of their

intercourse, and seemed to denote an heart fraught with woe; and, on

pretence of administering consolation and counsel, begged leave to know

the cause of his distress, observing, that his mind would be

disburdened by such communication, and, perhaps, his grief alleviated

by some means which they might jointly concert and execute in his

behalf.

Ali, thus solicited, would often shake his head, with marks of extreme

sorrow and despondence, and, while the tears gushed from his eyes,

declared that his distress was beyond the power of any remedy but

death, and that, by making our hero his confidant, he should only

extend his unhappiness to a friend, without feeling the least remission

of his own torture. Notwithstanding these repeated declarations,

Ferdinand, who was well enough acquainted with the mind of man to know

that such importunity is seldom or never disagreeable, redoubled his

instances, together with his expressions of sympathy and esteem, until

the stranger was prevailed upon to gratify his curiosity and

benevolence. Having, therefore, secured the chamber door one night,

while all the rest of the family were asleep, the unfortunate Ali

disclosed himself in these words.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE HISTORY OF THE NOBLE CASTILIAN.

I should be ungrateful, as well as unwise, did I longer resist the

desire you express to know the particulars of that destiny which hath

driven me to this miserable disguise, and rendered me in all

considerations the most wretched of men. I have felt your friendship,

am confident of your honour, and though my misfortunes are such as can

never be repaired, because I am utterly cut off from hope, which is the

wretch’s last comfort, yet I may, by your means, be enabled to bear

them with some degree of fortitude and resignation.

Know then, my name is not Ali; neither am I of Persian extraction. I

had once the honour to own myself a Castilian, and was, under the

appellation of Don Diego de Zelos, respected as the head of one of the

most ancient families of that kingdom. Judge, then, how severe that

distress must be, which compels a Spaniard to renounce his country, his

honours, and his name. My youth was not spent in inglorious ease,

neither did it waste unheeded in the rolls of fame. Before I had

attained the age of nineteen, I was twice wounded in battle. I once

fortunately recovered the standard of the regiment to which I belonged,

after it had been seized by the enemy; and, at another occasion, made

shift to save the life of my colonel, when he lay at the mercy of an

enraged barbarian.

He that thinks I recapitulate these particulars out of ostentation,

does wrong to the unhappy Don Diego de Zelos, who, in having performed

these little acts of gallantry, thinks he has done nothing, but simply

approved himself worthy of being called a Castilian. I mean only to do

justice to my own character, and to make you acquainted with one of the

most remarkable incidents of my life. It was my fate, during my third

campaign, to command a troop of horse in the regiment of Don Gonzales

Orgullo, between whom and my father a family feud had long been

maintained with great enmity; and that gentleman did not leave me

without reason to believe he rejoiced at the opportunity of exercising

his resentment upon his adversary’s son; for he withheld from me that

countenance which my fellow-officers enjoyed, and found means to

subject me to divers mortifications, of which I was not at liberty to

complain. These I bore in silence for some time, as part of my

probation in the character of a soldier; resolved, nevertheless, to

employ my interest at court for a removal into another corps, and to

take some future opportunity of explaining my sentiments to Don

Gonzales upon the injustice of his behaviour.

While I animated myself with these sentiments against the

discouragements I underwent, and the hard duty to which I was daily

exposed, it was our fate to be concerned in the battle of Saragossa,

where our regiment was so severely handled by the English infantry,

that it was forced to give ground with the loss of one half of its

officers and men. Don Gonzales, who acted as brigadier in another wing,

being informed of our fate, and dreading the disgrace of his corps,

which had never turned back to the enemy, put spurs to his horse, and,

riding across the field at full speed, rallied our broken squadrons,

and led us back to the charge with such intrepidity of behaviour, as

did not fail to inspire us all with uncommon courage and alacrity. For

my own part, I thought myself doubly interested to distinguish my

valour, not only on account of my own glory, but likewise on the

supposition, that, as I was acting under the eye of Gonzales, my

conduct would be narrowly observed.

I therefore exerted myself with unusual vigour, and as he began the

attack with the remains of my troop, fought close by his side during

the rest of the engagement. I even acquired his applause in the very

heat of battle. When his hat was struck off, and his horse fell under

him, I accommodated and remounted him upon my own, and, having seized

for my own use another that belonged to a common trooper, attended this

stern commander as before, and seconded him in all his repeated

efforts; but it was impossible to withstand the numbers and impetuosity

of the foe, and Don Gonzales having had the mortification to see his

regiment cut in pieces, and the greatest part of the army routed, was

fain to yield to the fortune of the day; yet he retired as became a man

of honour and a Castilian; that is, he marched off with great

deliberation in the rear of the Spanish troops, and frequently faced

about to check the pursuit of the enemy. Indeed, this exercise of his

courage had well-nigh cost him his life; for, in one of those

wheelings, he was left almost alone, and a small party of the

Portuguese horse had actually cut off our communication with the

retreating forces of Spain.

In this dilemma, we had no other chance of saving our lives and

liberty, than that of opening a passage sword in hand; and this was

what Gonzales instantly resolved to attempt. We accordingly recommended

our souls to God, and, charging the line abreast of one another, bore

down all opposition, and were in a fair way of accomplishing our

retreat without further danger; but the gallant Orgullo, in crossing a

ditch, had the misfortune to be thrown from his horse, and was almost

the same instant overtaken by one of the Portuguese dragoons, whose

sword was already suspended over his head, as he lay half stunned with

his fall; when I rode up, discharged a pistol in the ruffian’s brain,

and, seating my colonel on his horse, had the good fortune to conduct

him to a place of safety.

Here he was provided with such accommodation as his case required; for

he had been wounded in the battle, and dangerously bruised by his fall,

and, when all the necessary steps were taken towards his recovery, I

desired to know if he had any further commands for his service, being

resolved to join the army without delay. I thought proper to

communicate this question by message, because he had not spoke one word

to me during our retreat, notwithstanding the good office he had

received at my hands; a reserve which I attributed to his pride, and

resented accordingly. He no sooner understood my intention, than he

desired to see me in his apartment, and, as near as I can remember,

spoke to this effect:—

“Were your father Don Alonzo alive, I should now, in consequence of

your behaviour, banish every suggestion of resentment, and solicit his

friendship with great sincerity. Yes, Don Diego, your virtue hath

triumphed over that enmity I bore your house, and I upbraid myself with

the ungenerous treatment you have suffered under my command. But it is

not enough for me to withdraw that rigour which it was unjust to

exercise, and would be wicked to maintain. I must likewise atone for

the injuries you have sustained, and make some suitable acknowledgment

for that life which I have twice to-day owed to your valour and

generosity. Whatever interest I have at court shall be employed in your

behalf; and I have other designs in your favour, which shall be

disclosed in due season. Meanwhile, I desire you will still add one

obligation to the debt which I have already incurred, and carry this

billet in person to my Estifania, who, from the news of this fatal

overthrow must be in despair upon my account.”

So saying, he presented a letter, directed to his lady, which I

received in a transport of joy, with expressions suitable to the

occasion, and immediately set out for his country house, which happened

to be about thirty leagues from the spot. This expedition was equally

glorious and interesting; for my thoughts upon the road were engrossed

by the hope of seeing Don Orgullo’s daughter and heiress Antonia, who

was reported to be a young lady of great beauty, and the most amiable

accomplishments. However ridiculous it may seem for a man to conceive a

passion for an object which he hath never beheld, certain it is, my

sentiments were so much prepossessed by the fame of her qualifications,

that I must have fallen a victim to her charms, had they been much less

powerful than they were. Notwithstanding the fatigues I had undergone

in the field, I closed not an eye until I arrived at the gate of

Gonzales, being determined to precede the report of the battle, that

Madame d’Orgullo might not be alarmed for the life of her husband.

I declared my errand, and was introduced into a saloon, where I had not

waited above three minutes, when my colonel’s lady appeared, and in

great confusion received the letter, exclaiming, “Heaven grant that Don

Gonzales be well!” In reading the contents, she underwent a variety of

agitations; but, when she had perused the whole, her countenance

regained its serenity, and, regarding me with an air of ineffable

complacency, “Don Diego,” said she, “while I lament the national

calamity, in the defeat of our army, I at the same time feel the most

sincere pleasure on seeing you upon this occasion, and, according to

the directions of my dear lord, bid you heartily welcome to this house,

as his preserver and friend. I was not unacquainted with your character

before this last triumph of your virtue, and have often prayed to

Heaven for some lucky determination of that fatal quarrel which raged

so long between the family of Gonzales and your father’s house. My

prayers have been heard, the long-wished-for reconciliation is now

effected, and I hope nothing will ever intervene to disturb this happy

union.”

To this polite and affectionate declaration, I made such a reply as

became a young man, whose heart overflowed with joy and benevolence,

and desired to know how soon her answer to my commander would be ready,

that I might gratify his impatience with all possible despatch. After

having thanked me for this fresh proof of my attachment, she begged I

would retire into a chamber, and repose myself from the uncommon

fatigues I must have undergone; but, finding I persisted in the

resolution of returning to Don Gonzales, without allowing myself the

least benefit of sleep, she left me engaged in conversation with an

uncle of Don Gonzales, who lodged in the house, and gave orders that a

collation should be prepared in another apartment, while she retired to

her closet, and wrote a letter to her husband.

In less than an hour from my first arrival, I was introduced into a

most elegant dining-room, where a magnificent entertainment was served

up, and where we were joined by Donna Estifania, and her beautiful

daughter the fair Antonia, who, advancing with the most amiable

sweetness, thanked me in very warm expressions of acknowledgment, for

the generosity of my conduct towards her father. I had been ravished

with her first appearance, which far exceeded my imagination, and my

faculties were so disordered by this address, that I answered her

compliment with the most awkward confusion. But this disorder did not

turn to my prejudice in the opinion of that lovely creature, who has

often told me in the sequel, that she gave herself credit for that

perplexity in my behaviour, and that I never appeared more worthy of

her regard and affection than at that juncture, when my dress was

discomposed, and my whole person disfigured by the toils and duty of

the preceding day; for this very dishabille presented itself to her

reflection as the immediate effect of that very merit by which I was

entitled to her esteem.

Wretch that I am! to survive the loss of such an excellent woman,

endeared to my remembrance by the most tender offices of wedlock,

happily exercised for the space of five-and-twenty years! Forgive these

tears; they are not the drops of weakness, but remorse. Not to trouble

you with idle particulars, suffice it is to say, I was favoured with

such marks of distinction by Madame d’Orgullo, that she thought it

incumbent upon her to let me know she had not overacted her

hospitality, and, while we sat at table, accosted me in these words:

“You will not be surprised, Don Diego, at my expressions of regard,

which I own are unusual from a Spanish lady to a young cavalier like

you, when I communicate the contents of this letter from Don Gonzales.”

So saying, she put the billet into my hand, and I read these words, or

words to this effect:—

“AMIABLE ESTIFANIA,—You will understand that I am as well as a person

can possibly be who hath this day lived to see the army of his king

defeated. If you would know the particulars of this unfortunate action,

your curiosity will be gratified by the bearer, Don Diego de Zelos, to

whose virtue and bravery I am twice indebted for my life. I therefore

desire you will receive him with that respect and gratitude which you

shall think due for such an obligation; and, in entertaining him,

dismiss that reserve which often disgraces the Spanish hospitality. In

a word, let your own virtue and beneficence conduct you upon this

occasion, and let my Antonia’s endeavours be joined with your own in

doing honour to the preserver of her father! Adieu.”

Such a testimonial could not fail of being very agreeable to a young

soldier, who by this time had begun to indulge the transporting hope of

being happy in the arms of the adorable Antonia. I professed myself

extremely happy in having met with an opportunity of acquiring such a

degree of my colonel’s esteem, entertained them with a detail of his

personal prowess in the battle, and answered all their questions with

that moderation which every man ought to preserve in speaking of his

own behaviour. Our repast being ended, I took my leave of the ladies,

and at parting received a letter from Donna Estifania to her husband,

together with a ring of great value, which she begged I would accept,

as a token of her esteem. Thus loaded with honour and caresses, I set

out on my return for the quarters of Don Gonzales, who could scarce

credit his own eyes when I delivered his lady’s billet; for he thought

it impossible to perform such a journey in so short a time.

When he had glanced over the paper, “Don Diego,” said he, “by your

short stay one would imagine you had met with indifferent reception at

my house. I hope Estifania has not been deficient in her duty?” I

answered this question, by assuring him my entertainment had been so

agreeable in all respects, that nothing but my duty to him could have

induced me to give it up so soon. He then turned the conversation upon

Antonia, and hinted his intention of giving her in marriage to a young

cavalier, for whom he had a particular friendship. I was so much

affected by this insinuation, which seemed at once to blast all my

hopes of love and happiness, that the blood forsook my face; I was

seized with an universal trepidation, and even obliged to retire, on

pretence of being suddenly taken ill.

Though Gonzales seemed to impute this disorder to fatigue and want of

rest, he in his heart ascribed it to the true cause; and, after having

sounded my sentiments to his own satisfaction, blessed me with a

declaration, importing, that I was the person upon whom he had pitched

for a son-in-law. I will not trouble you with a repetition of what

passed on this interesting occasion, but proceed to observe, that his

intention in my favour was far from being disagreeable to his lady; and

that, in a little time, I had the good fortune to espouse the charming

Antonia, who submitted to the will of her father without reluctance.

Soon after this happy event, I was, by the influence of Don Gonzales,

joined to my own interest, promoted to the command of a regiment, and

served with honour during the remaining part of the war. After the

treaty of Utrecht, I was employed in reducing the Catalans to their

allegiance; and, in an action with those obstinate rebels had the

misfortune to lose my father-in-law, who by that time was preferred to

the rank of a major-general. The virtuous Estifania did not long

survive this melancholy accident; and the loss of these indulgent

parents made such a deep impression upon the tender heart of my

Antonia, that I took the first opportunity of removing her from a place

in which every object served to cherish her grief, to a pleasant villa

near the city of Seville, which I purchased on account of its agreeable

situation. That I might the more perfectly enjoy the possession of my

amiable partner, who could no longer brook the thoughts of another

separation, peace was no sooner re-established than I obtained leave to

resign my commission, and I wholly devoted myself to the joys of a

domestic life.

Heaven seemed to smile upon our union, by blessing us with a son, whom,

however, it was pleased to recall in his infancy, to our unspeakable

grief and mortification; but our mutual chagrin was afterwards

alleviated by the birth of a daughter, who seemed born with every

accomplishment to excite the love and admiration of mankind. Why did

nature debase such a masterpiece with the mixture of an alloy, which

hath involved herself and her whole family in perdition? But the ways

of Providence are unsearchable. She hath paid the debt of her

degeneracy; peace be with her soul! The honour of my family is

vindicated; though by a sacrifice which hath robbed me of everything

else that is valuable in life, and ruined my peace past all redemption.

Yes, my friend, all the tortures that human tyranny can inflict would

be ease, tranquillity, and delight, to the unspeakable pangs and

horrors I have felt.

But, to return from this digression.—Serafina, which was the name of

that little darling, as she grew up, not only disclosed all the natural

graces of external beauty, but likewise manifested the most engaging

sweetness of disposition, and a capacity for acquiring with ease all

the accomplishments of her sex. It is impossible to convey any adequate

idea of a parent’s raptures in the contemplation of such a fair

blossom. She was the only pledge of our love, she was presumptive

heiress to a large fortune, and likely to be the sole representative of

two noble Castilian families. She was the delight of all who saw her,

and a theme of praise for every tongue. You are not to suppose that the

education of such a child was neglected. Indeed, it wholly engrossed

the attention of me and my Antonia, and her proficiency rewarded our

care. Before she had attained the age of fifteen, she was mistress of

every elegant qualification, natural and acquired. Her person was, by

that time, the confessed pattern of beauty. Her voice was enchantingly

sweet, and she touched the lute with the most ravishing dexterity.

Heaven and earth! how did my breast dilate with joy at the thoughts of

having given birth to such perfection! how did my heart gush with

paternal fondness, whenever I beheld this ornament of my name! and what

scenes of endearing transport have I enjoyed with my Antonia, in mutual

congratulation upon our parental happiness!

Serafina, accomplished as she was, could not fail to make conquests

among the Spanish cavaliers, who are famous for sensibility in love.

Indeed, she never appeared without a numerous train of admirers; and

though we had bred her up in that freedom of conversation and

intercourse which holds a middle space between the French licence and

Spanish restraint, she was now so much exposed to the addresses of

promiscuous gallantry, that we found it necessary to retrench the

liberty of our house, and behave to our male visitants with great

reserve and circumspection, that our honour and peace might run no risk

from the youth and inexperience of our daughter.

This caution produced overtures from a great many young gentlemen of

rank and distinction, who courted my alliance, by demanding Serafina in

marriage; and from the number I had actually selected one person, who

was in all respects worthy the possession of such an inestimable prize.

His name was Don Manuel de Mendoza. His birth was noble, and his

character dignified with repeated acts of generosity and virtue. Yet,

before I would signify to him my approbation of his suit, I resolved to

inform myself whether or not the heart of Serafina was totally

unengaged, and indifferent to any other object, that I might not lay a

tyrannical restraint upon her inclinations. The result of my inquiry

was a full conviction of her having hitherto been deaf to the voice of

love; and this piece of information, together with my own sentiments in

his favour, I communicated to Don Manuel, who heard these tidings with

transports of gratitude and joy. He was immediately favoured with

opportunities of acquiring the affection of my daughter, and his

endeavours were at first received with such respectful civility, as

might have been easily warmed into a mutual passion, had not the evil

genius of our family interposed.

O my friend! how shall I describe the depravity of that unhappy

virgin’s sentiments! how recount the particulars of my own dishonour! I

that am descended from a long line of illustrious Castilians, who never

received an injury they did not revenge, but washed away every blemish

in their fame with the blood of those who attempted to stain it! In

that circumstance I have imitated the example of my glorious

progenitors, and that consideration alone hath supported me against all

the assaults of despair.

As I grudged no pains and expense in perfecting the education of

Serafina, my doors were open to every person who made an extraordinary

figure in the profession of those amusing sciences in which she

delighted. The house of Don Diego de Zelos was a little academy for

painting, poetry, and music; and Heaven decreed that it should fall a

sacrifice to its regard for these fatal and delusive arts. Among other

preceptors, it was her fate to be under the instruction of a cursed

German, who, though his profession was drawing, understood the elements

and theory of music, possessed a large fund of learning and taste, and

was a person remarkable for his agreeable conversation. This traitor,

who like you had lost one eye, I not only admitted into my house for

the improvement of my daughter, but even distinguished with particular

marks of confidence and favour, little thinking he had either

inclination or capacity to debauch the sentiments of my child. I was

rejoiced beyond measure to see with what alacrity she received his

lessons, with what avidity she listened to his discourse, which was

always equally moral, instructing, and entertaining.

Antonia seemed to vie with me in expressions of regard for this

accomplished stranger, whom she could not help supposing to be a person

of rank and family, reduced to his present situation by some

unfortunate vicissitude of fate. I was disposed to concur with this

opinion, and actually conjured him to make me his confidant, with such

protestations as left him no room to doubt my honour and beneficence;

but he still persisted in declaring himself the son of an obscure

mechanic in Bohemia; an origin to which surely no man would pretend who

had the least claim to nobility of birth. While I was thus undeceived

in my conjecture touching his birth and quality, I was confirmed in an

opinion of his integrity and moderation, and looked upon him as a man

of honour, in despite of the lowness of his pedigree. Nevertheless, he

was at bottom a most perfidious wretch, and all this modesty and

self-denial were the effects of the most villanous dissimulation, a

cloak under which he, unsuspected, robbed me of my honour and my peace.

Not to trouble you with particulars, the recital of which would tear my

heart-strings with indignation and remorse, I shall only observe, that,

by the power of his infernal insinuation, he fascinated the heart of

Serafina, brought over Antonia herself to the interests of his passion,

and at once detached them both from their duty and religion. Heaven and

earth! how dangerous, how irresistible is the power of infatuation!

While I remained in the midst of this blind security, waiting for the

nuptials of my daughter, and indulging myself with the vain prospect of

her approaching felicity, Antonia found means to protract the

negotiations of the marriage, by representing that it would be a pity

to deprive Serafina of the opportunity she then had of profiting by the

German’s instructions; and, upon that account, I prevailed upon Don

Manuel to bridle the impatience of his love.

During this interval, as I one evening enjoyed the cool air in my own

garden, I was accosted by an old duenna, who had been my nurse and

lived in the family since the time of my childhood.—“My duty,” said

she, “will no longer permit me to wink in silence at the wrongs I see

you daily suffer. Dismiss that German from your house without delay, if

you respect the glory of your name, and the rights of our holy

religion; the stranger is an abominable heretic; and, grant Heaven! he

may not have already poisoned the minds of those you hold most dear.” I

had been extremely alarmed at the beginning of this address; but,

finding the imputation limited to the article of religion, in which,

thank God, I am no bigot, I recovered my serenity of disposition,

thanked the old woman for her zeal, commended her piety, and encouraged

her to persevere in making observations on such subjects as should

concern my honour and my quiet.

We live in such a world of wickedness and fraud, that a man cannot be

too vigilant in his own defence: had I employed such spies from the

beginning, I should in all probability have been at this day in

possession of every comfort that renders life agreeable. The duenna,

thus authorised, employed her sagacity with such success, that I had

reason to suspect the German of a design upon the heart of Serafina;

but, as the presumptions did not amount to conviction, I contented

myself with exiling him from my house, under the pretext of having

discovered that he was an enemy to the Catholic church; and forthwith

appointed a day for the celebration of my daughter’s marriage with Don

Manuel de Mendoza. I could easily perceive a cloud of melancholy

overspread the faces of Serafina and her mother, when I declared these

my resolutions; but, as they made no objection to what I proposed, I

did not at that time enter into an explanation of the true motives that

influenced my conduct. Both parties were probably afraid of such

expostulation.

Meanwhile, preparations were made for the espousals of Serafina; and,

notwithstanding the anxiety I had undergone, on account of her

connexion with the German, I began to think that her duty, her glory,

had triumphed over all such low-born considerations, if ever they had

been entertained; because she, and even Antonia, seemed to expect the

ceremony with resignation, though the features of both still retained

evident marks of concern, which I willingly imputed to the mutual

prospect of their separation. This, however, was but a faithless calm,

that soon, ah! too soon, brought forth a tempest which hath wrecked my

hopes.

Two days before the appointed union of Don Manuel and Serafina, I was

informed by the duenna, that, while she accompanied Antonia’s

waiting-maid at church, she had seen her receive a billet from an old

woman, who, kneeling at her side, had conveyed it in such a mysterious

manner, as awakened the duenna’s apprehensions about her young lady;

she had therefore hastened home to communicate this piece of

intelligence, that I might have an opportunity of examining the

messenger before she could have time to deposit her trust. I could not

help shivering with fearful presages upon this occasion, and even

abhorring the person to whose duty and zeal I was beholden for the

intelligence, even while I endeavoured to persuade myself that the

inquiry would end in the detection of some paltry intrigue between the

maid and her own gallant. I intercepted her in returning from church,

and, commanding her to follow me to a convenient place, extorted from

her, by dint of threats, the fatal letter, which I read to this

effect:—

“The whole business of my life, O divine Serafina! will be to repay

that affection I have been so happy as to engage. With what transport

then shall I obey your summons, in performing that enterprise, which

will rescue you from the bed of a detested rival, and put myself in

full possession of a jewel which I value infinitely more than life!

Yes, adorable creature! I have provided everything for our escape, and

at midnight will attend you in your own apartment, from whence you

shall be conveyed into a land of liberty and peace, where you will,

unmolested, enjoy the purity of that religion you have espoused, and in

full security bless the arms of your ever faithful, ORLANDO.”

Were you a fond parent, a tender husband, and a noble Castilian, I

should not need to mention the unutterable horrors that took possession

of my bosom, when I perused this accursed letter, by which I learned

the apostasy, disobedience, and degeneracy of my idolised Serafina, who

had overthrown and destroyed the whole plan of felicity which I had

erected, and blasted all the glories of my name; and when the wretched

messenger, terrified by my menaces and agitation, confessed that

Antonia herself was privy to the guilt of her daughter, whom she had

solemnly betrothed to that vile German, in the sight of Heaven, and

that by her connivance this plebeian intended, that very night, to

bereave me of my child, I was for some moments stupefied with grief and

amazement, that gave way to an ecstasy of rage, which had well-nigh

terminated in despair and distraction.

I now tremble, and my head grows giddy with the remembrance of that

dreadful occasion. Behold how the drops trickle down my forehead; this

agony is a fierce and familiar visitant; I shall banish it anon. I

summoned my pride, my resentment, to my assistance; these are the

cordials that support me against all other reflections; those were the

auxiliaries that enabled me, in the day of trial, to perform that

sacrifice which my honour demanded, in a strain so loud as to drown the

cries of nature, love, and compassion. Yes, they espoused that glory

which humanity would have betrayed, and my revenge was noble, though

unnatural.

My scheme was soon laid, my resolution soon taken; I privately confined

the wretch who had been the industrious slave of this infamous

conspiracy, that she might take no step to frustrate or interrupt the

execution of my design. Then repairing to the house of an apothecary

who was devoted to my service, communicated my intention, which he

durst not condemn, and could not reveal, without breaking the oath of

secrecy I had imposed; and he furnished me with two vials of poison for

the dismal catastrophe I had planned. Thus provided, I, on pretence of

sudden business at Seville, carefully avoided the dear, the wretched

pair, whom I had devoted to death, that my heart might not relent, by

means of those tender ideas which the sight of them would have

infallibly inspired; and, when daylight vanished, took my station near

that part of the house through which the villain must have entered on

his hellish purpose. There I stood, in a state of horrid expectation,

my soul ravaged with the different passions that assailed it, until the

fatal moment arrived; when I perceived the traitor approach the window

of a lower apartment, which led into that of Serafina, and gently

lifting the casement, which was purposely left unsecured, insinuated

half of his body into the house. Then rushing upon him, in a transport

of fury, I plunged my sword into his heart, crying, “Villain! receive

the reward of thy treachery and presumption.”

The steel was so well aimed as to render a repetition of the stroke

unnecessary; he uttered one groan, and fell breathless at my feet.

Exulting with this first success of my revenge, I penetrated into the

chamber where the robber of my peace was expected by the unhappy

Serafina and her mother, who, seeing me enter with a most savage

aspect, and a sword reeking with the vengeance I had taken, seemed

almost petrified with fear. “Behold,” said I, “the blood of that base

plebeian, who made an attempt upon the honour of my house; your

conspiracy against the unfortunate Don Diego de Zelos is now

discovered; that presumptuous slave, the favoured Orlando, is now no

more.”

Scarce had I pronounced these words, when a loud scream was uttered by

both the unhappy victims. “If Orlando is slain,” cried the infatuated

Serafina, “what have I to do with life? O my dear lord! my husband, and

my lover! how are our promised joys at once cut off! here, strike, my

father! complete your barbarous sacrifice! the spirit of the murdered

Orlando still hovers for his wife.” These frantic exclamations, in

which she was joined by Antonia, kept up the fury of my resentment,

which by meekness and submission might have been weakened and rendered

ineffectual. “Yes, hapless wretches,” I replied, “ye shall enjoy your

wish: the honour of my name requires that both shall die; yet I will

not mangle the breast of Antonia, on which I have so often reposed; I

will not shed the blood of Zelos, nor disfigure the beauteous form of

Serafina, on which I have so often gazed with wonder and unspeakable

delight. Here is an elixir, to which I trust the consummation of my

revenge.”

So saying, I emptied the vials into separate cups, and, presenting one

in each hand, the miserable, the fair offenders instantly received the

destined draughts, which they drank without hesitation; then praying to

heaven for the wretched Don Diego, sunk upon the same couch, and

expired without a groan. O well-contrived beverage! O happy

composition, by which all the miseries of life are so easily cured!

Such was the fate of Antonia and Serafina; these hands were the

instruments that deprived them of life, these eyes beheld them the

richest prize that death had ever won. Powers supreme! does Don Diego

live to make this recapitulation? I have done my duty; but ah! I am

haunted by the furies of remorse; I am tortured with the incessant

stings of remembrance and regret; even now the images of my wife and

daughter present themselves to my imagination. All the scenes of

happiness I have enjoyed as a lover, husband, and parent, all the

endearing hopes I have cherished, now pass in review before me,

embittering the circumstances of my inexpressible woe; and I consider

myself as a solitary outcast from all the comforts of society. But,

enough of these unmanly complaints; the yearnings of nature are too

importunate.

Having completed my vengeance, I retired into my closet, and,

furnishing myself with some ready money and jewels of considerable

value, went into the stable, saddled my favourite steed, which I

instantly mounted, and, before the tumults of my breast subsided, found

myself at the town of St. Lucar. There I learned from inquiry, that

there was a Dutch bark in the harbour ready to sail; upon which I

addressed myself to the master, who, for a suitable gratification, was

prevailed upon to weigh anchor that same night; so that, embarking

without delay, I soon bid eternal adieu to my native country. It was

not from reason and reflection that I took these measures for my

personal safety; but, in consequence of an involuntary instinct, that

seems to operate in the animal machine, while the faculty of thinking

is suspended.

To what a dreadful reckoning was I called, when reason resumed her

function! You may believe me, my friend, when I assure you, that I

should not have outlived those tragedies I acted, had I not been

restrained from doing violence upon myself by certain considerations,

which no man of honour ought to set aside. I could not bear the thought

of falling ingloriously by the hand of an executioner, and entailing

disgrace upon a family that knew no stain; and I was deterred from

putting an end to my own misery, by the apprehension of posthumous

censure, which would have represented me as a desponding wretch,

utterly destitute of that patience, fortitude, and resignation, which

are the characteristics of a true Castilian. I was also influenced by

religious motives that suggested to me the necessity of living to

atone, by my sufferings and sorrow, for the guilt I had incurred in

complying with a savage punctilio, which is, I fear, displeasing in the

sight of Heaven.

These were the reasons that opposed my entrance into that peaceful

harbour which death presented to my view; and they were soon reinforced

by another principle that sanctioned my determination to continue at

the servile oar of life. In consequence of unfavourable winds, our

vessel for some days made small progress in her voyage to Holland, and

near the coast of Gallicia we were joined by an English ship from Vigo,

the master of which gave us to understand, that before he set sail, a

courier had arrived from Madrid at that place, with orders for the

corregidore to prevent the escape of any native Spaniard by sea from

any port within his district; and to use his utmost endeavours to

apprehend the person of Don Diego de Zelos, who was suspected of

treasonable practices against the state. Such an order, with a minute

description of my person, was at the same time despatched to all the

seaports and frontier places in Spain.

You may easily suppose how I, who was already overwhelmed with

distress, could bear this aggravation of misfortune and disgrace: I,

who had always maintained the reputation of loyalty, which was acquired

at the hazard of my life, and the expense of my blood. To deal

candidly, I must own, that this intelligence roused me from a lethargy

of grief which had begun to overpower my faculties. I immediately

imputed this dishonourable charge to the evil offices of some villain,

who had basely taken the advantage of my deplorable situation, and I

was inflamed, inspirited with the desire of vindicating my fame, and

revenging the injury. Thus animated, I resolved to disguise myself

effectually from the observation of those spies which every nation

finds its account in employing in foreign countries; I purchased this

habit from the Dutch navigator, in whose house I kept myself concealed,

after our arrival at Amsterdam, until my beard was grown to a

sufficient length to favour my design, and then appeared as a Persian

dealer in jewels. As I could gain no satisfactory information touching

myself in this country, had no purpose to pursue, and was extremely

miserable among a people, who, being mercenary and unsocial, were very

ill adapted to alleviate the horrors of my condition, I gratified my

landlord for his important services, with the best part of my effects;

and having, by his means, procured a certificate from the magistracy,

repaired to Rotterdam, from whence I set out in a travelling carriage

for Antwerp, on my way to this capital; hoping, with a succession of

different objects, to mitigate the anguish of my mind, and by the most

industrious inquiry, to learn such particulars of that false

impeachment, as would enable me to take measures for my own

justification, as well as for projecting a plan of revenge against the

vile perfidious author.

This, I imagined, would be no difficult task, considering the

friendship and intercourse subsisting between the Spanish and French

nations, and the communicative disposition for which the Parisians are

renowned; but I have found myself egregiously deceived in my

expectation. The officers of police in this city are so inquisitive and

vigilant that the most minute action of a stranger is scrutinised with

great severity; and, although the inhabitants are very frank in

discoursing on indifferent subjects, they are at the same time

extremely cautious in avoiding all conversation that turns upon state

occurrences and maxims of government. In a word, the peculiarity of my

appearance subjects me so much to particular observation, that I have

hitherto thought proper to devour my griefs in silence, and even to

bear the want of almost every convenience, rather than hazard a

premature discovery, by offering my jewels to sale.

In this emergency I have been so far fortunate as to become acquainted

with you, whom I look upon as a man of honour and humanity. Indeed, I

was at first sight prepossessed in your favour, for, notwithstanding

the mistakes which men daily commit in judging from appearances, there

is something in the physiognomy of a stranger from which one cannot

help forming an opinion of his character and disposition. For once, my

penetration hath not failed me; your behaviour justifies my decision;

you have treated me with that sympathy and respect which none but the

generous will pay to the unfortunate. I have trusted you accordingly. I

have put my life, my honour, in your power; and I must beg leave to

depend upon your friendship, for obtaining that satisfaction for which

alone I seek to live. Your employment engages you in the gay world; you

daily mingle with the societies of men; the domestics of the Spanish

ambassador will not shun your acquaintance; you may frequent the

coffee-houses to which they resort; and, in the course of these

occasions, unsuspected inform yourself of that mysterious charge which

lies heavy on the fame of the unfortunate Don Diego. I must likewise

implore your assistance in converting my jewels into money, that I may

breathe independent of man, until Heaven shall permit me to finish this

weary pilgrimage of life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A FLAGRANT INSTANCE OF FATHOM’S VIRTUE, IN THE MANNER OF HIS RETREAT TO

ENGLAND.

Fathom, who had lent an attentive ear to every circumstance of this

disastrous story, no sooner heard it concluded, than, with an aspect of

generous and cordial compassion, not even unattended with tears, he

condoled the lamentable fate of Don Diego de Zelos, deplored the

untimely death of the gentle Antonia and the fair Serafina, and

undertook the interest of the wretched Castilian with such warmth of

sympathising zeal, as drew a flood from his eyes, while he wrung his

benefactor’s hand in a transport of gratitude. Those were literally

tears of joy, or at least of satisfaction, on both sides; as our hero

wept with affection and attachment to the jewels that were to be

committed to his care; but, far from discovering the true source of his

tenderness, he affected to dissuade the Spaniard from parting with the

diamonds, which he counselled him to reserve for a more pressing

occasion; and, in the meantime, earnestly entreated him to depend upon

his friendship for present relief.

This generous proffer served only to confirm Don Diego’s resolution,

which he forthwith executed, by putting into the hands of Ferdinand

jewels to the value of a thousand crowns, and desiring him to detain

for his own use any part of the sum they would raise. Our adventurer

thanked him for the good opinion he entertained of his integrity, an

opinion fully manifested in honouring him with such important

confidence, and assured him he would transact his affairs with the

utmost diligence, caution, and despatch. The evening being by this time

almost consumed, these new allies retired separately to rest; though

each passed the night without repose, in very different reflections,

the Castilian being, as usual, agitated with the unceasing pangs of his

unalterable misery, interspersed with gleaming hopes of revenge; and

Fathom being kept awake with revolving plans for turning his

fellow-lodger’s credulity to his own advantage. From the nature of the

Spaniard’s situation, he might have appropriated the jewels to himself,

and remained in Paris without fear of a prosecution, because the

injured party had, by the above narrative, left his life and liberty at

discretion.—But he did not think himself secure from the personal

resentment of an enraged desperate Castilian; and therefore determined

to withdraw himself privately into that country where he had all along

proposed to fix the standard of his finesse, which fortune had now

empowered him to exercise according to his wish.

Bent upon this retreat, he went abroad in the morning, on pretence of

acting in the concerns of his friend Don Diego, and having hired a

post-chaise to be ready at the dawning of next day, returned to his

lodgings, where he cajoled the Spaniard with a feigned report of his

negotiation; then, securing his most valuable effects about his person,

arose with the cock, repaired to the place at which he had appointed to

meet the postillion with the carriage, and set out for England without

further delay, leaving the unhappy Zelos to the horrors of indigence,

and the additional agony of this fresh disappointment. Yet he was not

the only person affected by the abrupt departure of Fathom, which was

hastened by the importunities, threats, and reproaches of his

landlord’s daughter, whom he had debauched under promise of marriage,

and now left in the fourth month of her pregnancy.

Notwithstanding the dangerous adventure in which he had been formerly

involved by travelling in the night, he did not think proper to make

the usual halts on this journey, for sleep or refreshment, nor did he

once quit the chaise till his arrival at Boulogne, which he reached in

twenty hours after his departure from Paris. Here he thought he might

safely indulge himself with a comfortable meal; accordingly he bespoke

a poulard for dinner, and while that was preparing, went forth to view

the city and harbour. When he beheld the white cliffs of Albion, his

heart throbbed with all the joy of a beloved son, who, after a tedious

and fatiguing voyage, reviews the chimneys of his father’s house. He

surveyed the neighbouring coast of England with fond and longing eyes,

like another Moses, reconnoitring the land of Canaan from the top of

Mount Pisgah; and to such a degree of impatience was he inflamed by the

sight, that, instead of proceeding to Calais, he resolved to take his

passage directly from Boulogne, even if he should hire a vessel for the

purpose. With these sentiments, he inquired if there was any ship bound

for England, and was so fortunate as to find the master of a small

bark, who intended to weigh anchor for Deal that same evening at high

water.

Transported with this information, he immediately agreed for his

passage, sold the post-chaise to his landlord for thirty guineas, as a

piece of furniture for which he could have no further use, purchased a

portmanteau, together with some linen and wearing apparel, and, at the

recommendation of his host, took into his service an extra postillion

or helper, who had formerly worn the livery of a travelling marquis.

This new domestic, whose name was Maurice, underwent, with great

applause, the examination of our hero, who perceived in him a fund of

sagacity and presence of mind, by which he was excellently qualified

for being the valet of an adventurer. He was therefore accommodated

with a second-hand suit and another shirt, and at once listed under the

banners of Count Fathom, who spent the whole afternoon in giving him

proper instructions for the regulation of his conduct.

Having settled these preliminaries to his own satisfaction, he and his

baggage were embarked about six o’clock in the month of September, and

it was not without emotion that he found himself benighted upon the

great deep, of which, before the preceding day, he had never enjoyed

even the most distant prospect. However, he was not a man to be afraid,

where there was really no appearance of danger; and the agreeable

presages of future fortune supported his spirits, amidst the

disagreeable nausea which commonly attends landsmen at sea, until he

was set ashore upon the beach at Deal, which he entered in good health

about seven o’clock in the morning.

Like Caesar, however, he found some difficulty in landing, on account

of the swelling surf, that tumbled about with such violence as had

almost overset the cutter that carried him on shore; and, in his

eagerness to jump upon the strand, his foot slipped from the side of

the boat, so that he was thrown forwards in an horizontal direction,

and his hands were the first parts of him that touched English ground.

Upon this occasion, he, in imitation of Scipio’s behaviour on the coast

of Africa, hailed the omen, and, grasping a handful of the sand, was

heard to exclaim, in the Italian language: “Ah, ah, Old England, I have

thee fast.”

As he walked up to the inn, followed by Maurice loaded with his

portmanteau, he congratulated himself upon his happy voyage, and the

peaceable possession of his spoil, and could not help snuffing up the

British air with marks of infinite relish and satisfaction. His first

care was to recompense himself for the want of sleep he had undergone,

and, after he had sufficiently recruited himself with several hours of

uninterrupted repose, he set out in a post-chaise for Canterbury, where

he took a place in the London stage, which he was told would depart

next morning, the coach being already full. On this very first day of

his arrival, he perceived between the English and the people among whom

he had hitherto lived, such essential difference in customs,

appearance, and way of living, as inspired him with high notions of

that British freedom, opulence, and convenience, on which he had often

heard his mother expatiate. On the road, he feasted his eyesight with

the verdant hills covered with flocks of sheep, the fruitful vales

parcelled out into cultivated enclosures; the very cattle seemed to

profit by the wealth of their masters, being large, sturdy, and sleek,

and every peasant breathed the insolence of liberty and independence.

In a word, he viewed the wide-extended plains of Kent with a lover’s

eye, and, his ambition becoming romantic, could not help fancying

himself another conqueror of the isle.

He was not, however, long amused by these vain chimeras, which soon

vanished before other reflections of more importance and solidity. His

imagination, it must be owned, was at all times too chaste to admit

those overweening hopes, which often mislead the mind of the projector.

He had studied mankind with incredible diligence, and knew perfectly

well how far he could depend on the passions and foibles of human

nature. That he might now act consistent with his former sagacity, he

resolved to pass himself upon his fellow-travellers for a French

gentleman, equally a stranger to the language and country of England,

in order to glean from their discourse such intelligence as might avail

him in his future operations; and his lacquey was tutored accordingly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SOME ACCOUNT OF HIS FELLOW-TRAVELLERS.

Those who had taken places for the coach, understanding the sixth seat

was engaged by a foreigner, determined to profit by his ignorance; and,

with that politeness which is peculiar to this happy island, fixed

themselves in the vehicle, in such a manner, before he had the least

intimation of their design, that he found it barely practicable to

insinuate himself sidelong between a corpulent quaker and a fat Wapping

landlady, in which attitude he stuck fast, like a thin quarto between

two voluminous dictionaries on a bookseller’s shelf. And, as if the

pain and inconvenience of such compression was not sufficient matter of

chagrin, the greatest part of the company entertained themselves with

laughing at his ludicrous station.

The jolly dame at his left hand observed, with a loud exclamation of

mirth, that monsieur would be soon better acquainted with a buttock of

English beef; and said, by that time they should arrive at their

dining-place, he might be spitted without larding. “Yes, verily,”

replied Obadiah, who was a wag in his way, “but the swine’s fat will be

all on one side.”—“So much the better for you,” cried mine hostess,

“for that side is all your own.” The quaker was not so much

disconcerted by the quickness of this repartee, but that he answered

with great deliberation, “I thank thee for thy love, but will not

profit by thy loss, especially as I like not the savour of these

outlandish fowls; they are profane birds of passage, relished only by

the children of vanity, like thee.”

The plump gentlewoman took umbrage at this last expression, which she

considered as a double reproach, and repeated the words, “Children of

vanity!” with an emphasis of resentment. “I believe, if the truth were

known,” said she, “there’s more vanity than midriff in that great belly

of yours, for all your pretending to humility and religion. Sirrah! my

corporation is made up of good, wholesome, English fat; but you are

puffed up with the wind of vanity and delusion; and when it begins to

gripe your entrails, you pretend to have a motion, and then get up and

preach nonsense. Yet you’ll take it upon you to call your betters

children. Marry come up, Mr. Goosecap, I have got children that are as

good men as you, or any hypocritical trembler in England.”

A person who sat opposite to the quaker, hearing this remonstrance,

which seemed pregnant with contention, interposed in the conversation

with a conscious leer, and begged there might be no rupture between the

spirit and the flesh. By this remonstrance he relieved Obadiah from the

satire of this female orator, and brought the whole vengeance of her

elocution upon his own head. “Flesh!” cried she, with all the ferocity

of an enraged Thalestris; “none of your names, Mr. Yellowchaps. What! I

warrant you have an antipathy to flesh, because you yourself are

nothing but skin and bone. I suppose you are some poor starved

journeyman tailor come from France, where you have been learning to

cabbage, and have not seen a good meal of victuals these seven years.

You have been living upon rye-bread and soup-maigre, and now you come

over like a walking atomy with a rat’s tail at your wig, and a tinsey

jacket. And so, forsooth, you set up for a gentleman, and pretend to

find fault with a sirloin of roast beef.”

The gentleman heard this address with admirable patience, and when she

had rung out her alarm, very coolly replied, “Anything but your

stinking fish madam. Since when, I pray, have you travelled in

stage-coaches, and left off your old profession of crying oysters in

winter, and rotten mackerel in June? You was then known by the name of

Kate Brawn, and in good repute among the ale-houses in Thames Street,

till that unlucky amour with the master of a corn-vessel, in which he

was unfortunately detected by his own spouse; but you seem to have

risen by that fall; and I wish you joy of your present plight. Though,

considering your education on Bear Quay, you can give but a sorry

account of yourself.”

The Amazon, though neither exhausted nor dismayed, was really

confounded at the temper and assurance of this antagonist, who had

gathered all these anecdotes from the fertility of his own invention;

after a short pause, however, she poured forth a torrent of obloquy

sufficient to overwhelm any person who had not been used to take up

arms against such seas of trouble; and a dispute ensued, which would

have not only disgraced the best orators on the Thames, but even have

made a figure in the celebration of the Eleusinian mysteries, during

which the Athenian matrons rallied one another from different waggons,

with that freedom of altercation so happily preserved in this our age

and country.

Such a redundancy of epithets, and variety of metaphors, tropes, and

figures were uttered between these well-matched opponents, that an epic

bard would have found his account in listening to the contest; which,

in all probability, would not have been confined to words, had it not

been interrupted for the sake of a young woman of an agreeable

countenance and modest carriage; who, being shocked at some of their

flowers of speech, and terrified by the menacing looks and gestures of

the fiery-featured dame, began to scream aloud, and beg leave to quit

the coach. Her perturbation put an end to the high debate. The sixth

passenger, who had not opened his mouth, endeavoured to comfort her

with assurances of protection; the quaker proposed a cessation of arms;

the male disputant acquiesced in the proposal, assuring the company he

had entered the lists for their entertainment only, without acquiring

the least grudge or ill-will to the fat gentlewoman, whom he protested

he had never seen before that day, and who, for aught he knew, was a

person of credit and reputation. He then held forth his hand in token

of amity, and asked pardon of the offended party, who was appeased by

his submission; and, in testimony of her benevolence, presented to the

other female, whom she had discomposed, an Hungary-water bottle filled

with cherry-brandy, recommending it as a much more powerful remedy than

the sal-volatile which the other held to her nose.

Peace being thus re-established, in a treaty comprehending Obadiah and

all present, it will not be improper to give the reader some further

information, touching the several characters assembled in this vehicle.

The quaker was a London merchant, who had been at Deal superintending

the repairs of a ship which had suffered by a storm in the Downs. The

Wapping landlady was on her return from the same place, where she had

attended the payment of a man-of-war, with sundry powers of attorney,

granted by the sailors, who had lived upon credit at her house. Her

competitor in fame was a dealer in wine, a smuggler of French lace, and

a petty gamester just arrived from Paris, in the company of an English

barber, who sat on his right hand, and the young woman was daughter of

a country curate, in her way to London, where she was bound apprentice

to a milliner.

Hitherto Fathom had sat in silent astonishment at the manners of his

fellow-travellers, which far exceeded the notions he had preconceived

of English plainness and rusticity. He found himself a monument of that

disregard and contempt which a stranger never fails to meet with from

the inhabitants of this island; and saw, with surprise, an agreeable

young creature sit as solitary and unheeded as himself.

He was, indeed, allured by the roses of her complexion, and the

innocence of her aspect, and began to repent of having pretended

ignorance of the language, by which he was restrained from exercising

his eloquence upon her heart; he resolved, however, to ingratiate

himself, if possible, by the courtesy and politeness of dumb show, and

for that purpose put his eyes in motion without farther delay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ANOTHER PROVIDENTIAL DELIVERANCE FROM THE EFFECTS OF THE SMUGGLER’S

INGENIOUS CONJECTURE.

During these deliberations, the wine merchant, with a view to make a

parade of his superior parts and breeding, as well as to pave the way

for a match at backgammon, made a tender of his snuff-box to our

adventurer, and asked, in bad French, how he travelled from Paris. This

question produced a series of interrogations concerning the place of

Ferdinand’s abode in that city, and his business in England, so that he

was fain to practise the science of defence, and answered with such

ambiguity, as aroused the suspicion of the smuggler, who began to

believe our hero had some very cogent reason for evading his curiosity;

he immediately set his reflection at work, and, after various

conjectures, fixed upon Fathom’s being the Young Pretender. Big with

this supposition, he eyed him with the most earnest attention,

comparing his features with those of the Chevalier’s portrait which he

had seen in France, and though the faces were as unlike as any two

human faces could be, found the resemblance so striking as to dispel

all his doubts, and persuade him to introduce the stranger to some

justice on the road; a step by which he would not only manifest his

zeal for the Protestant succession, but also acquire the splendid

reward proposed by parliament to any person who should apprehend that

famous adventurer.

These ideas intoxicated the brain of this man to such a pitch of

enthusiasm, that he actually believed himself in possession of the

thirty thousand pounds, and amused his fancy with a variety of

magnificent projects to be executed by means of that acquisition, until

his reverie was interrupted by the halting of the coach at the inn

where the passengers used to eat their breakfasts. Waked as he was from

the dream of happiness, it had made such impression upon his mind,

that, seeing Fathom rise up with an intention to alight, he took it for

granted his design was to escape, and seizing him by the collar, called

aloud for assistance in the King’s name.

Our hero, whose sagacity and presence of mind very often supplied the

place of courage, instead of being terrified at this assault, which

might have disturbed the tranquillity of an ordinary villain, was so

perfectly master of every circumstance of his own situation, as to know

at once that the aggressor could not possibly have the least cause of

complaint against him; and therefore, imputing this violence either to

madness or mistake, very deliberately suffered himself to be made

prisoner by the people of the house, who ran to the coach door in

obedience to the summons of the wine merchant. The rest of the company

were struck dumb with surprise and consternation at this sudden

adventure; and the quaker, dreading some fell resistance on the side of

the outlandish man, unpinned the other coach door in the twinkling of

an eye, and trundled himself into the mud for safety. The others,

seeing the temper and resignation of the prisoner, soon recovered their

recollection, and began to inquire into the cause of his arrest, upon

which, the captor, whose teeth chattered with terror and impatience,

gave them to understand that he was a state criminal, and demanded

their help in conveying him to justice.

Luckily for both parties, there happened to be at the inn a company of

squires just returned from the death of a leash of hares, which they

had ordered to be dressed for dinner, and among these gentlemen was one

of the quorum, to whom the accuser had immediate recourse, marching

before the captive, who walked very peaceably between the landlord and

one of his waiters, and followed by a crowd of spectators, some of whom

had secured the faithful Maurice, who in his behaviour closely imitated

the deliberation of his master. In this order did the procession

advance to the apartment in which the magistrate, with his fellows of

the chase, sat smoking his morning pipe over a tankard of strong ale,

and the smuggler being directed to the right person, “May it please

your worship,” said he, “I have brought this foreigner before you, on a

violent suspicion of his being a proclaimed outlaw; and I desire,

before these witnesses, that my title may be made good to the reward

that shall become due upon his conviction.”

“Friend,” replied the justice, “I know nothing of you or your titles;

but this I know, if you have any information to give in, you must come

to my house when I am at home, and proceed in a lawful way, that is,

d’ye mind me, if you swear as how this here person is an outlaw; then

if so be as he has nothing to say to the contrary, my clerk shall make

out a mittimus, and so to jail with him till next ’size.” “But, sir,”

answered the impeacher, “this is a case that admits of no delay; the

person I have apprehended is a prisoner of consequence to the state.”

“How, fellor!” cried the magistrate, interrupting him, “is there any

person of more consequence than one of his Majesty’s justices of the

peace, who is besides a considerable member of the landed interest!

D’ye know, sirrah, who you are talking to? If you don’t go about your

business, I believe I shall lay you by the heels.”

The smuggler, fearing his prize would escape through the ignorance,

pride, and obstinacy of this country justice, approached his worship,

and in a whisper which was overheard by all the company, assured him he

had indubitable reason to believe the foreigner was no other than the

Pretender’s eldest son. At mention of this formidable name, every

individual of the audience started, with signs of terror and amazement.

The justice dropped his pipe, recoiled upon his chair, and, looking

most ridiculously aghast, exclaimed, “Seize him, in the name of God and

his Majesty King George! Has he got no secret arms about him!”