HOW WE WENT TO THE WELLS.
Access to the polite world is more readily gained (by those who have
no friends) at one of the watering-places than in London. Considering
this, we counselled whether it would not be better to visit one, or
all, of the English Spas, rather than to climb slowly and painfully up
the ladder of London fashion.
Mrs. Esther at first inclined to Bath, which certainly (though it is
a long journey thither), is a most stately city, provided with every
requisite for comfort, possessing the finest Assembly Rooms and the
most convenient lodgings. It also affords opportunities for making the
acquaintance and studying the manners of the Great. Moreover, there
can be no doubt that its waters are efficient in the cure of almost
all disorders; and the social enjoyment of the hot bath, taken in the
company of the wits and toasts who go to be parboiled together in that
liquid Court of scandal, chocolate, and sweets, is surely a thing
without a rival.
On the other hand, Tunbridge Wells is nearer London; the roads are
good; a coach reaches the place in one day; and, so amazing is the
rapidity of communication (in which we so far excel our ancestors),
that the London morning papers reach the Wells in the evening, and a
letter posted from the Wells in the morning can be answered in the
following evening. Also the air is fine at Tunbridge, the waters
wholesome, and the amusements are said to be varied. Add to this that
it is greatly frequented by the better sort of London citizens, those
substantial merchants with their proud and richly dressed wives and
daughters, whom Mrs. Esther always looked upon as forming the most
desirable company in the world. So that it was at first resolved to go
to Tunbridge.
But while we were making our preparations to go there, a curious
longing came upon Mrs. Esther to revisit the scenes of her youth.
"My dear," she said, "I should like to see once more the Wells of
Epsom, whither my father carried us every year when we were children.
The last summer I spent there was after his death, in the dreadful year
of 1720, when the place was crowded with Germans, Jews, and the people
who flocked to London with schemes which were to have made all our
fortunes, but which only ruined us, filled the prisons and madhouses,
drove honest men upon the road, and their children to the gutters. Let
us go to Epsom."
Epsom Wells, to be sure, was no longer what it had been. Indeed,
for a time, the place had fallen into decay. Yet of late, with
their horse-racing in April and June, and the strange repute of the
bone-setter Sally Wallin, the salubrity of the air on the Downs, the
easy access to the town, which lieth but sixteen miles or thereabouts
from Paul's, and the goodness of the lodgings, the fame of the place
had revived. The gentry of the country-side came to the Monday
breakfasts and assemblies, when there was music, card-playing, and
dancing; the old buildings were again repaired, and Epsom Wells for a
few years was once more crowded. To me, as will presently be very well
understood, the place will ever remain a dear romantic spot, sacred to
the memory of the sweetest time in a woman's life, when her heart goes
out of her keeping, and she listens with fear and delight to the wooing
of the man she loves.
We went there in the coach, which took about three hours. We arrived in
the afternoon of a sunny day--it was a Friday, which is an unlucky day
to begin a journey upon--in the middle of July. We were presently taken
to a neat and clean lodging in Church Parade, where we engaged rooms
at a moderate charge. The landlady, one Mrs. Crump, was the widow,
she told us, of a respectable hosier of Cheapside, who had left her
with but a slender stock. Her children, however, were in good service
and thriving; and, with her youngest daughter, Cicely, she kept this
lodging-house, a poor but genteel mode of earning a livelihood.
The first evening we sat at home until sunset, when we put on our
hoods and walked under the trees which everywhere at Epsom afford a
delightful shade during the heat of the day, and a romantic obscurity
in the twilight. A lane or avenue of noble lime-trees was planted in
the Church Parade. Small avenues of trees led to the houses, and formed
porches with rich canopies of green leaves. There was a good deal of
company abroad, and we could hear, not far off, the strains of the
music to which they were dancing in the Assembly Rooms.
"We have done well, Kitty," said Mrs. Esther, "to come to this place,
which is far less changed than since last I came here. I trust it
is not sinful to look back with pleasure and regret on the time of
youth." Here she sighed. "The good woman of the house, I perceive with
pleasure, remembers the name of Pimpernel, and made me a becoming
courtesy when I informed her of my father's rank. She remembers seeing
his Lord Mayor's Show. There are, it appears, many families of the
highest distinction here, with several nabobs, rich Turkey and Russian
merchants, great lawyers, and county gentry. She assures me that
all are made welcome, and that the assemblies are open to the whole
company. And she paid a tribute to thy pretty face, my dear."
In the morning we were awakened, to our surprise and delight, by a
delectable concert of music, performed for us, by way of salutation
or greeting, by the band belonging to the place. They played, in
succession, a number of the most delightful airs, such as, "A-hunting
we will go," "Fain I would," "Spring's a-coming," "Sweet Nelly, my
heart's delight," and "The girl I left behind me." The morning was
bright, and a breeze came into my open window from the Surrey Downs,
fresh and fragrant with the scent of wild flowers. My brain was filled
with the most ravishing ideas, though I knew not of what.
"My dear," said Mrs. Esther, at breakfast, "the compliment of the
music shows the discernment of the people. They have learned already
that we have pretensions to rank, and are no ordinary visitors, not
haberdashers' daughters or grocers'."
(It is, we afterwards discovered, the rule of the place thus to salute
new comers, without inquiry at all into their rank or fortune. We
rewarded the players with half-a-crown from madam, and two shillings
from myself.)
It is, surely, a delightful thing to dress one's self in the morning
to the accompaniment of sweet music. If I were a queen, I would have
a concert of music every day, to begin when I put foot out of bed: to
sing in tune while putting on one's stockings: to dance before the
glass while lacing one's stays: to handle a comb as if it was a fan,
and to brush one's hair with a swimming grace, as if one was doing a
minuet, while the fiddles and the flutes and the hautboys are playing
for you. Before I had finished dressing, however, Cicely Crump, who
was a lively, sprightly girl, with bright eyes, and little nose, about
my own age, came to help me, and told me that those ladies who went
abroad to take the air before breakfast wore in the morning an easy
dishabille, and advised me to tie a hood beneath the chin.
"But not," she said with a laugh, "not to hide too much of your face.
What will they say to such a face at the ball?"
We followed her advice, and presently sallied forth. Although it was
but seven o'clock, we found a goodly assemblage already gathered
together upon the Terrace, where, early as it was, the shade of the
trees was agreeable as well as beautiful. The ladies, who looked at us
with curiosity, were dressed much like ourselves, and the gentlemen
wore morning-gowns, without swords: some of the elder men even wore
nightcaps, which seemed to me an excessive simplicity. Everybody talked
to his neighbour, and there was a cheerful buzz of conversation.
"Nothing is changed, my dear," said Mrs. Esther, looking about her with
great satisfaction; "nothing except the dresses, and these not so much
as we might have expected. I have been asleep, dear, like the beauty in
the story, for thirty years. But she kept her youth, that lucky girl,
while I--heigh-ho!"
Cicely came with us to show us the way. We went first along the Terrace
and then to the New Parade, which was also beautifully shaded with elms
and limes. Between them lies the pond, with gold and silver fish, very
pretty to look at, and the tumble-down watch-house at one end. Then she
showed us the pump-room.
"Here is the spring," she said, "which cures all disorders: the best
medicine in the world."
There was in the room a dipper, as they call the women who hand the
water to those who go to drink it. We were told that it was customary
to pay our footing with half-a-crown; but we drank none of the water,
which is not, like that of Tunbridge Wells, sweet and pleasant to the
taste. Then Cicely led us to another building hard by, a handsome
place, having a broad porch with columns, very elegant. This, it
appeared, was the Assembly Room, where were held the public balls,
concerts, and breakfasts. We entered and looked about us. Mrs. Esther
recalled her triumphs in this very room, and shed a tear over the past.
Then a girl accosted us, and begged permission to enter our names in a
great book. This (with five shillings each by way of fees) made us free
of all the entertainments of the season.
Near the Assembly Rooms was the coffee-house, used only by the
gentlemen.
"They pretend," said Cicely, "to come here for letter-writing and to
read the news. I do not know how many letters they write, but I do know
what they talk about, because I had it of the girl who pours out their
coffee, and it is not about religion, nor politics, but all about the
toast of the day."
"What is the toast of the day?" I asked.
Cicely smiled, like a saucy baggage as she was, and said that no doubt
Miss Kitty would soon find out.
"Already," she said, "Mr. Walsingham is looking at you."
I saw an old gentleman already dressed for the morning, with lace
ruffles and a handkerchief for the neck of rich crimson silk, who sat
on one of the benches beneath the trees, his hand upon a stick, looking
at me with a sort of earnestness.
"Hush!" cried Cicely, whispering; "he is more than eighty years of age:
he goes every year to Epsom, Bath, and Tunbridge--all three--and he
can tell you the name of the toast in every place for fifty years, and
describe her face."
A "toast," then, was another word for a young lady.
As we passed his bench, the old gentleman rose and bowed with great
ceremony to madam.
"Your most obedient servant, madam," he said, still looking at me. "I
trust that the Wells will be honoured by your ladyship with a long
stay. My name is Walsingham, madam, and I am not unknown here. Permit
me to offer my services to you and to your lovely daughter."
"My niece, sir." Madam returned the bow with a curtsey as deep. "My
niece, Miss Kitty Pleydell. We arrived last night, and we expect to
find our stay so agreeable as to prolong it."
"The Wells, madam, will be delighted." He bowed again. "I hope to be
of assistance--some little assistance--in making your visit pleasant.
I have known Epsom Wells, and, indeed, Bath and Tunbridge as well,
for fifty years. Every year has been made remarkable in one of these
places by the appearance of at least one beautiful face: sometimes
there have been even three or four, so that gentlemen have been divided
in opinion. In 1731, for instance, a duel was fought at Tunbridge
Wells, between my Lord Tangueray and Sir Humphrey Lydgate, about two
rival beauties. Generally, however, the Wells acknowledge but one
queen. Yesterday I was publicly lamenting that we had as yet no one
at Epsom whom we could hope to call Queen of the Wells. Miss Kitty
Pleydell"--again he bowed low--"I can make that complaint no longer. I
salute your Majesty."
"Oh, sir," I said, abashed and confused, "you are jesting with me!"
He replied gravely, that he never jested on so serious a subject as the
beauty of a woman. Then he hoped to see us again upon the Terrace or on
the Downs in the course of the day, and left us with a low bow.
"I told you, miss," said Cicely, "that it would not be long before you
found out what is meant by a toast."
She next took us to a book-shop, where we learned that for a crown we
could carry home any book we pleased from the shop and read it at our
ease; only that we must return it in as good condition as we took it
out, which seems reasonable. The people in the shop, as are all the
people at Epsom, were mighty civil; and madam, partly with a view of
showing the seriousness of her reading, took down a volume of sermons,
which I carried home for her.
Next day, however, she exchanged this for a volume of "Pamela," which
now began to occupy our attention almost as much as "Clarissa" had
done, but caused fewer tears to flow. Now is it not a convenient thing
for people who cannot afford to buy all they would read, thus to pay
a subscription and to borrow books as many as they wish? I think that
nothing has ever yet been invented so excellent for the spread of
knowledge and the cultivation of taste. Yet it must not go too far
either; for should none but the libraries buy new novels, poems, and
other works of imagination, where would be the reward of the ingenious
gentlemen who write them? No; let those who can afford buy books: let
those who cannot buy all they can, and join the library for those they
cannot afford to buy. What room looks more comfortably furnished than
one which has its books in goodly rows upon the shelves? They are
better than pictures, better than vases, better than plates, better
than china monkeys; for the house that is so furnished need never feel
the dulness of a rainy day.
There remained but two subscriptions to pay before our footing was
fairly established.
The leader of the music presented himself, bowing, with his
subscription-book in his hand. The usual amount was half a guinea.
Madam gave a guinea, being half for herself, and half for me, writing
down our names in the book. I saw, as we came away, that a little group
of gentlemen quickly gathered round the leader and almost tore the book
from his hand.
"They are anxious to find out your name, miss," said Cicely. "Then
they will go away and talk in the coffee-house, and wonder who you are
and whence you came and what fortune you have. Yet they call us women
gossips!"
Lastly, there was the clergyman's book.
"Heaven forbid," said madam, "that we pay for the music and let the
prayers go starving!"
This done, we could return home, having fairly paid our way for
everything, and we found at our lodgings an excellent country breakfast
of cream, new-laid eggs, fresh wild strawberries from Durdans Park,
delicate cakes of Mrs. Crump's own baking, and chocolate, with Cicely
to wait upon us.
It was the godly custom of the place to attend public worship after
breakfast, and at the ringing of the bell we put on our hats and went
to the parish church, where we found most of the ladies assembled. They
were escorted to the doors of the sacred house by the gentlemen, who
left them there. Why men (who are certainly greater sinners, or sinners
in a bolder and more desperate fashion, than women) should have less
need of prayers than we, I know not; nor why a man should be ashamed
of doing what a woman glories in doing. After their drinkings, their
duels, their prodigalities, and wastefulness, men should methinks
crowd into the doors of every church they can find, women leading them
thereto. But let us not forget that men, when they live outside the
fashion and are natural, are by the bent of their mind generally more
religiously disposed than women: and, as they make greater sinners, so
also do they make more illustrious saints.
When we came out of the church (I forgot to say that we were now
dressed and ready to make as brave a show as the rest) we found outside
the doors a lane of gentlemen, who, as we passed, bowed low, hat in
hand. At the end stood old Mr. Walsingham.
He stood with his hat raised high in air, and a smile upon his lined
and crowsfooted face.
"What did I say, Miss Kitty?" he whispered. "Hath not the Queen of the
Wells arrived?"
I do not know what I might have said, but I heard a cry of "Kitty!
Kitty!" and, looking round, saw--oh, the joy!--none other than my
Nancy, prettier than ever, though still but a little thing, who ran up
to me and threw herself in my arms.