HOW TWO OLD FRIENDS CAME TO EPSOM.
The Doctor's letter had informed us of the liberation of Mr. Stallabras
and Sir Miles Lackington; but we were not prepared for their arrival
at Epsom. They came, however, travelling together by the coach, their
object being not so much, I believe, to visit the watering-place of
Epsom or to enjoy its amusements, as to renew certain honourable
proposals, formerly made in less happy times, to Kitty Pleydell.
Naturally, we were at first somewhat perturbed, fearing the scandal
should certain tongues spread abroad the truth as to our residence in
the Fleet.
"My dear," said Mrs. Esther, with a little sigh, "my mind is made up.
We will go to Tunbridge out of their way."
This was impossible, because they would follow us. For my own part,
I looked upon the Fleet Rules with less shame than poor Mrs. Esther.
To her, the memory of the long degradation was infinitely painful.
For everybody, certainly, a time of degradation, however unmerited,
is never a pleasant thing to remember. I think that the whole army of
martyrs must agree together in forgetting the last scenes of their
earthly pilgrimage. The buffetings, strippings, scourgings, roastings,
burnings, and hangings, the long time of prison, the starvation, the
expectancy and fear--the going forth to meet the hungry lion and the
ruthless tiger--surely it cannot be comfortable to remember these?
No martyr on the roll had ever been more innocent or undeserving of
punishment than Mrs. Esther Pimpernel: no sufferer ever complained
less: but she loved not to think of the past, nor to be reminded of it
by the arrival of one whom she had known there.
Nevertheless, when Sir Miles Lackington presented himself at our
lodging, he was received with a gracious friendliness.
His newly recovered liberty made little alteration in the appearance
of this prodigal son. His dress was worn in the same easy disorder,
the ruffles being limp, his wig tied carelessly, the lace upon his hat
torn, as if in some scuffle, and the buckles of his shoes were an odd
pair. His face preserved the same jolly content, as if the gifts of
Fortune were to be regarded no more than her buffeting.
"We are always," said my guardian, with a little hesitation, "we are
always glad to welcome old friends--even friends in common misfortune.
But, Sir Miles, it is not well to remind us--or--or to talk to others
of those unhappy days."
He laughed.
"I remember them not," he said. "I never remember any day but the
present. Why should we remember disagreeable things? Formerly we
borrowed; now we lend: let us go on lending till we have to borrow
again. Do you remember Mr. Stallabras the poet?"
Surely, we remembered Solomon.
"He goes abroad now in a silk-lined coat with lace ruffles. He has
bought a new wig and started a subscription list for a new poem, having
eaten up the last before the poem was written. I subscribed for three
copies yesterday, and we pretended, both of us, he that he did not
want the money, and I that I had always had it. Without forgetting and
pretending, where should we be?"
"Indeed," said Mrs. Esther, "one would not willingly either forget or
pretend. But some things are best remembered in silence. The memory of
them should keep us humble, Sir Miles."
"I do not wish to be humble," replied the baronet. "Humble people do
not sing and drink, nor gamble, nor make love. They go in sadness and
with hanging heads. I would still go proud."
While he was with us came Solomon himself, bravely dressed indeed, with
about an ell of ribbon tied around his throat, a new and fashionable
wig, and bearing himself with all the dignity possible in a poet of
five-feet-three. His chin was in the air and his hat under his arm
when he marched into the little room.
I shook hands with him, and whispered to him not to mention the word
Fleet. Thereupon he advanced to Mrs. Esther with such a bow as would
have graced a court, saying--
"Madam, I have had the honour of being presented to you in London, but
I know not if I am still distinguished by your recollection."
"Sir," said Mrs. Esther, "that person must indeed be blind to merit who
can forget Mr. Stallabras, the favourite of the Muses."
"O madam! this compliment----"
"O sir! our hearts are not so insensible as to forget those delightful
verses, which should be the glory of an unthinking age."
I asked him then if he had received a bequest.
"I have found what is better," he said, "a female Mæcenas. The virtues
of antiquity linger only in the breasts of the fair. She is a person
of singularly cold and calm judgment. Despréaux himself had not a
cooler head or a sounder critical faculty. Therefore, when such a
lady prophesies immortal renown to a poet, that poet may congratulate
himself. I am poet laureate to Lady Tamarind, relict of Sir Joseph
Tamarind, brewer and sometime sheriff in the City of London. Her
ladyship's taste is considered infallible in all subjects, whether
china, tulips, plays, pictures, fans, snuff-boxes, black boys, or
poets."
His eyes twinkled so brightly, his turn-up nose seemed so joyfully to
sniff the incense of praise, prosperity had already made his cheeks so
sleek and fat, that we could hardly recognise our starveling poet.
"The taste," said Mrs. Esther, "of a woman who recognises the merit of
your verses, Mr. Stallabras, is beyond a doubt."
He rubbed his hands and laughed.
"I was already out--" he began, but as we all manifested the greatest
confusion at the beginning of this confession, he stopped and turned
red. "I mean I was--I was----"
"You were beginning, I think," I interrupted, "to open a new
subscription."
"Thank you, Miss Kitty," he replied. "I was--as soon as I left the
Ru--I mean, as soon as I could, I went round among my patrons with my
project. This lady immediately bought all my previous poems, including
the translation of 'Lucretius,' which the rascal publisher declared had
been his ruin, when he went bankrupt, and presented me with a hundred
guineas, with which I was enabled"--here he surveyed his person with
satisfaction, and raised one leg to get a better view of his stockings
and shoe-buckles--"I was enabled to procure garments more suitable to a
personage of ambition, and to present myself to the honourable company
assembled at Epsom on a footing of easy equality."
"But a hundred guineas will not last for ever," I said, thinking of the
sums of money which I had already spent on frocks and ribbons since we
came from London.
"That is not all," he said; "I have my new volume of poems, which has
been subscribed by Lady Tamarind and her friends. This is a change,
is it not, Miss Kitty? Formerly, when I was in the Ru--I mean, before
my good fortune came--a sixpenny ordinary was beyond me: I have lived
upon half-a-crown for a week: I have written lines on a 'Christian's
Joys' when starving: and I have composed the 'Lamentations of a Sinner'
when contemplating suicide as the only relief from my troubles.
Now--now--how different! Fortune's wheel has turned--Fame is mine. And
as for poems, I can write as many as I please to give the world, and
always find a subscription list ready to my hand. This brain, Miss
Kitty, like the Fountain of Helicon, will run for ever: that is, while
life and Lady Tamarind remain."
"The stream may get muddy sometimes," said Sir Miles, with a smile.
Fate, which condemns poets to poverty, also compensates them with hope.
If they are in present sunshine, it will last for ever: if in cold
neglect, the future will give what the past has refused: posterity
will continue to wave the censing-pot and send up wreaths of spicy
smoke, a continual flow, grateful to the blessed Spirit above: so that,
fortunate or in neglect, they dwell in a perpetual dream, which keeps
them ever happy.
Then the sanguine bard drew forth his new subscription list.
"I call it," he said, "by the modest title of a 'Project for the
Publication of a New Collection of Odes and Heroic Pieces,' by Solomon
Stallabras, Esquire. I am aware that my birth gives no warrant for the
assumption of the rank of Esquire, but Lady Tamarind is good enough
to say that the possession of genius lifts a man to the level of the
gentry, if not the nobility of the country."
"It does, Solomon; it does," said Sir Miles.
"I venture, ladies, therefore," he said, taking a pencil from his
pocket, "to solicit your honoured names as subscribers for this poor
effort of a (perhaps) too ambitious brain. The poems, when completed,
will be printed in royal quarto, with the portrait of the author as he
appears crowned by Fame, while the Graces (draped for the occasion in
the modern taste) stand behind him: Cupid will raise aloft the trumpet
of Fame: the Muses will be seen admiring from a gentle eminence which
represents Parnassus: Apollo will be figured presenting the poet with
his own lyre, and the sacred stream will flow at his feet--my own
design. In the distance the skin of Marsyas will hang upon a tree, as a
warning to the presumption of rivals. The work will be bound in calf,
and will be issued at the price of two guineas. For that small sum,
ladies, Solomon Stallabras offers a copy of his poems."
"O Mr. Stallabras!" cried Mrs. Esther, "for so charming a picture I
would give not two but twenty guineas, to say nothing of the poems.
Go on, dear sir; raise our thoughts to virtue, and strengthen our
inclinations in the path of duty. Poets, indeed, make the way to heaven
a path of roses."
Now here was a change from old times! Solomon flourishing a
subscription list in lace and silk, and Mrs. Esther offering guineas
by the dozen! Sir Miles, who was leaning by the window just as he had
been wont to do in our poor lodging, nodded and laughed, unseen by Mrs.
Esther.
"Permit me, sir," she said, "if you will be so good, to put my name
down for----"
"O madam!"
The poet bowed low and brandished his pencil.
"For ten copies of this immortal work, in one of which I would ask you
to write your name, in your own hand, for the enrichment of the volume
and the admiration of posterity."
"Madam," said Solomon, with emotion, "I will write my name in the whole
ten."
"And, dear sir, one copy for Miss Kitty."
"Such generosity! such princessly, noble patronage of the Poetical
Art!" he fairly chuckled as he wrote down the names. "Eleven copies!
Twenty-two guineas! This is indeed to realise fame."
He received the money, which Mrs. Esther paid him with a countenance
all smiles, although he vainly tried to throw into his expression the
pride of the poet, to whom money is but filthy lucre.
We then conversed on Epsom and its beauties, and as the gentlemen had
as yet seen none of them, I proposed to lead them to the Downs, whence
I promised them such a landscape as should infinitely rejoice their
eyes. They accepted with expressions of gratitude, and we started.
When, however, we came to the doors of the Spread Eagle, Sir Miles
recollected that at twelve he always took a tankard of cool October for
the good of his health. He therefore left us, promising to follow. But
as he did not come, and we saw him no more that day, I suppose he found
the society of the tankard more enchanting than that of Kitty Pleydell.
We therefore walked up the hill alone, and presently stood upon the
open down, which commands so noble a view. The place was quite deserted
that day, save for a single group of gentlemen, who were conducting a
match, but so far off that we heard not their voices.
I took advantage of this solitude to convey to the poet an instruction
that it would be better not to talk freely at Epsom concerning such
vicissitudes of fortune as we had experienced. I pointed out to him
that until Mrs. Esther's position was securely fixed it might do her
injury to have her story garbled by censorious tongues; that, for his
own sake, his late connection with the Liberties of the Fleet would
be better concealed; and that, for myself, although it mattered less,
because I was never a prisoner while yet an inmate of the Rules, I did
not wish my story, such as it was, to be passed about the Wells, and
mangled in the telling.
Mr. Stallabras declared stoutly that he would not for worlds reveal one
word about the past--for my sake.
"Nay," I said, "not for mine, but for the sake of that dear lady to
whom you owe so much."
"It is true," he said; "I owe her even life. She hath fed me from her
slender stores when I was starving. And when no one would even read my
verses she would learn them by heart and repeat them with tears. For
her sake, then, if not for yours."
Then his face assumed an expression like unto that with which he had
once before made me an offer of his hand, and I knew that he was going
to do it again. If such a thing is going to be done, the sooner it is
over the better. Therefore I waited with calmness, hoping that the
paroxysm would be short and not violent.
"Miss Kitty," he began, turning very red, "some time ago I was
penniless, almost starving, and detained in the (absurdly called)
Liberties of the Fleet for the amount of forty pounds sixteen shillings
and eightpence--a sum so small that it made me blush to confess it,
most of my friends in the same place being incarcerated for substantial
sums of hundreds and even thousands. In this difficult position, which
required the philosophy of a Stoic to endure with resignation, I had
the temerity to offer my hand to the most beautiful woman in the world.
I have often, since, wondered at my own audacity and her gentleness
while she refused so presumptuous a proposal."
"Indeed, Mr. Stallabras," I said, "you conferred great honour upon me."
He bowed.
"The position of affairs," he went on, "is now changed. The poet's
brows are crowned with bays by the hand of a lady as skilled in poets
as she is in pug-dogs; his pockets are lined with guineas; as for the
Fleet Rules--I whistle the memory of the place to the winds. Phew! it
is gone, never to return: I see before me a long and great future,
when booksellers will compete for the honour of publishing me, and
the greatest lords and ladies in the land will rush to subscribe for
copies. Like Shakespeare, I shall amass a fortune: like Prior, I shall
receive offers of embassies: like Addison and Chaucer, I shall be
placed in posts of honour and profit."
"I hope, Mr. Stallabras," I said, "that such will indeed be your
future."
"Do you really hope so, Miss Kitty?" His face flushed again, and I was
quite sorry for him, knowing the pain I was about to inflict upon him.
"Do you hope so? Then that emboldens me to say--Fairest of your sex,
divine nymph, accept the homage of a poet: be celebrated for ever in
his immortal verse. Be my Laura! Let me be thy Petrarch!"
"I will," I replied. "I accept that offer joyfully. I will be to you
what Laura was to Petrarch, if that will content you."
I gave him my hand, which he seized with rapture.
"Oh, beautiful Kitty!" he cried, with such joy in his eyes that I
repented having said so much, "fortune has now bestowed upon me all I
ask. When, goddess, wilt thou crown my happiness!"
"It is already crowned," I replied. "I have given you, Mr. Stallabras,
all you asked for. Let me remind you that you yourself told me the
story of Petrarch's love. I will be your Laura, but I must have the
liberty of doing what Laura did--namely, the right to marry some one
else."
His face fell.
"Oh!" he murmured. "Why did I not say Heloïse?"
"Because she was shut up in a convent. Come, Mr. Stallabras, let us
remain friends, which is far better for both of us, and less trying
to the temper than being lovers. And I will help you with your
subscription-book. As for being married, you would tire of me in a
week."
Upon this he fell to protesting that it was impossible for any man to
tire of such a paragon among women, and I dare say the poor deluded
creature really meant what he said, because men in love are blind.
When this failed to move me, he lamented his ill-fortune in having
placed his hopes upon the heart of a beautiful statue as cold as Dian.
Nor was it until he had prophesied death to himself and prayed for
ruin and loss of his fame, both of which, he said, were now useless,
or comparatively useless to him, that I succeeded in making him, to
a certain extent, reasonable, and calming his anger. He really had
thought that so grand an offer of marriage with a poet, whom he placed
on about the same level with Homer, would tempt any woman. According
to some detractors of the fair sex, every woman believes that every
man must fall in love with her: but I am sure that there is no man who
does not believe that he is irresistible when once he begins to show a
preference or an inclination.
I then persuaded him, with honeyed words, to believe in my sorrow that
I was not able to accept his proposals; and I added that as he had by
this time sufficiently admired the beauties of the landscape, we might
return to the town, when I should have the honour of presenting him to
some of the better sort among the visitors.
He came down the hill with me, sighing after the manner of poets in
love, and panting a little, because he was fat and short of breath, and
I walked fast.
We found the Terrace crowded with people congregated for the morning
talk; the breakfasts being all eaten, the tea-drinking over, morning
prayers finished, and the music playing merrily.
I presented the poet to Lady Levett as an ingenious gentleman whose
verses, known all over town, were doubtless already well known to her
ladyship. She had not the hardness of heart to deny knowledge of the
poet, and gave him a kindly welcome to Epsom, where, she said, she had
no doubt whatever but that he would meet with the reception due to
qualities of such distinction.
Then I ventured to suggest that Mr. Stallabras was receiving names for
a subscription edition of his new poems. Lady Levett added hers, and
begged the poet to visit her at her lodging, where she would discharge
her debt.
In the course of an hour I presented Stallabras to young Lord
Eardesley, Harry Temple, and half the gentlemen at the Wells, asking
of each a subscription to the poems, so that the fortunate poet found
himself some fifty guineas the richer by his morning's work.
"Miss Kitty," he said humbly, "I knew not, indeed, that you were so
great a lady. The 'Queen of the Wells,' I am told. Not but all who know
your worth and kindness must rejoice at this signal triumph. I now
plainly see why I must be content with the lot of Petrarch."
Once launched in society, the poet became quickly a kind of celebrity.
Just as, in some years, a watering-place would boast of having among
its visitors such famous men as Dr. Johnson, Mr. Garrick, or Mr.
Richardson, so now it pointed to Mr. Stallabras, and said to strangers,
"See! The great Mr. Stallabras! The illustrious poet!"
He, like all men born in London, was equal to the opportunity, and rose
on the wave of fashion; his subscription-list kept mounting up; he
sent his poems to the press; he received proofs and read them beneath
the portico, which he compared to the columns where the Roman poets
had been accustomed to read their compositions. We gathered round
and listened; we cried, with our handkerchiefs to our eyes: "O Mr.
Stallabras, how fine! how wondrous pathetic! how just!" Then would he
bow and twist, and wave his hand, and wag his head.
He became an oracle, and, like all oracles in the matter of taste, he
quickly learned to give the law. He affected to understand pictures,
and talked about the "brio" of one painter, and the "three-lights" rule
of another; he was very sarcastic in the matter of poetry, and would
allow but two good poets in the century--himself and Mr. Alexander
Pope; in the region of romance he would allow little credit to
Fielding, but claimed immortality for Richardson.
"Oh, sir, pardon me," he said to one who attributed the greater merit
to the former writer. "Pardon me. The characters and the situations of
Fielding are so wretchedly low and dirty that I cannot imagine any one
being interested in them. There is, I admit, some strength of humour in
him, but he hath over-written himself. I doubt he is a strong hulking
sort of man."
"But, sir," said Lady Levett, "we ladies like men to be strong and
hearty as becomes a man. You surely do not mean that every big man must
have low tastes."
"The mind and the body are united," said the little poet, "they
influence one another. Thus, in a weak frame we find delicacy, and in
a strong frame, bluntness. Softness and tenderness of mind are often
remarkable in a body possessed of the same qualities. Tom Jones could
get drunk on the night of his uncle's recovery--no doubt Mr. Fielding
would manifest his joy in the same manner."
He went on to assure us that Lady Bellaston was an intimate friend of
Mr. Fielding's; that Booth was himself; Tom Jones, again, himself;
Amelia his first wife; his brawls, gaols, sponging-houses, and quarrels
all drawn from his own personal experience.
"He who associates with low companions, ladies," concluded the
ex-prisoner of the Fleet, "must needs himself be low. Taste consorts
only with tasteful persons."
"Should not a lady be beautiful, Mr. Stallabras?" asked a bystander. "I
always supposed so, but since a man is not to be strong, perhaps I was
wrong."
"Sir!" Mr. Stallabras drew himself up to his fall height, and his
fingers closed upon the roll of proof-sheets as if it had been a
sword-hilt. "Sir! all ladies--who have taste--are beautiful. I am
ready to be the champion of the sex. Some are more beautiful than
others,"--here he raised his eyes to me and sighed. "Some flowers are
more beautiful than others. The man of taste loves to let his eyes rest
on such a pleasing object,"--here two young gentlemen winked at each
other--"she is a credit to her sex. When goodness is joined to such
beauty, as is the case with----" Here he looked at me and hesitated.
"Oh!" cried Nancy, "say with _me_, Mr. Stallabras, or Miss Peggy
Baker."
"May I say Miss Pleydell?" he asked, with a comprehensive smile.
"There, indeed, is all Clarissa, and the heart of sensibility, in
contemplating her perfections, reverts to the scenes of our divine
Richardson."