He was a fellow in a peasant’s garb;
Yet one could censure you a woodcock’s carving.
Like any courtier at the ordinary.
--THE ORDINARY.
The person who appeared at the door of the little inn to receive
Ganlesse, as we mentioned in our last chapter, sung, as he came forward,
this scrap of an old ballad,--
“Good even to you, Diccon;
And how have you sped;
Bring you the bonny bride
To banquet and bed?”
To which Ganlesse answered, in the same tone and tune,--
“Content thee, kind Robin;
He need little care,
Who brings home a fat buck
Instead of a hare.”
“You have missed your blow, then?” said the other, in reply.
“I tell you I have not,” answered Ganlesse; “but you will think of
nought but your own thriving occupation--May the plague that belongs to
it stick to it! though it hath been the making of thee.”
“A man must live, Diccon Ganlesse,” said the other.
“Well, well,” said Ganlesse, “bid my friend welcome, for my sake. Hast
thou got any supper?”
“Reeking like a sacrifice--Chaubert has done his best. That fellow is a
treasure! give him a farthing candle, and he will cook a good supper
out of it.--Come in, sir. My friend’s friend is welcome, as we say in my
country.”
“We must have our horses looked to first,” said Peveril, who began to
be considerably uncertain about the character of his companions--“that
done, I am for you.”
Ganlesse gave a second whistle; a groom appeared, who took charge of
both their horses, and they themselves entered the inn.
The ordinary room of a poor inn seemed to have undergone some
alterations, to render it fit for company of a higher description. There
were a beaufet, a couch, and one or two other pieces of furniture, of
a style inconsistent with the appearance of the place. The tablecloth,
which was already laid, was of the finest damask; and the spoons,
forks, &c., were of silver. Peveril looked at this apparatus with some
surprise; and again turning his eyes attentively upon his travelling
companion, Ganlesse, he could not help discovering (by the aid of
imagination, perhaps), that though insignificant in person, plain in
features, and dressed like one in indigence, there lurked still about
his person and manners, that indefinable ease of manner which belongs
only to men of birth and quality, or to those who are in the constant
habit of frequenting the best company. His companion, whom he called
Will Smith, although tall and rather good-looking, besides being
much better dressed, had not, nevertheless, exactly the same ease of
demeanour; and was obliged to make up for the want, by an additional
proportion of assurance. Who these two persons could be, Peveril could
not attempt even to form a guess. There was nothing for it but to watch
their manner and conversation.
After speaking a moment in whispers, Smith said to his companion, “We
must go look after our nags for ten minutes, and allow Chaubert to do
his office.”
“Will not he appear, and minister before us, then?” said Ganlesse.
“What! he?--he shift a trencher--he hand a cup?--No, you forget whom
you speak of. Such an order were enough to make him fall on his own
sword--he is already on the borders of despair, because no craw-fish are
to be had.”
“Alack-a day!” replied Ganlesse. “Heaven forbid I should add to such
a calamity! To stable, then, and see we how our steeds eat their
provender, while ours is getting ready.”
They adjourned to the stable accordingly, which, though a poor one, had
been hastily supplied with whatever was necessary for the accommodation
of four excellent horses; one of which, that from which Ganlesse was
just dismounted, the groom we have mentioned was cleaning and dressing
by the light of a huge wax-candle.
“I am still so far Catholic,” said Ganlesse, laughing, as he saw that
Peveril noticed this piece of extravagance. “My horse is my saint, and I
dedicate a candle to him.”
“Without asking so great a favour for mine, which I see standing behind
yonder old hen-coop,” replied Peveril, “I will at least relieve him of
his saddle and bridle.”
“Leave him to the lad of the inn,” said Smith; “he is not worthy of any
other person’s handling; and I promise you, if you slip a single buckle,
you will so flavour of that stable duty, that you might as well eat
roast-beef as ragouts, for any relish you will have of them.”
“I love roast-beef as well as ragouts, at any time,” said Peveril,
adjusting himself to a task which every young man should know how to
perform when need is; “and my horse, though it be but a sorry jade, will
champ better on hay and corn, than on an iron bit.”
While he was unsaddling his horse, and shaking down some litter for the
poor wearied animal, he heard Smith observe to Ganlesse,--“By my faith,
Dick, thou hast fallen into poor Slender’s blunder; missed Anne Page,
and brought us a great lubberly post-master’s boy.”
“Hush, he will hear thee,” answered Ganlesse; “there are reasons for all
things--it is well as it is. But, prithee, tell thy fellow to help the
youngster.”
“What!” replied Smith, “d’ye think I am mad?--Ask Tom Beacon--Tom of
Newmarket--Tom of ten thousand, to touch such a four-legged brute as
that?--Why, he would turn me away on the spot--discard me, i’faith. It
was all he would do to take in hand your own, my good friend; and if you
consider him not the better, you are like to stand groom to him yourself
to-morrow.”
“Well, Will,” answered Ganlesse, “I will say that for thee, thou hast a
set of the most useless, scoundrelly, insolent vermin about thee, that
ever ate up a poor gentleman’s revenues.”
“Useless? I deny it,” replied Smith. “Every one of my fellows does
something or other so exquisitely, that it were sin to make him do
anything else--it is your jacks-of-all-trades who are masters of
none.--But hark to Chaubert’s signal. The coxcomb is twangling it on the
lute, to the tune of _Eveillez-vous, belle endormie_.--Come, Master What
d’ye call (addressing Peveril),--get ye some water, and wash this filthy
witness from your hand, as Betterton says in the play; for Chaubert’s
cookery is like Friar Bacon’s Head--time is--time was--time will soon be
no more.”
So saying, and scarce allowing Julian time to dip his hands in a bucket,
and dry them on a horse-cloth, he hurried him from the stable back to
the supper-chamber.
Here all was prepared for their meal, with an epicurean delicacy, which
rather belonged to the saloon of a palace, than the cabin in which it
was displayed. Four dishes of silver, with covers of the same metal,
smoked on the table; and three seats were placed for the company.
Beside the lower end of the board, was a small side-table, to answer
the purpose of what is now called a dumb waiter; on which several flasks
reared their tall, stately, and swan-like crests, above glasses and
rummers. Clean covers were also placed within reach; and a small
travelling-case of morocco, hooped with silver, displayed a number of
bottles, containing the most approved sauces that culinary ingenuity had
then invented.
Smith, who occupied the lower seat, and seemed to act as president of
the feast, motioned the two travellers to take their places and begin.
“I would not stay a grace-time,” he said, “to save a whole nation from
perdition. We could bring no chauffettes with any convenience; and even
Chaubert is nothing, unless his dishes are tasted in the very moment
of projection. Come, uncover, and let us see what he has done for
us.--Hum!--ha!--ay--squab-pigeons--wildfowl--young chickens--venison
cutlets--and a space in the centre, wet, alas! by a gentle tear from
Chaubert’s eye, where should have been the _soupe aux écrevisses_.
The zeal of that poor fellow is ill repaid by his paltry ten louis per
month.”
“A mere trifle,” said Ganlesse; “but, like yourself, Will, he serves a
generous master.”
The repast now commenced; and Julian, though he had seen his young
friend the Earl of Derby, and other gallants, affect a considerable
degree of interest and skill in the science of the kitchen, and was not
himself either an enemy or a stranger to the pleasures of a good table,
found that, on the present occasion, he was a mere novice. Both his
companions, but Smith in especial, seemed to consider that they were now
engaged in the only true business of life; and weighed all its minutiæ
with a proportional degree of accuracy. To carve the morsel in the most
delicate manner--and to apportion the proper seasoning with the accuracy
of the chemist,--to be aware, exactly, of the order in which one dish
should succeed another, and to do plentiful justice to all--was a
minuteness of science to which Julian had hitherto been a stranger.
Smith accordingly treated him as a mere novice in epicurism, cautioning
him to eat his soup before the bouilli, and to forget the Manx custom
of bolting the boiled meat before the broth, as if Cutlar MacCulloch and
all his whingers were at the door. Peveril took the hint in good part,
and the entertainment proceeded with animation.
At length Ganlesse paused, and declared the supper exquisite. “But, my
friend Smith,” he added, “are your wines curious? When you brought all
that trash of plates and trumpery into Derbyshire, I hope you did not
leave us at the mercy of the strong ale of the shire, as thick and muddy
as the squires who drink it?”
“Did I not know that _you_ were to meet me, Dick Ganlesse?” answered
their host. “And can you suspect me of such an omission? It is true,
you must make champagne and claret serve, for my burgundy would not bear
travelling. But if you have a fancy for sherry, or Vin de Cahors, I
have a notion Chaubert and Tom Beacon have brought some for their own
drinking.”
“Perhaps the gentlemen would not care to impart,” said Ganlesse.
“Oh, fie!--anything in the way of civility,” replied Smith. “They are,
in truth, the best-natured lads alive, when treated respectfully; so
that if you would prefer----”
“By no means,” said Ganlesse--“a glass of champagne will serve in a
scarcity of better.”
“The cork shall start obsequious to my thumb.”
said Smith; and as he spoke, he untwisted the wire, and the cork struck
the roof of the cabin. Each guest took a large rummer glass of the
sparkling beverage, which Peveril had judgment and experience enough to
pronounce exquisite.
“Give me your hand, sir,” said Smith; “it is the first word of sense you
have spoken this evening.”
“Wisdom, sir,” replied Peveril, “is like the best ware in the pedlar’s
pack, which he never produces till he knows his customer.”
“Sharp as mustard,” returned the _bon vivant_; “but be wise, most noble
pedlar, and take another rummer of this same flask, which you see I
have held in an oblique position for your service--not permitting it
to retrograde to the perpendicular. Nay, take it off before the bubble
bursts on the rim, and the zest is gone.”
“You do me honour, sir,” said Peveril, taking the second glass. “I wish
you a better office than that of my cup-bearer.”
“You cannot wish Will Smith one more congenial to his nature,” said
Ganlesse. “Others have a selfish delight in the objects of sense, Will
thrives, and is happy by imparting them to his friends.”
“Better help men to pleasures than to pains, Master Ganlesse,” answered
Smith, somewhat angrily.
“Nay, wrath thee not, Will,” said Ganlesse; “and speak no words in
haste, lest you may have cause to repent at leisure. Do I blame thy
social concern for the pleasures of others? Why, man, thou dost therein
most philosophically multiply thine own. A man has but one throat, and
can but eat, with his best efforts, some five or six times a day; but
thou dinest with every friend that cuts a capon, and art quaffing wine
in other men’s gullets, from morning to night--_et sic de cæteris_.”
“Friend Ganlesse,” returned Smith, “I prithee beware--thou knowest I can
cut gullets as well as tickle them.”
“Ay, Will,” answered Ganlesse carelessly; “I think I have seen thee wave
thy whinyard at the throat of a Hogan-Mogan--a Netherlandish
weasand, which expanded only on thy natural and mortal objects of
aversion,--Dutch cheese, rye-bread, pickled herring, onion, and Geneva.”
“For pity’s sake, forbear the description!” said Smith; “thy words
overpower the perfumes, and flavour the apartment like a dish of
salmagundi!”
“But for an epiglottis like mine,” continued Ganlesse, “down which the
most delicate morsels are washed by such claret as thou art now pouring
out, thou couldst not, in thy bitterest mood, wish a worse fate than to
be necklaced somewhat tight by a pair of white arms.”
“By a tenpenny cord,” answered Smith; “but not till you were dead; that
thereafter you be presently embowelled, you being yet alive; that
your head be then severed from your body, and your body divided into
quarters, to be disposed of at his Majesty’s pleasure.--How like you
that, Master Richard Ganlesse?”
“E’en as you like the thoughts of dining on bran-bread and
milk-porridge--an extremity which you trust never to be reduced to.
But all this shall not prevent me from pledging you in a cup of sound
claret.”
As the claret circulated, the glee of the company increased; and Smith
placing the dishes which had been made use of upon the side-table,
stamped with his foot on the floor, and the table sinking down a trap,
again rose, loaded with olives, sliced neat’s tongue, caviare, and other
provocatives for the circulation of the bottle.
“Why, Will,” said Ganlesse, “thou art a more complete mechanist than I
suspected; thou hast brought thy scene-shifting inventions to Derbyshire
in marvellously short time.”
“A rope and pullies can be easily come by,” answered Will; “and with a
saw and a plane, I can manage that business in half a day. I love the
knack of clean and secret conveyance--thou knowest it was the foundation
of my fortunes.”
“It may be the wreck of them too, Will,” replied his friend.
“True, Diccon,” answered Will; “but, _dum vivimus, vivamus_,--that is my
motto; and therewith I present you a brimmer to the health of the fair
lady you wot of.”
“Let it come, Will,” replied his friend; and the flask circulated
briskly from hand to hand.
Julian did not think it prudent to seem a check on their festivity, as
he hoped in its progress something might occur to enable him to judge
of the character and purposes of his companions. But he watched them
in vain. Their conversation was animated and lively, and often bore
reference to the literature of the period, in which the elder seemed
particularly well skilled. They also talked freely of the Court, and of
that numerous class of gallants who were then described as “men of
wit and pleasure about town;” and to which it seemed probable they
themselves appertained.
At length the universal topic of the Popish Plot was started; upon
which Ganlesse and Smith seemed to entertain the most opposite opinions.
Ganlesse, if he did not maintain the authority of Oates in its utmost
extent, contended, that at least it was confirmed in a great measure
by the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the letters written by
Coleman to the confessor of the French King.
With much more noise, and less power of reasoning, Will Smith hesitated
not to ridicule and run down the whole discovery, as one of the wildest
and most causeless alarms which had ever been sounded in the ears of a
credulous public. “I shall never forget,” he said, “Sir Godfrey’s
most original funeral. Two bouncing parsons, well armed with sword and
pistol, mounted the pulpit, to secure the third fellow who preached from
being murdered in the face of the congregation. Three parsons in one
pulpit--three suns in one hemisphere--no wonder men stood aghast at such
a prodigy.”
“What then, Will,” answered his companion, “you are one of those who
think the good knight murdered himself, in order to give credit to the
Plot?”
“By my faith, not I,” said the other; “but some true blue Protestant
might do the job for him, in order to give the thing a better colour.--I
will be judged by our silent friend, whether that be not the most
feasible solution of the whole.”
“I pray you, pardon me, gentlemen,” said Julian; “I am but just landed
in England, and am a stranger to the particular circumstances which have
thrown the nation into such a ferment. It would be the highest degree
of assurance in me to give my opinion betwixt gentlemen who argue the
matter so ably; besides, to say truth, I confess weariness--your wine is
more potent than I expected, or I have drunk more of it than I meant to
do.”
“Nay, if an hour’s nap will refresh you,” said the elder of the
strangers, “make no ceremony with us. Your bed--all we can offer as
such--is that old-fashioned Dutch-built sofa, as the last new phrase
calls it. We shall be early stirrers tomorrow morning.”
“And that we may be so,” said Smith, “I propose that we do sit up all
this night--I hate lying rough, and detest a pallet-bed. So have at
another flask, and the newest lampoon to help it out--
‘Now a plague of their votes
Upon Papists and Plots,
And be d--d Doctor Oates.
Tol de rol.’”
“Nay, but our Puritanic host,” said Ganlesse.
“I have him in my pocket, man--his eyes, ears, nose, and tongue,”
answered his boon companion, “are all in my possession.”
“In that case, when you give him back his eyes and nose, I pray you keep
his ears and tongue,” answered Ganlesse. “Seeing and smelling are organs
sufficient for such a knave--to hear and tell are things he should have
no manner of pretensions to.”
“I grant you it were well done,” answered Smith; “but it were a robbing
of the hangman and the pillory; and I am an honest fellow, who would
give Dun[*] and the devil his due. So,
‘All joy to great Cæsar,
Long life, love, and pleasure;
May the King live for ever,
‘Tis no matter for us, boys.’”
[*] Dun was the hangman of the day at Tyburn. He was successor of
Gregory Brunden, who was by many believed to be the same who
dropped the axe upon Charles I., though others were suspected of
being the actual regicide.
While this Bacchanalian scene proceeded, Julian had wrapt himself
closely in his cloak, and stretched himself on the couch which they had
shown him. He looked towards the table he had left--the tapers seemed to
become hazy and dim as he gazed--he heard the sound of voices, but
they ceased to convey any impression to his understanding; and in a few
minutes, he was faster asleep than he had ever been in the whole course
of his life.