Part 20

I found the count standing in the kitchen with the parson of the parish, and expressing much impatience to see his protector, whom as yet he had scarce found time to thank for the essential service he had done him and the countess.—The daughter passing at the same time with a glass of water, monsieur de Melville could not help taking notice of her figure, which was strikingly engaging.—‘Ay (said the parson), she is the prettiest girl, and the best girl in all my parish: and if I could give my son an estate of ten thousand a year, he should have my consent to lay it at her feet. If Mr Grieve had been as solicitious about getting money, as he has been in performing all the duties of a primitive Christian, he would not have hung so long upon his hands.’ ‘What is her name?’ said I. ‘Sixteen years ago (answered the vicar) I christened her by the names of Seraphina Melvilia.’ ‘Ha! what! how! (cried the count eagerly) sure, you said Seraphina Melvilia.’ ‘I did (said he); Mr Grieve told me those were the names of two noble persons abroad, to whom he had been obliged for more than life.’

The count, without speaking another syllable, rushed into the parlour, crying, ‘This is your god-daughter, my dear.’ Mrs Grieve, then seizing the countess by the hand, exclaimed with great agitation, ‘O madam! O sir!—I am—I am your poor Elinor.—This is my Seraphina Melvilia O child! these are the count and countess of Melville, the generous the glorious benefactors of thy once unhappy parents.’

The countess rising from her scat threw her arms about the neck of the amiable Seraphina, and clasped her to her breast with great tenderness, while she herself was embraced by the weeping mother. This moving scene was completed by the entrance of Grieve himself, who falling on his knees before the count, ‘Behold (said he) a penitent, who at length can look upon his patron without shrinking.’ ‘Ah, Ferdinand! (cried he, raising and folding him in his arms) the playfellow of my infancy—the companion of my youth!—Is it to you then I am indebted for my life?’ ‘Heaven has heard my prayer (said the other), and given me an opportunity to prove myself not altogether unworthy of your clemency and protection.’ He then kissed the hand of the countess, while monsieur de Melville saluted his wife and lovely daughter, and all of us were greatly affected by this pathetic recognition.

In a word, Grieve was no other than Ferdinand count Fathom, whose adventures were printed many years ago. Being a sincere convert to virtue, he had changed his name, that he might elude the enquiries of the count, whose generous allowance he determined to forego, that he might have no dependence but upon his own industry and moderation. He had accordingly settled in this village as a practitioner in surgery and physic, and for some years wrestled with all the miseries of indigence, which, however, he and his wife had borne with the most exemplary resignation. At length, by dint of unwearied attention to the duties of his profession, which he exercised with equal humanity and success, he had acquired tolerable share of business among the farmers and common people, which enabled him to live in a decent manner. He had been scarce ever seen to smile; was unaffectedly pious; and all the time he could spare from the avocations of his employment, he spent in educating his daughter, and in studying for his own improvement. In short, the adventurer Fathom was, under the name of Grieve, universally respected among the commonalty of this district, as a prodigy of learning and virtue. These particulars I learned from the vicar, when we quitted the room, that they might be under no restraint in their mutual effusions. I make no doubt that Grieve will be pressed to leave off business, and re-unite himself to the count’s family; and as the countess seemed extremely fond of his daughter, she will, in all probability, insist upon Seraphina’s accompanying her to Scotland.

Having paid our compliments to these noble persons, we returned to the ‘squire’s, where we expected an invitation to pass the night, which was wet and raw; but it seems, ‘squire Burdock’s hospitality reached not so far for the honour of Yorkshire; we therefore departed in the evening, and lay at an inn, where I caught cold.

In hope of riding it down before it could take fast hold on my constitution, I resolved to visit another relation, one Mr Pimpernel, who lived about a dozen miles from the place where we lodged. Pimpernel being the youngest of four sons, was bred an attorney at Furnival’s inn; but all his elder brothers dying, he got himself called to the bar for the honour of his family, and soon after this preferment, succeeded to his father’s estate which was very considerable. He carried home with him all the knavish chicanery of the lowest pettifogger, together with a wife whom he had purchased of a drayman for twenty pounds; and he soon found means to obtain a dedimus as an acting justice of peace. He is not only a sordid miser in his disposition, but his avarice is mingled with a spirit of despotism, which is truly diabolical.—He is a brutal husband, an unnatural parent, a harsh master, an oppressive landlord, a litigious neighbour, and a partial magistrate. Friends he has none; and in point of hospitality and good breeding, our cousin Burdock is a prince in comparison of this ungracious miscreant, whose house is the lively representation of a gaol. Our reception was suitable to the character I have sketched. Had it depended upon the wife, we should have been kindly treated.—She is really a good sort of a woman, in spite of her low original, and well respected in the country; but she has not interest enough in her own house to command a draught of table beer, far less to bestow any kind of education on her children, who run about, like tagged colts, in a state of nature.—Pox on him! he is such a dirty fellow, that I have not patience to prosecute the subject.

By that time we reached Harrigate, I began to be visited by certain rheumatic symptoms. The Scotch lawyer, Mr Micklewhimmen, recommended a hot bath of these waters so earnestly, that I was over-persuaded to try the experiment.—He had used it often with success and always stayed an hour in the bath, which was a tub filled with Harrigate water, heated for the purpose. If I could hardly bear the smell of a single tumbler when cold, you may guess how my nose was regaled by the streams arising from a hot bath of the same fluid. At night, I was conducted into a dark hole on the ground floor, where the tub smoaked and stunk like the pot of Acheron, in one corner, and in another stood a dirty bed provided with thick blankets, in which I was to sweat after coming out of the bath. My heart seemed to die within me when I entered this dismal bagnio, and found my brain assaulted by such insufferable effluvia. I cursed Micklewhimmen for not considering that my organs were formed on this side of the Tweed; but being ashamed to recoil upon the threshold, I submitted to the process.

After having endured all but real suffocation for above a quarter of an hour in the tub, I was moved to the bed and wrapped in blankets.—There I lay a full hour panting with intolerable heat; but not the least moisture appearing on my skin, I was carried to my own chamber, and passed the night without closing an eye, in such a flutter of spirits as rendered me the most miserable wretch in being. I should certainly have run distracted, if the rarefaction of my blood, occasioned by that Stygian bath, had not burst the vessels, and produced a violent haemorrhage, which, though dreadful and alarming, removed the horrible disquiet—I lost two pounds of blood, and more, on this occasion; and find myself still weak and languid; but, I believe, a little exercise will forward my recovery, and therefore I am resolved to set out to-morrow for York, in my way to Scarborough, where I propose to brace up my fibres by sea-bathing, which, I know, is one of your favourite specificks. There is, however, one disease, for which you have found as yet no specific, and that is old age, of which this tedious unconnected epistle is an infallible symptom: what, therefore, cannot be cured, must be endured, by you, as well as by

Yours, MATT. BRAMBLE HARRIGATE, June 26.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.

DEAR KNIGHT,

The manner of living at Harrigate was so agreeable to my disposition, that I left the place with some regret—Our aunt Tabby would have probably made some objection to our departing so soon, had not an accident embroiled her with Mr Micklewhimmen, the Scotch advocate, on whose heart she had been practising, from the second day after our arrival—That original, though seemingly precluded from the use of his limbs, had turned his genius to good account—In short, by dint of groaning, and whining, he had excited the compassion of the company so effectually, that an old lady, who occupied the very best apartment in the house, gave it up for his ease and convenience. When his man led him into the Long Room, all the females were immediately in commotion—One set an elbow-chair; another shook up the cushion; a third brought a stool; and a fourth a pillow, for the accommodation of his feet— Two ladies (of whom Tabby was always one) supported him into the dining-room, and placed him properly at the table; and his taste was indulged with a succession of delicacies, culled by their fair hands. All this attention he repaid with a profusion of compliments and benedictions, which were not the less agreeable for being delivered in the Scottish dialect. As for Mrs Tabitha, his respects were particularly addressed to her, and he did not fail to mingle them with religious reflections, touching free grace, knowing her bias to methodism, which he also professed upon a calvinistical model.

For my part, I could not help thinking this lawyer was not such an invalid as he pretended to be. I observed he ate very heartily three times a day; and though his bottle was marked stomachic tincture, he had recourse to it so often, and seemed to swallow it with such peculiar relish, that I suspected it was not compounded in the apothecary’s shop, or the chemist’s laboratory. One day, while he was earnest in discourse with Mrs Tabitha, and his servant had gone out on some occasion or other, I dexterously exchanged the labels, and situation of his bottle and mine; and having tasted his tincture, found it was excellent claret. I forthwith handed it about me to some of my neighbours, and it was quite emptied before Mr Micklewhimmen had occasion to repeat his draught. At length, turning about, he took hold of my bottle, instead of his own, and, filling a large glass, drank to the health of Mrs Tabitha. It had scarce touched his lips, when he perceived the change which had been put upon him, and was at first a little out of countenance. He seemed to retire within himself, in order to deliberate, and in half a minute his resolution was taken; addressing himself to our quarter, ‘I give the gentleman credit for his wit (said he); it was a gude practical joke; but sometimes hi joci in seria ducunt mala—I hope for his own sake he has na drank all the liccor; for it was a vara poorful infusion of jallap in Bourdeaux wine; at its possable he may ha ta’en sic a dose as will produce a terrible catastrophe in his ain booels—’

By far the greater part of the contents had fallen to the share of a young clothier from Leeds, who had come to make a figure at Harrigate, and was, in effect a great coxcomb in his way. It was with a view to laugh at his fellow-guests, as well as to mortify the lawyer, that he had emptied the bottle, when it came to his turn, and he had laughed accordingly: but now his mirth gave way to his apprehension—He began to spit, to make wry faces, and writhe himself into various contorsions—‘Damn the stuff! (cried he) I thought it had a villainous twang—pah! He that would cozen a Scot, mun get oope betimes, and take Old Scratch for his counsellor—’ ‘In troth mester what d’ye ca’um (replied the lawyer), your wit has run you into a filthy puddle—I’m truly consarned for your waeful case—The best advice I can give you, in sic a delemma, is to send an express to Rippon for doctor Waugh, without delay, and, in the mean time, swallow all the oil and butter you can find in the hoose, to defend your poor stomach and intastines from the villication of the particles of the jallap, which is vara violent, even when taken in moderation.’

The poor clothier’s torments had already begun: he retired, roaring with pain, to his own chamber; the oil was swallowed, and the doctor sent for; but before he arrived, the miserable patient had made such discharges upwards and downwards, that nothing remained to give him further offence; and this double evacuation, was produced by imagination alone; for what he had drank was genuine wine of Bourdeaux, which the lawyer had brought from Scotland for his own private use. The clothier, finding the joke turn out so expensive and disagreeable, quitted the house next morning, leaving the triumph to Micklewhimmen, who enjoyed it internally without any outward signs of exultation—on the contrary, he affected to pity the young man for what he had suffered; and acquired fresh credit from this shew of moderation.

It was about the middle of the night, which succeeded this adventure, that the vent of the kitchen chimney being foul, the soot took fire, and the alarm was given in a dreadful manner. Every body leaped naked out of bed, and in a minute the whole house was filled with cries and confusion—There was two stairs in the house, and to these we naturally ran; but they were both so blocked up, by the people pressing one upon another, that it seemed impossible to pass, without throwing down and trampling upon the women. In the midst of this anarchy, Mr Micklewhimmen, with a leathern portmanteau on his back, came running as nimble as a buck along the passage; and Tabby in her underpetticoat, endeavouring to hook him under the arm, that she might escape through his protection, he very fairly pushed her down, crying, ‘Na, na, gude faith, charity begins at hame!’ Without paying the least respect to the shrieks and intreaties of his female friends, he charged through the midst of the crowd, overturning every thing that opposed him; and actually fought his way to the bottom of the Stair-case—By this time Clinker had found a ladder by which he entered the window of my uncle’s chamber, where our family was assembled, and proposed that we should make our exit successively by that conveyance. The ‘squire exhorted his sister to begin the descent; but, before she could resolve, her woman, Mrs Winifred Jenkins, in a transport of terror, threw herself out at the window upon the ladder, while Humphry dropped upon the ground, that he might receive her in her descent—This maiden was just as she had started out of bed, the moon shone very bright, and a fresh breeze of wind blowing, none of Mrs Winifred’s beauties could possibly escape the view of the fortunate Clinker, whose heart was not able to withstand the united force of so many charms; at least I am much mistaken, if he has not been her humble slave from that moment—He received her in his arms, and, giving her his coat to protect her from the weather, ascended again with admirable dexterity.

At that instant, the landlord of the house called out with an audible voice, that the fire was extinguished, and the ladies had nothing further to fear: this was a welcome note to the audience, and produced an immediate effect; the shrieking ceased, and a confused sound of expostulation ensued. I conducted Mrs Tabitha and my sister to their own chamber, where Liddy fainted away; but was soon brought to herself. Then I went to offer my services to the other ladies, who might want assistance—They were all scudding through the passage to their several apartments; and as the thoroughfair was lighted by two lamps, I had a pretty good observation of them in their transit; but as most of them were naked to the smock, and all their heads shrowded in huge nightcaps, I could not distinguish one face from another, though I recognized some of their voices—These were generally plaintive; some wept, some scolded, and some prayed—I lifted up one poor old gentlewoman, who had been overturned and sore bruised by a multitude of feet; and this was also the case with the lame person from Northumberland, whom Micklewhimmen had in his passage overthrown, though not with impunity, for the cripple, in falling, gave him such a good pelt on the head with his crutch, that the blood followed.

As for this lawyer, he waited below till the hurly burly was over, and then stole softly to his own chamber, from whence he did not venture to make a second sally till eleven in the forenoon, when he was led into the Public Room, by his own servant and another assistant, groaning most woefully, with a bloody napkin round his head. But things were greatly altered—The selfish brutality of his behaviour on the stairs had steeled their hearts against all his arts and address—Not a soul offered to accommodate him with a chair, cushion, or footstool; so that he was obliged to sit down on a hard bench—In that position, he looked around with a rueful aspect, and, bowing very low, said in a whining tone, ‘Your most humble servant, ladies—Fire is a dreadful calamity’—‘Fire purifies gold, and it ties friendship,’ cried Mrs Tabitha, bridling. ‘Yea, madam (replied Micklewhimmen); and it trieth discretion also’—‘If discretion consists in forsaking a friend in adversity, you are eminently possessed of that virtue’ (resumed our aunt).—‘Na, madam (rejoined the advocate), well I wot, I cannot claim any merit from the mode of my retreat—Ye’ll please to observe, ladies, there are twa independent principles that actuate our nature—One is instinct, which we have in common with the brute creation, and the other is reason—Noo, in certain great emergencies, when the faculty of reason is suspended, instinct taks the lead, and when this predominates, having no affinity with reason, it pays no sort of regard to its connections; it only operates for the preservation of the individual, and that by the most expeditious and effectual means; therefore, begging your pardon, ladies, I’m no accountable in foro conscientioe for what I did, while under the influence of this irresistible pooer.’

Here my uncle interposing, ‘I should be glad to know (said he), whether it was instinct that prompted you to retreat with bag and baggage; for, I think, you had a portmanteau on your shoulder’ The lawyer answered, without hesitation, ‘Gif I might tell my mind freely, withoot incuring the suspicion of presumption, I should think it was something superior to either reason or instinct which suggested that measure, and this on a twafold accoont: in the first place, the portmanteau contained the writings of a worthy nobleman’s estate; and their being burnt would have occasioned a loss that could not be repaired; secondly, my good angel seems to have laid the portmanteau on my shoulders, by way of defence, to sustain the violence of a most inhuman blow, from the crutch of a reverend clergyman, which, even in spite of that medium, hath wounded me sorely, even unto the pericranium.’ ‘By your own doctrine (cried the parson, who chanced to be present), I am not accountable for the blow, which was the effect of instinct.’ ‘I crave your pardon, reverend sir (said the other), instinct never acts but for the preservation of the individual; but your preservation was out of the case—you had already received the damage, and therefore the blow must be imputed to revenge, which is a sinful passion, that ill becomes any Christian, especially a protestant divine; and let me tell you, most reverend doctor, gin I had a mind to plea, the law would hauld my libel relevant.’ ‘Why, the damage is pretty equal on both sides (cried the parson); your head is broke, and my crutch is snapt in the middle. Now, if you will repair the one, I will be at the expence of curing the other.’