CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVI.
The escape of the thief. Mr Adams's disappointment. The
arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson
Adams to parson Barnabas.
Barnabas and the surgeon, being returned, as we have said,
to the inn, in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly
concerned to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted
them; and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestly withdrawn
himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not chusing, in imitation of
some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at.
When the company had retired the evening before, the thief
was detained in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who
took him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch a general complaint
of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers. Among whom it was at
last agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and the young fellow call
up the tapster; in which disposition the latter apprehended not the least
danger, as the constable was well armed, and could besides easily summon him
back to his assistance, if the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his
liberty.
The young fellow had not long left the room before it came
into the constable's head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprize, and,
thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long staff in
which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a struggle to a equal
chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out of the
room himself, and locked the door, waiting without with his staff in his hand,
ready lifted to fell the unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt
to break out.
But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or
other (for I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any
such discovery), very much resembles a game at chess; for as in the latter,
while a gamester is too attentive to secure himself very strongly on one side
the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other; so doth it
often happen in life, and so did it happen on this occasion; for whilst the
cautious constable with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of the
door, he most unhappily forgot the window.
The thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived
this opening than he began to move that way; and, finding the passage easy, he
took with him the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony stepped into the
street and made the best of his way.
The young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong
beer, was a little surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more
so when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his escape,
and which way. He threw down the beer, and, without uttering anything to the
constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of the window, and
went again in pursuit of his prey, being very unwilling to lose the reward
which he had assured himself of.
The constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this
account; it hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking the thief,
he could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been
convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was very
unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his pretence for
leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant maxim, that a wise man
never refused money on any conditions; that at every election he always had
sold his vote to both parties, &c.
But, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations,
I am sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been positively assured of
it by those who received their informations from his own mouth; which, in the
opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed only evidence.
All the family were now up, and with many others assembled
in the kitchen, where Mr Tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having
declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's escape, as it
was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however, by Mr Barnabas's
opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment would not lie.
Mrs Tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words:
"Sure never was such a fool as my husband; would any other person living
have left a man in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom
Suckbribe?" (which was the constable's name); "and if he could be
indicted without any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of
it." (Then the bell rung in Joseph's room.) "Why Betty, John,
Chamberlain, where the devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience,
not to tend the sick better? See what the gentleman wants. Why don't you go
yourself, Mr Tow-wouse? But any one may die for you; you have no more feeling
than a deal board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a
penny, you would never put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or
coffee for breakfast." "Yes, my dear," cried Tow-wouse. She then
asked the doctor and Mr Barnabas what morning's draught they chose, who
answered, they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave them
merry over, and return to Joseph.
He had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds
were far from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it
was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; Mr Adams,
therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper and
breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to consider
how it was possible to recruit it. At last he cried, "He had luckily hit
on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return himself home
together with Joseph, it mattered not much." He then sent for Tow-wouse,
and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted to borrow three
guineas, for which he would put ample security into his hands." Tow-wouse,
who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double the value, answered,
"He believed he could furnish him." Upon which Adams, pointing to his
saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice full of solemnity, "that there
were in that bag no less than nine volumes of manuscript sermons, as well worth
a hundred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he would
deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that
he would have the honesty to return it on his repayment of the money; for
otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least
bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in
the country; for," said he, "as to my own part, having never yet
dealt in printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such
things."
Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and
not without some truth), "That he was no judge of the price of such kind
of goods; and as for money, he really was very short." Adams answered,
"Certainly he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was
undoubtedly worth at least ten." The landlord replied, "He did not
believe he had so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a
sum. He was very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily
sorry it did not suit him." He then cried out, "Coming sir!"
though nobody called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck.
Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment,
nor knew he what further stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe,
his constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the
rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of
tobacco.
He had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short
greatcoat, which half covered his cassock—a dress which, added to something
comical enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes
of those who were not over given to observation.
Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and
six, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the
coach a young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow
leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together with
the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr Tow-wouse into an apartment; whither
as they passed, they entertained themselves with the following short facetious
dialogue:—
"You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!"
says he from the coach; "you had almost overturned us just
now."—"Pox take you!" says the coachman; "if I had only
broke your neck, it would have been saving somebody else the trouble; but I
should have been sorry for the pointers."—"Why, you son of a
b—," answered the other, "if nobody could shoot better than you, the
pointers would be of no use."—"D—n me," says the coachman,
"I will shoot with you five guineas a shot."—"You be
hanged," says the other; "for five guineas you shall shoot at my
a—."—"Done," says the coachman; "I'll pepper you better
than ever you was peppered by Jenny Bouncer."—"Pepper your
grandmother," says the other: "Here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at
him for a shilling a time."—"I know his honour better," cries
Tow-wouse; "I never saw a surer shot at a partridge. Every man misses now
and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would desire no
better livelihood than I could get by my gun."—"Pox on you,"
said the coachman, "you demolish more game now than your head's worth.
There's a bitch, Tow-wouse: by G— she never blinked 4 a bird in her
life."—"I have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a
hundred," cries the other gentleman.—"Done," says the coachman:
"but you will be pox'd before you make the bett."—"If you have a
mind for a bett," cries the coachman, "I will match my spotted dog
with your white bitch for a hundred, play or pay."—"Done," says
the other: "and I'll run Baldface against Slouch with you for another."—"No,"
cries he from the box; "but I'll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface, or
Hannibal either."—"Go to the devil," cries he from the coach:
"I will make every bett your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal
with Slouch for a thousand, if you dare; and I say done first."
They were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented
to leave them, and repair to the kitchen; where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an
exciseman were smoaking their pipes over some cyder-and; and where the
servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, were
now arrived.
"Tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's
parson Adams smoaking his pipe in the gallery."—"Yes," says Tom;
"I pulled off my hat to him, and the parson spoke to me."
"Is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says
Barnabas (for his cassock had been tied up when he arrived). "Yes,
sir," answered the footman; "and one there be but few
like."—"Aye," said Barnabas; "if I had known it sooner, I
should have desired his company; I would always shew a proper respect for the
cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a room, and invite him
to take part of a bowl of punch?"
This proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; and
parson Adams accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two
clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth. They had
not been long together before they entered into a discourse on small tithes,
which continued a full hour, without the doctor or exciseman's having one
opportunity to offer a word.
It was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and
the exciseman opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one
of them introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior
clergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes
of sermons on the carpet.
Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said, "The
age was so wicked, that nobody read sermons: would you think it, Mr
Adams?" said he, "I once intended to print a volume of sermons
myself, and they had the approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you
think a bookseller offered me?"—"Twelve guineas perhaps," cried
Adams.—"Not twelve pence, I assure you," answered Barnabas:
"nay, the dog refused me a Concordance in exchange. At last I offered to give
him the printing them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman
who just now drove his own coach into the inn; and, I assure you, he had the
impudence to refuse my offer; by which means I lost a good living, that was
afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who—but I will not say
anything against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr Adams, what you are to expect;
for if sermons would have gone down, I believe—I will not be vain; but to be
concise with you, three bishops said they were the best that ever were writ:
but indeed there are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold
yet."—"Pray, sir," said Adams, "to what do you think the
numbers may amount?"—"Sir," answered Barnabas, "a
bookseller told me, he believed five thousand volumes at
least."—"Five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "What can they
be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one Tillotson's
sermons; and, I am sure, if a man practised half so much as is in one of those
sermons, he will go to heaven."—"Doctor," cried Barnabas,
"you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reprove you. A man
can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And as for
Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things very well; but
comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as he—I believe there are
some of my sermons,"—and then he applied the candle to his pipe.—"And
I believe there are some of my discourses," cries Adams, "which the
bishops would not think totally unworthy of being printed; and I have been
informed I might procure a very large sum (indeed an immense one) on
them."—"I doubt that," answered Barnabas: "however, if you
desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell them by advertising the
manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased, all warranted originals, and
never printed. And now I think of it, I should be obliged to you, if there be
ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me; for I am this very day to preach
a funeral sermon, for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a
double price."—Adams answered, "He had but one, which he feared would
not serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had
exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of his
neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in the parish
where he lived."—"No," replied Barnabas, "that will not do
quite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues I am to harangue, was a
little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a mistress.—I believe I
must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory to introduce something
handsome on him."—"To your invention rather," said the doctor:
"your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man living remembers anything
good of him."
With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl
of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams and the doctor went up to
Joseph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid deceased, and the
exciseman descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels.
Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and
waited for Mr Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor, having felt
his pulse and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed
to that sanative soporiferous draught, a medicine "whose virtues," he
said, "were never to be sufficiently extolled." And great indeed they
must be, if Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since
nothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could have contributed
to his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in the window ever since
its arrival.
Joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his
friend Adams, in which nothing so remarkable happened as the swift progress of
his recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now almost
healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he pressed Mr Adams
to let him depart; told him he should never be able to return sufficient thanks
for all his favours, but begged that he might no longer delay his journey to
London.
Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of
Mr Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of Mr Barnabas, had great
expectations from his sermons: seeing therefore Joseph in so good a way, he
told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in the stage-coach,
that he believed he should have sufficient, after the reckoning paid, to
procure him one day's conveyance in it, and afterwards he would be able to get
on on foot, or might be favoured with a lift in some neighbour's waggon,
especially as there was then to be a fair in the town whither the coach would
carry him, to which numbers from his parish resorted—And as to himself, he agreed
to proceed to the great city.
They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair,
short person rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went directly up to
Barnabas, who was smoaking his pipe on a bench. The parson and the stranger
shook one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together.
The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his chamber,
whither the good Adams accompanied him, and took this opportunity to expatiate
on the great mercies God had lately shown him, of which he ought not only to
have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward thankfulness for
them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a considerable time in
prayer and thanksgiving.
They had just finished when Betty came in and told Mr Adams
Mr Barnabas desired to speak to him on some business of consequence
below-stairs. Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let
him know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case
they wished one another good-night.
Footnote 4: To blink is a term used to signify the dog's
passing by a bird without pointing at it.(return)
CHAPTER XVII.
A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the
bookseller, 'which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn,
which produced a dialogue between Mrs Tow-wouse and her maid of no gentle kind.
As soon as Adams came into the room, Mr Barnabas introduced
him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely
to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams, saluting the
stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that nothing
could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the great city, and
was heartily desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered
of his misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as was usual with him), and took
two or three turns about the room in an extasy. And to induce the bookseller to
be as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his
commodity, he assured them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for
that he had the most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being
almost spent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered
from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most indigent
condition. "So that nothing," says he, "could be so opportune
for the supplying both our necessities as my making an immediate bargain with
you."
As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in
these words: "Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my
friend Mr Barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so
vastly stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of
Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort
of people, I don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon preached on the
30th of January; or we could say in the title-page, published at the earnest
request of the congregation, or the inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of
sermons, I had rather be excused; especially as my hands are so full at
present. However, sir, as Mr Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you
please, take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a
very short time."
"Oh!" said Adams, "if you desire it, I will
read two or three discourses as a specimen." This Barnabas, who loved
sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised
Adams to let the bookseller have his sermons: telling him, "If he gave him
a direction, he might be certain of a speedy answer;" adding, he need not
scruple trusting them in his possession. "No," said the bookseller,
"if it was a play that had been acted twenty nights together, I believe it
would be safe."
Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said
"he was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays." "Not by me, I
assure you," cried the bookseller, "though I don't know whether the
licensing act may not shortly bring them to the same footing; but I have
formerly known a hundred guineas given for a play."—"More shame for
those who gave it," cried Barnabas.—"Why so?" said the
bookseller, "for they got hundreds by it."—"But is there no
difference between conveying good or ill instructions to mankind?" said
Adams: "Would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one, than gain
it by the other?"—"If you can find any such, I will not be their
hindrance," answered the bookseller; "but I think those persons who
get by preaching sermons are the properest to lose by printing them: for my
part, the copy that sells best will be always the best copy in my opinion; I am
no enemy to sermons, but because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one
of Whitefield's as any farce whatever."
"Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be
hanged," says Barnabas. "Sir," said he, turning to Adams,
"this fellow's writings (I know not whether you have seen them) are
levelled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the example of the primitive
ages, forsooth! and would insinuate to the people that a clergyman ought to be
always preaching and praying. He pretends to understand the Scripture
literally; and would make mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which
was recommended to the Church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine
adapted to her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and
established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the freethinkers,
are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those professed by this fellow
and his followers."
"Sir," answered Adams, "if Mr Whitefield had
carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I
once was, his well-wisher. I am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and
splendour of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the
flourishing estate of the Church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress,
furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. Surely those
things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the servants of one
who professed His kingdom was not of it. But when he began to call nonsense and
enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of faith against good
works, I was his friend no longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell;
and one would think none but the devil himself could have the confidence to
preach it. For can anything be more derogatory to the honour of God than for
men to imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and
virtuous, 'Notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that
constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth, still, as
thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner, thy want of
faith shall condemn thee?' Or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more
pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion that it will be a good plea
for the villain at the last day—'Lord, it is true I never obeyed one of thy commandments,
yet punish me not, for I believe them all?'"—"I suppose, sir,"
said the bookseller, "your sermons are of a different
kind."—"Aye, sir," said Adams; "the contrary, I thank
Heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or I should belye my own opinion,
which hath always been, that a virtuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more
acceptable in the sight of their Creator than a vicious and wicked Christian,
though his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St Paul's himself."—"I
wish you success," says the bookseller, "but must beg to be excused,
as my hands are so very full at present; and, indeed, I am afraid you will find
a backwardness in the trade to engage in a book which the clergy would be
certain to cry down."—"God forbid," says Adams, "any books
should be propagated which the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the
clergy, some few designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some
favourite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence
of religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they
please; witness that excellent book called, 'A Plain Account of the Nature and
End of the Sacrament;' a book written (if I may venture on the expression) with
the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of Christianity,
and of that sacred institution; for what could tend more to the noble purposes
of religion than frequent chearful meetings among the members of a society, in
which they should, in the presence of one another, and in the service of the
Supreme Being, make promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each
other? Now, this excellent book was attacked by a party, but
unsuccessfully." At these words Barnabas fell a-ringing with all the
violence imaginable; upon which a servant attending, he bid him "bring a
bill immediately; for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil
himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston
commended, if he staid a few minutes longer." Adams desired, "as he was
so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehending any
possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any objections he
had to it, which he would endeavour to answer."—"I propose
objections!" said Barnabas, "I never read a syllable in any such
wicked book; I never saw it in my life, I assure you."—Adams was going to
answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs Tow-wouse, Mr
Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together; but Mrs Tow-wouse's
voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished
among the rest, and was heard to articulate the following sounds:—"O you
damn'd villain! is this the return to all the care I have taken of your family?
This the reward of my virtue? Is this the manner in which you behave to one who
brought you a fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your betters?
To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant! but I'll maul the slut, I'll
tear her nasty eyes out! Was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a
mean trollop? If she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been some
excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. Get you out of my house, you
whore." To which she added another name, which we do not care to stain our
paper with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a b—, and indeed was the same
as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. Which term we shall, to avoid
offence, use on this occasion, though indeed both the mistress and maid uttered
the above-mentioned b—, a word extremely disgustful to females of the lower
sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and had uttered only
lamentations; but the last appellation stung her to the quick. "I am a
woman as well as yourself," she roared out, "and no she-dog; and if I
have been a little naughty, I am not the first; if I have been no better than I
should be," cries she, sobbing, "that's no reason you should call me
out of my name; my be-betters are wo-rse than me."—"Huzzy, huzzy,"
says Mrs Tow-wouse, "have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch
you, you saucy"—and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to
female ears. "I can't bear that name," answered Betty: "if I
have been wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have
done nothing that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for
I will never be called she-dog by any mistress in England." Mrs Tow-wouse
then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any dreadful
purpose by Mr Adams, who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist which
Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr Tow-wouse, being caught, as our
lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, very
prudently withdrew himself; and Betty committed herself to the protection of
the hostler, who, though she could not conceive him pleased with what had
happened, was, in her opinion, rather a gentler beast than her mistress.
Mrs Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr Adams, and finding
the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual
serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the reader the
steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical enough too
perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of
families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life and on the stage.