march within little more than an hour, to spend that time with her
over a bowl of punch.
Jones had lain awake all this while, and had heard great part of the
hurry and bustle that had passed, of which he had now some curiosity
to know the particulars. He therefore applied to his bell, which he
rung at least twenty times without any effect: for my landlady was
in such high mirth with her company, that no clapper could be heard
there but her own; and the drawer and chambermaid, who were sitting
together in the kitchen (for neither durst he sit up nor she lie in
bed alone), the more they heard the bell ring the more they were
frightened, and as it were nailed down in their places.
At last, at a lucky interval of chat, the sound reached the ears
of our good landlady, who presently sent forth her summons, which
both her servants instantly obeyed. "Joe," says the mistress, "don't
you hear the gentleman's bell ring? Why don't you go up?"- "It is not
my business," answered the drawer, "to wait upon the chambers- it is
Betty Chambermaid's." "If you come to that," answered the maid, "it is
not my business to wait upon gentlemen. I have done it indeed
sometimes; but the devil fetch me if ever I do again, since you make
your preambles about it." The bell still ringing violently, their
mistress fell into a passion, and swore, if the drawer did not go up
immediately, she would turn him away that very morning. "If you do,
madam," says he, "I can't help it. I won't do another servant's
business." She then applied herself to the maid, and endeavoured to
prevail by gentle means; but all in vain: Betty was as inflexible as
joe. Both insisted it was not their business, and they would not do
it.
The lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, "Come, I will put
an end to this contention"; and then turning to the servants,
commended them for their resolution in not giving up the point; but
added, he was sure, if one would consent to go the other would. To
which proposal they both agreed in an instant, and accordingly. went
up very lovingly and close together. When they were gone, the
lieutenant appeased the wrath of the landlady, by satisfying her why
they were both so unwilling to go alone.
They returned soon after, and acquainted their mistress, that the
sick gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke as heartily
as if he was well; and that he gave his service to the captain, and
should be very glad of the favour of seeing him before he marched.
The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, and
sitting down by his bedside, acquainted him with the scene which had
happened below, concluding with his intentions to make an example of
the centinel.
Upon this Jones related to him the whole truth, and earnestly begged
him not to punish the poor soldier, "who, I am confident," says he,
"is as innocent of the ensign's escape, as he is of forging any lie,
or of endeavouring to impose on you."
The lieutenant hesitated a few moments, and then answered: "Why,
as you have cleared the fellow of one part of the charge, so it will
be impossible to prove the other, because he was not the only
centinel. But I have a good mind to punish the rascal for being a
coward. Yet who knows what effect the terror of such an apprehension
may have? and, to say the truth, he hath always behaved well against
an enemy. Come, it is a good thing to see any sign of religion in
these fellows; so I promise you shall be set at liberty when we march.
But hark, the general beats. My dear boy, give me another buss.
Don't discompose nor hurry yourself; but remember the Christian
doctrine of patience, and I warrant you will soon be able to do
yourself justice, and to take an honourable revenge on the fellow
who hath injured you." The lieutenant then departed, and Jones
endeavoured to compose himself to rest.
BOOK VIII
CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS
Chapter 1
A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the
longest of all our introductory chapters
As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our
history will oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and
surprizing kind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be
amiss, in the prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say
something of that species of writing which is called the marvellous.
To this we shall, as well for the sake of ourselves as of others,
endeavour to set some certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more
necessary, as critics* of different complexions are here apt to run
into very different extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier,
ready to allow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yet
probable,*(2) others have so little historic or poetic faith, that
they believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to
which hath not occurred to their own observation.
*By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean
every reader in the world.
*(2) It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every
writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still
remembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it is
scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This conviction
perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (for
most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous to
indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that
power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather
which they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be
shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly
urged in defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence;
not, as Mr. Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of
foolish lies to the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but
because the poet himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables
were articles of faith. For my own part, I must confess, so
compassionate is my temper, I wish Polypheme had confined himself to
his milk diet, and preserved his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more
concerned than myself, when his companions were turned into swine by
Circe, who showed, I think, afterwards, too much regard for man's
flesh to be supposed capable of converting it into bacon. I wish,
likewise, with all my heart, that Homer could have known the rule
prescribed by Horace, to introduce supernatural agents as seldom as
possible. We should not then have seen his gods coming on trivial
errands, and often behaving themselves so as not only to forfeit all
title to respect, but to become the objects of scorn and derision. A
conduct which must have shocked the credulity of a pious and sagacious
heathen; and which could never have been defended, unless by
agreeing with a supposition to which I have been sometimes almost
inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he certainly was, had an
intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of his own age and
country.
But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a
Christian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any of
that heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horrid
puerility to search the heathen theology for any of those deities
who have been long since dethroned from their immortality. Lord
Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation of
a muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be more
absurd. A modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as
some have thought Homer did, or a mug of ale, with the author of
Hudibras; which latter may perhaps have inspired much more poetry,
as well as prose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.
The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to
us moderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to be
extremely sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous
drugs in physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would I
advise the introduction of them at all in those works, or by those
authors, to which, or to whom, a horselaugh in the reader would be any
great prejudice or mortification.
As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit
the mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within
any bounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity
the limits of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to be
considered as a new creation; and who have consequently just right
to do what they will with their own.
Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary
occasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian,
or of our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to be
taken that we do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.
Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep
likewise within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the
opinion of Aristotle; or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man,
whose authority will be as weighty when it is as old, "That it is no
excuse for a poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing
related is really matter of fact." This may perhaps be allowed true
with regard to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend
it to the historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds
them, though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will
require no small degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such
was the successless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or
the successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of
later years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the
Fifth, or that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All
which instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more
astonishing.
Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story,
nay, indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the
historian is not only justifiable in recording as they really
happened, but indeed would be unpardonable should he omit or alter
them. But there are other facts not of such consequence nor so
necessary, which, though ever so well attested, may nevertheless be
sacrificed to oblivion in complacence to the scepticism of a reader.
Such is that memorable story of the ghost of George Villiers, which
might with more propriety have been made a present of to Dr.
Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost of Mrs. Veale company, at the head
of his Discourse upon Death, than have been introduced into so
solemn a work as the History of the Rebellion.
To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what
really happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though
never so well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will
sometimes fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible.
He will often raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never
that incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into
fiction, therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of
deserting probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits,
till he forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In
this, however, those historians who relate public transactions, have
the advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life.
The credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long
time; and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many
authors, bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan
and an Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the
belief of posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good,
and so very bad, were once the masters of mankind.
But we who deal in private character, who search into the most
retired recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from
holes and corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation.
As we have no public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to
support and corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep
within the limits not only of possibility, but of probability too; and
this more especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable.
Knavery and folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet
with assent; for ill nature adds great support and strength to faith.
Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of
Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr. Derby,
and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his
hands, yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his
friend's scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple,
through which there was a passage into Mr. Derby's chambers. Here he
overheard Mr. Derby for many hours solacing himself at an
entertainment which he that evening gave his friends, and to which
Fisher had been invited. During all this time, no tender, no
grateful reflections arose to restrain his purpose; but when the
poor gentleman had let his company out through the office, Fisher came
suddenly from his lurking-place, and walking softly behind his
friend into his chamber, discharged a pistol-ball into his head.
This may be believed when the bones of Fisher are as rotten as his
heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited, that the villain went two
days afterwards with some young ladies to the play of Hamlet; and with
an unaltered countenance heard one of the ladies, who little suspected
how near she was to the person, cry out, "Good God! if the man that
murdered Mr. Derby was now present!" manifesting in this a more seared
and callous conscience than even Nero himself; of whom we are told
by Suetonius, "that the consciousness of his guilt, after the death of
