The Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves - Tobias Smollett
The good woman of the house could not help shedding tears at these
interrogations; while Sir Launcelot, interposing, said, not without
emotion, "I perceive you are the son of Mrs. Oakley.--Your mother is in a
bad state of health, but in me you will find a real parent." Perceiving
that the young man eyed him with astonishment, he gave him to understand
that his name was Launcelot Greaves.
Oakley no sooner heard these words pronounced, than he fell upon his
knees, and seizing the knight's hand, kissed it eagerly, crying, "God for
ever bless your honour, I am your name-son, sure enough--but what of
that? I can earn my bread without being beholden to any man."
When the knight raised him up, he turned to the woman of the house,
saying, "I want to see mother. I'm afraid as how times are hard with
her; and I have saved some money for her use." This instance of filial
duty brought tears into the eyes of our adventurer, who assured him his
mother should be carefully attended, and want for nothing; but that it
would be very improper to see her at present, as the surprise might shock
her too much, considering that she believed him dead. "Ey, indeed,"
cried the landlady, "we were all of the same opinion, being as the report
went, that poor Greaves Oakley was killed in battle." "Lord, mistress,"
said Oakley, "there wan't a word of truth in it, I'll assure you.--What,
d'ye think I'd tell a lie about the matter? Hurt I was, to be sure, but
that don't signify; we gave 'em as good as they brought, and so parted.--
Well, if so be I can't see mother, I'll go and have some chat with Suky.
--What d'ye look so glum for? she an't married, is she?" "No, no,"
replied the woman, "not married, but almost heart-broken. Since thou
wast gone she has done nothing but sighed, and wept, and pined herself
into a decay. I'm afraid thou hast come too late to save her life."
Oakley's heart was not proof against this information. Bursting into
tears, he exclaimed, "O my dear, sweet, gentle Suky! Have I then lived
to be the death of her whom I loved more than the whole world?" He would
have gone instantly to her father's house, but was restrained by the
knight and his company, who had now joined him in the kitchen.
The young man was seated at table, and gave them to understand, that the
ship to which he belonged having arrived in England, he was indulged with
a month's leave to see his relations; and that he had received about
fifty pounds in wages and prize-money. After dinner, just as they began
to deliberate upon the measures to be taken against Gobble, that
gentleman arrived at the inn, and humbly craved admittance. Mr. Fillet,
struck with a sudden idea, retired into another apartment with the young
farmer; while the justice, being admitted to the company, declared that
he came to propose terms of accommodation. He accordingly offered to ask
pardon of Sir Launcelot in the public papers, and pay fifty pounds to the
poor of the parish, as an atonement for his misbehaviour, provided the
knight and his friends would grant him a general release. Our adventurer
told him, he would willingly waive all personal concessions; but, as the
case concerned the community, he insisted upon his leaving off acting in
the commission, and making satisfaction to the parties he had injured and
oppressed. This declaration introduced a discussion, in the course of
which the justice's petulance began to revive; when Fillet, entering the
room, told them he had a reconciling measure to propose, if Mr. Gobble
would for a few minutes withdraw.
He rose up immediately, and was shown into the room which Fillet had
prepared for his reception. While he sat musing on this untoward
adventure, so big with disgrace and disappointment, young Oakley,
according to the instructions he had received, appeared all at once
before him, pointing to a ghastly wound, which the doctor had painted on
his forehead. The apparition no sooner presented itself to the eyes of
Gobble, than, taking it for granted it was the spirit of the young farmer
whose death he had occasioned, he roared aloud, "Lord have mercy upon
us!" and fell insensible on the floor. There being found by the company,
to whom Fillet had communicated his contrivance, he was conveyed to bed,
where he lay some time before he recovered the perfect use of his senses.
Then he earnestly desired to see the knight, and assured him he was ready
to comply with his terms, inasmuch as he believed he had not long to
live. Advantage was immediately taken of this salutary disposition. He
bound himself not to act as a justice of the peace, in any part of Great
Britain, under the penalty of five thousand pounds. He burnt Mrs.
Oakley's note; paid the debts of the shopkeeper; undertook to compound
those of the publican, and to settle him again in business; and, finally,
discharged them all from prison, paying the dues out of his own pocket.
These steps being taken with peculiar eagerness, he was removed to his
own house, where he assured his wife he had seen a vision that
prognosticated his death; and had immediate recourse to the curate of the
parish for spiritual consolation.
The most interesting part of the task that now remained was to make the
widow Oakley acquainted with her good fortune, in such a manner as might
least disturb her spirits, already but too much discomposed. For this
purpose they chose the landlady, who, after having received proper
directions how to regulate her conduct, visited her in person that same
evening. Finding her quite calm, and her reflection quite restored, she
began with exhorting her to put her trust in Providence, which would
never forsake the cause of the injured widow and fatherless. She
promised to assist and befriend her on all occasions, as far as her
abilities would reach. She gradually turned the conversation upon the
family of the Greaves; and by degrees informed her, that Sir Launcelot,
having learned her situation, was determined to extricate her from all
her troubles. Perceiving her astonished, and deeply affected at this
intimation, she artfully shifted the discourse, recommended resignation
to the divine will, and observed, that this circumstance seemed to be an
earnest of further happiness.
"Oh! I'm incapable of receiving more!" cried the disconsolate widow, with
streaming eyes.--"Yet I ought not to be surprised at any blessing that
flows from that quarter. The family of Greaves were always virtuous,
humane, and benevolent. This young gentleman's mother was my dear lady
and benefactress:--he himself was suckled at these breasts. Oh! he was
the sweetest, comeliest, best-conditioned babe!--I loved not my own
Greaves with greater affection--but he, alas! is now no more!" "Have
patience, good neighbour," said the landlady of the White Hart, "that
is more than you have any right to affirm--all that you know of the
matter is by common report, and common report is commonly false; besides,
I can tell you I have seen a list of the men that were killed in Admiral
P----'s ship, when he fought the French in the East Indies, and your
son was not in the number." To this intimation she replied, after a
considerable pause, "Don't, my good neighbour, don't feed me with false
hope.--My poor Greaves too certainly perished in a foreign land--yet he
is happy;--had he lived to see me in this condition, grief would soon
have put a period to his days." "I tell you then," cried the visitant,
"he is not dead. I have seen a letter that mentions his being well since
the battle. You shall come along with me--you are no longer a prisoner,
but shall live at my house comfortably, till your affairs are settled to
your wish." The poor widow followed her in silent astonishment, and was
immediately accommodated with necessaries.
Next morning her hostess proceeded with her in the same cautious manner,
until she was assured that her son had returned. Being duly prepared,
she was blest with a sight of poor Greaves, and fainted away in his arms.
We shall not dwell upon this tender scene, because it is but of a
secondary concern in the history of our knight-errant. Let it suffice to
say, their mutual happiness was unspeakable. She was afterwards visited
by Sir Launcelot, whom she no sooner beheld, than springing forwards with
all the eagerness of maternal affection, she clasped him to her breast,
crying, "My dear child! my Launcelot! my pride! my darling! my kind
benefactor! This is not the first time I have hugged you in these arms!
Oh! you are the very image of Sir Everhard in his youth; but you have got
the eyes, the complexion, the sweetness, and complacency of my dear and
ever-honoured lady." This was not in the strain of hireling praise; but
the genuine tribute of esteem and admiration. As such, it could not but
be agreeable to our hero, who undertook to procure Oakley's discharge,
and settle him in a comfortable farm on his own estate.
In the meantime Greaves went with a heavy heart to the house of Farmer
Sedgemoor, where he found Suky, who had been prepared for his reception,
in a transport of joy, though very weak, and greatly emaciated.
Nevertheless, the return of her sweetheart had such an happy effect on
her constitution, that in a few weeks her health was perfectly restored.
This adventure of our knight was crowned with every happy circumstance
that could give pleasure to a generous mind. The prisoners were
released, and reinstated in their former occupations. The justice
performed his articles from fear; and afterwards turned over a new leaf
from remorse. Young Oakley was married to Suky, with whom he received a
considerable portion. The new-married couple found a farm ready stocked
for them on the knight's estate; and the mother enjoyed a happy retreat
in the character of housekeeper at Greavesbury Hall.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN WHICH OUR KNIGHT IS TANTALISED WITH A TRANSIENT GLIMPSE OF FELICITY.
The success of our adventurer, which we have particularised in the last
chapter, could not fail of enhancing his character, not only among those
who knew him, but also among the people of the town to whom he was not an
utter stranger. The populace surrounded the house, and testified their
approbation in loud huzzas. Captain Crowe was more than ever inspired
with veneration for his admired patron, and more than ever determined to
pursue his footsteps in the road of chivalry. Fillet and his friend the
lawyer could not help conceiving an affection, and even a profound
esteem for the exalted virtue, the person, and accomplishments of the
knight, dashed as they were with a mixture of extravagance and insanity.
Even Sir Launcelot himself was elevated to an extraordinary degree of
self-complacency on the fortunate issue of his adventure, and became more
and more persuaded that a knight-errant's profession might be exercised,
even in England, to the advantage of the community. The only person of
the company who seemed unanimated with the general satisfaction was Mr.
Thomas Clarke. He had, not without good reason, laid it down as a maxim,
that knight-errantry and madness were synonymous terms; and that madness,
though exhibited in the most advantageous and agreeable light, could not
change its nature, but must continue a perversion of sense to the end of
the chapter. He perceived the additional impression which the brain of
his uncle had sustained, from the happy manner in which the benevolence
of Sir Launcelot had so lately operated; and began to fear it would be in
a little time quite necessary to have recourse to a commission of lunacy,
which might not only disgrace the family of the Crowes, but also tend to
invalidate the settlement which the captain had already made in favour of
our young lawyer.
Perplexed with these cogitations, Mr. Clarke appealed to our adventurer's
own reflection. He expatiated upon the bad consequences that would
attend his uncle's perseverance in the execution of a scheme so foreign
to his faculties; and entreated him, for the love of God, to divert him
from his purpose, either by arguments or authority; as, of all mankind,
the knight alone had gained such an ascendency over his spirits, that he
would listen to his exhortations with respect and submission.
Our adventurer was not so mad, but that he saw and owned the rationality
of these remarks. He readily undertook to employ all his influence with
Crowe, to dissuade him from his extravagant design; and seized the first
opportunity of being alone with the captain, to signify his sentiments on
this subject. "Captain Crowe," said he, "you are then determined to
proceed in the course of knight-errantry?" "I am," replied the seaman,
"with God's help, d'ye see, and the assistance of wind and weather"--
"What dost thou talk of wind and weather?" cried the knight, in an
elevated tone of affected transport; "without the help of Heaven, indeed,
we are all vanity, imbecility, weakness, and wretchedness; but if thou
art resolved to embrace the life of an errant, let me not hear thee so
much as whisper a doubt, a wish, a hope, or sentiment with respect to any
other obstacle, which wind or weather, fire or water, sword or famine,
danger or disappointment, may throw in the way of thy career. When the
duty of thy profession calls, thou must singly rush upon innumerable
hosts of armed men. Thou must storm the breach in the mouth of batteries
loaded with death and destruction, while, every step thou movest, thou
art exposed to the horrible explosion of subterranean mines, which, being
sprung, will whirl thee aloft in air, a mangled corse, to feed the fowls
of heaven. Thou must leap into the abyss of dreadful caves and caverns,
replete with poisonous toads and hissing serpents; thou must plunge into
seas of burning sulphur; thou must launch upon the ocean in a crazy bark,
when the foaming billows roll mountains high--when the lightning flashes,
the thunder roars, and the howling tempest blows, as if it would commix
the jarring elements of air and water, earth and fire, and reduce all
nature to the original anarchy of chaos. Thus involved, thou must turn
thy prow full against the fury of the storm, and stem the boisterous
surge to thy destined port, though at the distance of a thousand leagues;
thou must"----
"Avast, avast, brother," exclaimed the impatient Crowe, "you've got into
the high latitudes, d'ye see. If so be as you spank it away at that
rate, adad, I can't continue in tow--we must cast off the rope, or 'ware
timbers. As for your 'osts and breeches, and hurling aloft, d'ye see--
your caves and caverns, whistling tuods and serpents, burning brimstone
and foaming billows, we must take our hap--I value 'em not a rotten
ratline; but as for sailing in the wind's eye, brother, you must give me
leave--no offence, I hope--I pretend to be a thoroughbred seaman, d'ye
see--and I'll be d--ned if you, or e'er an arrant that broke biscuit,
ever sailed in a three-mast vessel within five points of the wind,
allowing for variation and lee-way. No, no, brother, none of your tricks
upon travellers--I an't now to learn my compass." "Tricks!" cried the
knight, starting up, and laying his hand on the pummel of his sword,
"what! suspect my honour?"
Crowe, supposing him to be really incensed, interrupted him with great
earnestness, saying, "Nay, don't--what apize!--adds-buntlines!--I didn't
go to give you the lie, brother, smite my limbs; I only said as how to
sail in the wind's eye was impossible." "And I say unto thee," resumed
the knight, "nothing is impossible to a true knight-errant, inspired and
animated by love." "And I say unto thee," hallooed Crowe, "if so be as
how love pretends to turn his hawse-holes to the wind, he's no seaman,
d'ye see, but a snotty-nosed lubberly boy, that knows not a cat from a
capstan--a don't."
"He that does not believe that love is an infallible pilot, must not
embark upon the voyage of chivalry; for, next to the protection of
Heaven, it is from love that the knight derives all his prowess and
glory. The bare name of his mistress invigorates his arm; the
remembrance of her beauty infuses into his breast the most heroic
sentiments of courage, while the idea of her chastity hedges him round
like a charm, and renders him invulnerable to the sword of his
antagonist. A knight without a mistress is a mere nonentity, or, at
least, a monster in nature--a pilot without a compass, a ship without
rudder, and must be driven to and fro upon the waves of discomfiture and
disgrace."
"An that be all," replied the sailor, "I told you before as how I've got
a sweetheart, as true a hearted girl as ever swung in canvas. What thof
she may have started a hoop in rolling, that signifies nothing; I'll
warrant her tight as a nut-shell."
"She must, in your opinion, be a paragon either of beauty or virtue.
Now, as you have given up the last, you must uphold her charms
unequalled, and her person without a parallel." "I do, I do uphold she
will sail upon a parallel as well as e'er a frigate that was rigged to
the northward of fifty."
"At that rate, she must rival the attractions of her whom I adore; but
that I say is impossible. The perfections of my Aurelia are altogether
supernatural; and as two suns cannot shine together in the same sphere
with equal splendour, so I affirm, and will prove with my body, that your
mistress, in comparison with mine, is as a glow-worm to the meridian sun,
a rushlight to the full moon, or a stale mackerel's eye to a pearl of
orient." "Harkee, brother, you might give good words, however. An we
once fall a-jawing, d'ye see, I can heave out as much bilgewater as
another; and since you besmear my sweetheart, Besselia, I can as well
bedaub your mistress Aurelia, whom I value no more than old junk, pork
slush, or stinking stock-fish."
"Enough, enough!--such blasphemy shall not pass unchastised. In
consideration of our having fed from the same table, and maintained
together a friendly, though short intercourse, I will not demand the
combat before you are duly prepared. Proceed to the first great town,
where you can be furnished with horse and harnessing, with arms offensive
and defensive; provide a trusty squire, assume a motto and device,
declare yourself a son of chivalry, and proclaim the excellence of her
who rules your heart. I shall fetch a compass; and wheresoever we may
chance to meet, let us engage with equal arms in mortal combat, that
shall decide and determine this dispute."
So saying, our adventurer stalked with great solemnity into another
apartment; while Crowe, being sufficiently irritated, snapped his fingers
in token of defiance. Honest Crowe thought himself scurvily used by a
man whom he had cultivated with such humility and veneration; and, after
an incoherent ejaculation of sea oaths, went in quest of his nephew, in
order to make him acquainted with this unlucky transaction.
In the meantime, Sir Launcelot, having ordered supper, retired into his
own chamber, and gave a loose to the most tender emotions of his heart.
He recollected all the fond ideas which had been excited in the course of
his correspondence with the charming Aurelia. He remembered, with
horror, the cruel letter he had received from that young lady, containing
a formal renunciation of his attachment, so unsuitable to the whole tenor
of her character and conduct. He revolved the late adventure of the
coach, and the declaration of Mr. Clarke, with equal eagerness and
astonishment; and was seized with the most ardent desire of unravelling a
mystery so interesting to the predominant passion of his heart. All
these mingled considerations produced a kind of ferment in the economy of
his mind, which subsided into a profound reverie, compounded of hope and
perplexity.
From this trance he was waked by the arrival of his squire, who entered
the room with the blood trickling over his nose, and stood before him
without speaking. When the knight asked whose livery was that he wore?
he replied, "'T is your honour's own livery; I received it on your
account, and hope as you will quit the score." Then he proceeded to
inform his master, that two officers of the army having come into the
kitchen, insisted upon having for their supper the victuals which Sir
Launcelot had bespoke; and that he, the squire, objecting to the
proposal, one of them had seized the poker, and basted him with his own
blood; that when he told them he belonged to a knight-errant, and
threatened them with the vengeance of his master, they cursed and abused
him, calling him Sancho Panza, and such dog's names; and bade him tell
his master, Don Quicksot, that, if he made any noise, they would confine
him to his cage, and lie with his mistress, Dulcinea. "To be sure, sir,"
said he, "they thought you as great a nincompoop as your squire-trimtram,
like master, like man; but I hope as how you will give them a Rowland for
their Oliver."
"Miscreant!" cried the knight, "you have provoked the gentlemen with your
impertinence, and they have chastised you as you deserve. I tell thee,
Crabshaw, they have saved me the trouble of punishing thee with my own
hands; and well it is for thee, sinner as thou art, that they themselves
have performed the office, for, had they complained to me of thy
insolence and rusticity, by Heaven! I would have made thee an example to
all the impudent squires upon the face of the earth. Hence, then!
avaunt, caitiff! let his majesty's officers, who perhaps are fatigued
with hard duty in the service of their country, comfort themselves with
the supper which was intended for me, and leave me undisturbed to my own
meditations."
Timothy did not require a repetition of this command, which he forthwith
obeyed, growling within himself, that thenceforward he should let every
cuckold wear his own horns; but he could not help entertaining some
doubts with respect to the courage of his master, who, he supposed, was
one of those hectors who have their fighting days, but are not at all
times equally prepared for the combat.
The knight having taken a slight repast, retired to his repose, and had
for some time enjoyed a very agreeable slumber, when he was startled by a
knocking at his chamber door. "I beg your honour's pardon," said the
landlady, "but there are two uncivil persons in the kitchen who have
well-nigh turned my whole house topsy-turvy. Not content with laying
violent hands on your honour's supper, they want to be rude to two young
ladies who are just arrived, and have called for a post-chaise to go on.
They are afraid to open their chamber door to get out, and the young
lawyer is like to be murdered for taking the ladies' part."
Sir Launcelot, though he refused to take notice of the insult which had
been offered to himself, no sooner heard of the distress of the ladies
than he started up, huddled on his clothes, and girding his sword to his
loins, advanced with a deliberate pace to the kitchen, where he perceived
Thomas Clarke warmly engaged in altercation with a couple of young men
dressed in regimentals, who, with a peculiar air of arrogance and
ferocity, treated him with great insolence and contempt. Tom was
endeavouring to persuade them, that, in the constitution of England, the
military was always subservient to the civil power, and that their
behaviour to a couple of helpless young women was not only unbecoming
gentlemen, but expressly contrary to the law, inasmuch as they might be
sued for an assault on an action of damages.
To this remonstrance the two heroes in red replied by a volley of
dreadful oaths, intermingled with threats, which put the lawyer in some
pain for his ears.
While one thus endeavoured to intimidate honest Tom Clarke, the other
thundered at the door of the apartment to which the ladies had retired,
demanding admittance, but received no other answer than a loud shriek.
Our adventurer advancing to this uncivil champion, accosted him thus, in
a grave and solemn tone: "Assuredly I could not have believed, except
upon the evidence of my own senses, that persons who have the appearance
of gentlemen, and bear his majesty's honourable commission in the army,
could behave so wide of the decorum due to society, of a proper respect
to the laws, of that humanity which we owe to our fellow-creatures, and
that delicate regard for the fair sex which ought to prevail in the
breast of every gentleman, and which in particular dignifies the
character of a soldier. To whom shall that weaker, though more amiable
part of the creation, fly for protection, if they are insulted and
outraged by those whose more immediate duty it is to afford them security
and defence from injury and violence? What right have you, or any man
upon earth, to excite riot in a public inn, which may be deemed a temple
sacred to hospitality; to disturb the quiet of your fellow-guests, some
of them perhaps exhausted by fatigue, some of them invaded by distemper;
to interrupt the king's lieges in their course of journeying upon their
lawful occasions? Above all, what motive but wanton barbarity could
prompt you to violate the apartment, and terrify the tender hearts of two
helpless young ladies, travelling, no doubt, upon some cruel emergency,
which compels them, unattended, to encounter in the night the dangers of
the highway?"