The Chaplain of the Fleet

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER VI.

  HOW KITTY BEGAN TO ENJOY THE LIBERTIES OF THE FLEET.

  Her tears disconcerted me extremely. What did she cry for? Butshe presently recovered and dried her eyes. Then she looked at methoughtfully, and said--

  "Sister, I suppose this child has been accustomed to have a dinnerevery day?"

  "Surely," replied Mrs. Deborah. "And to-day we shall dine."

  To-day we should all dine? Were there, then, days when we should all gohungry?

  "You must know, my dear," Mrs. Esther explained in a soft, sadvoice, "that we are very poor. We have, therefore, on many days in aweek to go without meat. Otherwise we should have to do worse"--shelooked round the room and shuddered--"we should have to give up theindependence of our solitude. Hunger, my child, is not the worst thingto bear."

  "A piece of roasting-beef, sister," said Mrs. Deborah, who had nowassumed a hat and a cloak, "with a summer cabbage, and a pudding in thegravy."

  "And I think, sister," said Mrs. Esther, her eyes lighting up eagerly,"that we might take our dinner--the child might like to take herdinner--at twelve to-day."

  While Mrs. Deborah went into the market, I learned that the two sistershad taken no food except bread and water for a week, and that theirwhole stock now amounted to two shillings in money and part of a loaf.What a strange world was this of London, in which gentlewomen had theirlodging in so foul a place and starved on bread and water!

  "But," she repeated with a wan smile, "there are worse things thanhunger. First, we must pay our rent. And here we are at least alone;here we may continue to remember our breeding."

  Before Mrs. Deborah returned, I also learned that they were chieflydependent on a cousin for supplies of money, which were made to themgrudgingly (and indeed he was not rich), and that the Doctor hadprovided for my maintenance with the offer of so large a weekly sumthat it promised to suffice for the wants of all.

  "We are," said Mrs. Esther, "but small eaters; a little will sufficefor us. But you, child, are young; eat without fear, eat your fill; themoney is for you, and we shall grudge you nothing."

  While the beef was roasting I noticed how their eyes from time to time,in spite of themselves, would be fixed upon the meat with a hungry andeager look. Nor had I any enjoyment of the meal till I had seen theirpangs appeased. After the plenty of the Vicarage and the Hall, to thinkof bread and water, and not too much bread, for days together! Yet,hungry as they were, they ate but little; it shamed me to go on eating,being always a girl of a vigorous appetite and hard-set about the hourof noon; it shamed me at first, also, to observe their ways of thrift,so that not the least crumb should be wasted. Mrs. Deborah read mythoughts.

  "In this place," she said, "we learn to value what it takes money toprocure. Yet there are some here poorer than ourselves. Eat, child,eat. For us this has been, indeed, a feast of Belteshazzar."

  Dinner over, we unpacked my box, and they asked me questions. I foundthat they were proud of their birth and breeding; the portrait overthe fire was, they told me, that of their father, once Lord Mayor ofLondon, and they congratulated me upon being myself a Pleydell, which,they said, was a name very well known in the country, although manygreat city families might be ignorant of it.

  "No gift, my dear," said Mrs. Esther, "is so precious as gentle blood.Everything else may be won, but birth never."

  All day long there went on the same dreadful noise of shouting, crying,calling, bawling, rolling of carts, cracking of whips, and trampling ofhorses' feet. In the evening I asked, when the sun went down, but thenoise decreased not, if it was always thus.

  "Always," they replied. "There is no cessation, day or night. It ispart," said Mrs. Deborah, "of our punishment. We are condemned, child;for the sin of having a negligent trustee, we go in captivity, shame,and degradation all our lives."

  "Nay," said her sister, "not degradation, sister. No one but herselfcan degrade a gentlewoman."

  Truly, the noise was terrible. When I read in the "Paradise Lost," offallen angels in their dark abode, I think of Fleet Market and theFleet Rules. It began in the early morning with the rolling of thecarts: all day long in the market there was a continual crying of thebutchers: "Buy, buy, ladies--buy! Rally up, ladies--rally up!" Therewere quarrels unceasing and ever beginning, with fights, shouting andcursing: the fish-women quarrelled at their stalls; the poultry-wivesquarrelled over their baskets; the porters quarrelled over theirburdens; the carters over the right of way; the ragamuffin boys overstolen fruit. There was nothing pleasant, nothing quiet, nothing torefresh; nothing but noise, brawling, and contention. And if any signsof joy, these only drunken laughter from open tavern-doors.

  Thus I began to live, being then a maid of sixteen years and sevenmonths, in the Rules and Liberties of the Fleet Prison; surely as bada place, outside Newgate Prison, as could be found for a girl broughtup in innocence and virtue. For, let one consider the situationof the Rules. They include all those houses which lie between theditch, or rather the market, on the west, and the Old Bailey on theeast--fit boundaries for such a place, the filthy, turbid ditch andthe criminal's gaol--and Fleet Lane on the north to Ludgate Hillon the south. These streets are beyond and between the abodes ofrespectability and industry. On the east was the great and wealthy Citywith the merchants' houses; on the west the streets and squares wherethe families of the country had their town residence; on the south, theriver; on the north, the dark and gloomy streets of Clerkenwell, wherethieves lay in hiding and the robbers of the road had their customaryquarters. Why, Jonathan Wyld himself, the greatest of villains, livedhard by in Ship Court. Is there, anywhere, in any town, an acre morethickly covered with infamy, misery, starvation, and wretchedness?

  If we walked abroad, we could not go north because of Clerkenwell,where no honest woman may trust herself: if we went south we had towalk the whole length of the market, past the marrying taverns, so thatshame fell upon my heart to think how my uncle was one of those whothus disgraced his cloth: when we got to the end, we might walk overthe Fleet Bridge, among the noisy sellers of quack medicines, pills,powders, hot furmety, pies, flounders, mackerel, and oysters; or onLudgate Hill, where the touts of the Fleet parsons ran up and down,inviting couples to be married, and the Morocco men went about, book inhand, to sell their lottery shares. The most quiet way when we took theair was to cross Holborn Bridge, and so up the hill past St. Andrew'sChurch, where, if the weather were fine, we might go as far as thegardens of Gray's Inn, and there sit down among the trees and feel fora little the joy of silence.

  Said Mrs. Deborah, one day, when we two had sat there, under the trees,for half an hour, listening to the cawing of the rooks--

  "Child, the place"--meaning the Rules--"is the City of Destructionafter Christian and Christiana, and the boys, and Mercy, were all goneaway."

  We lived in one room, which was both kitchen and parlour. We had noservant; the Doctor's provision kept us in simple plenty; we cleanedand dusted the place for ourselves; we cooked our dinners, and washedour dishes; we made our dresses; we did for ourselves all those thingswhich are generally done by a servant. Mrs. Esther said that therewas no shame in doing things which, if left undone, would cause agentlewoman to lose her self-respect. 'Twas all, except the portrait ofher father, that she had left of her former life, and to this she wouldcling as something dearer than life.

  There were other lodgers in the house. All who lodged there were, ofcourse, prisoners "enjoying" the Rules--who else would live in theplace? On the ground-floor was Sir Miles Lackington, Baronet. He wasnot yet thirty, yet he had already got rid of a great and noble estateby means of gambling, and now was compelled to hide his head in thisrefuge, and to live upon an allowance of two guineas made weekly to himby a cousin. This, one would have thought, was a disgrace enough tooverwhelm a gentleman of his rank and age with shame. But it touchedhim not, for he was ever gay, cheerful, and ready to laugh. He was kindto my ladies and to me; his manners, when he was sober, were gentle;though his face was always flushed and chee
ks swollen by reason of hismidnight potations, he was still a handsome fellow; he was carelessof his appearance as of his fortune; he would go with waistcoatunbuttoned, wig awry, neckcloth loose, ruffles limp; but however hewent it was with a laugh. When he received his two guineas he generallygave away the half among his friends. In the evening they used to carryhim home to his room on the ground-floor, too drunk to stand.

  I soon got to know him, and we had frequent talks. He seemed to beever meeting me on the stairs when I went a-marketing; he called uponus often, and would sit with me during the warm summer afternoons,when the sisters dropped off to sleep. I grew to like him, and heencouraged me to say freely what I thought, even to the extent ofrating him for his profligate practices.

  "Why," he would say, laughing, "I am at the lowest--I can go no lower;yet I have my two guineas a week. I have enough to eat, I drink freely:what more can I want?"

  I told him what his life seemed to me.

  He laughed again at this, but perhaps uneasily.

  "Does it seem so terrible a thing," he said, leaning against thewindow with his hands in his pockets, "to have no cares? Believe me,Kitty, Fortune has brought me into a harbour where winds and tempestsnever blow. While I had my estate, my conscience plagued me night andmorning. And yet I knew that all this must fly. Hazard doth alwaysserve her children so, and leaves them naked. Well--it is gone. So canI play no more. But he who plays should keep sober if he would win.Now that I cannot play, I may drink. And again, when, formerly, I wasrich and a prodigal, friend and enemy came to me with advice. I believethey thought the Book of Proverbs had been written specially to meet mycase, so much did they quote the words of Solomon, Agar, and Lemuel.But, no doubt, there have been fools before, and truly it helpeth afool no whit to show him his folly. 'As a thorn goeth up into the handof a drunkard, so is a parable in the mouth of fools.' I remember thatproverb. Now that Hazard hath taken all, there is no longer occasionfor advice. Child, you look upon one who hath thrown away his life,and yet is happier in his fall and repents not. For I make no doubtbut that, had I my fortune back, 'twould fly away again in the samefashion."

  He concluded with an allusion to the Enemy of Mankind, for which Irebuked him, and he laughed, saying--

  "Pretty Puritan, I will offend no more."

  Had I been older and more experienced, I should have known or suspectedwhy he came so often and met me daily. Kitty had found favour in thesight of this dethroned king. He loved the maid: her freshness, herrosy cheeks, her youth, her innocence pleased him, I suppose. We knownot, we women, for what qualities there are in us that we are loved bymen, so that they will commit so many follies for our sake.

  "Thou art such a girl, sweet Kitty," he said to me, one day, "so prettyand so good, as would tempt a man wallowing contentedly in the pigstiesof the world, to get up, wash himself, and go cleanly, for thy sake.Yet what a miserable wretch should I be did I thus learn to feel my owndownfall!"

  And again he told me once that he was too far gone to love me; and notfar enough gone to do me an injury.

  "Wherefore," he added, "I must worship at thy shrine in silentadmiration."

  It was kindly done of Sir Miles to spare an ignorant girl. For soignorant was Kitty, and so brotherly did he seem, that had he askedher to become his wife, I think she would have consented. Oh, the finestate, to be my Lady Lackington, and to live in the Rules of the Fleet!

  Another lodger in our house, a man whose face inspired me with horror,so full of selfish passion was it, was a Captain Dunquerque. With himwere his wife and children. It was of the children, poor things, thatour Esther spoke when she said there were some in the place poorerthan themselves; for the wife and children starved, while the captain,their father, ate and drank his fill. A gloomy man, as well as selfish,who reviled the fate which he had brought upon himself. Yet for allhis reviling, he spared himself nothing so that his children mighthave something. I am glad that this bad man has little to do with myhistory. Another lodger, who had the garret at the top, was SolomonStallabras, the poet.

  It is very well known that the profession of letters, of all thetrades, callings, and conditions of men, is the most precarious andthe most miserable. I doubt, indeed, whether that ought to be calleda profession which requires no training, no colleges or schools, nodegree, and no diploma. Other professions are, in a way, independent:the barrister doth not court, though he may depend upon, the favourof attorneys; the rector of the parish doth not ask the farmers tosupport him, but takes the tithes to which he is entitled; the poorauthor, however, is obliged to receive of his publisher whatever isoffered, nor is there any corporate body or guild of authors by whomthe situation of the poet may be considered and his condition improved.Alone among learned men, the author is doomed to perpetual dependenceand poverty. Indeed, when one considers it, scarce anything else isto be expected, for, in becoming an author, a man is so vain as toexpect that to him will be granted what has been given to no man exceptShakespeare--a continual flow of strength, spirits, ingenuity, wit,and dexterity, so as to sustain, without diminution or relaxation, therapid production of works for the delight of the world. I say rapid,because the books are bought by publishers at a low rate, though theyare sold to the public at large sums. And, if we think of it, scarceany author produces more than one or two books which please the world.Therefore, when the fountain runs dry, whither is that poor author toturn? The public will have none of him; his publisher will have noneof him; there remains, it is true, one hope, and that unworthy, to getsubscriptions for a volume which he will never produce, because he willhave eaten up beforehand the money paid for it before it is written.

  The Fleet Prison and its Rules have always been a favourite resort andrefuge for poets and men of letters. Robert Lloyd died there, but longafter I went away; Richard Savage died there; Churchill was marriedin the place, and would have died there, had he not anticipated hiscertain fate by dying early; Samuel Boyce died there; Sir Richard Bakerdied there; William Oldys, who died, to be sure, outside the Rules,yet drank every night within them; lastly, within a stone's throw ofthe Rules, though he was never a prisoner, died the great John Bunyanhimself.

  I heard my ladies, from time to time, talk of a certain Mr. Stallabras.They wondered why he did not call as usual, and laid the blame uponme; little madam had made him shy. One day, however, Mrs. Estherbeing called out by one of Captain Dunquerque's children, came backpresently, saying that Mr. Stallabras was starving to death in his room.

  Mrs. Deborah made no reply, but instantly hurried to the cupboard, whenshe took down the cold beef which was to be our dinner, and cut offthree or four goodly slices; these she laid on a plate, with bread andsalt, and put the whole upon a napkin, and then she disappeared swiftly.

  "The poor young man! the dear young man!" cried Mrs. Esther, wringingher hands. "What can we do? My dear, the sweetest and most mellifluousof poets! The pride and glory of his age! It was he who wrote 'Hoursof the Night,' the 'Pleasures of Solitude,' the 'Loves of Amoret andAmoretta,' and other delightful verses; yet they let him languish inthe Fleet! What are my countrymen thinking of? Would it not be betterto rescue (while still living) so ingenious and charming a writer fromhis poverty, than to give him (as they must), after his death, a gravein Westminster Abbey?"

  I asked her if we should read together these delightful poems.

  "We have no copy," she said. "Mr. Stallabras, who is all sensibility,insists, from time to time, upon our having copies, so that we may readthem aloud to him. Yet his necessities are such that he is fain totake them away again and sell them. As for his manners, my dear, theyare very fine, being such as to confer distinction upon the Rules. Hehas not the easy bearing of Sir Miles Lackington, of course, which onewould not expect save in a man born to good breeding; but he possessesin full measure the courtesy which comes from study and self-dignity.Yet he is but a hosier's son."

  Mrs. Deborah here returned, bearing an empty plate.

  She had trouble at first, she said, to persuade him to eat. His
prejudices as a gentleman and a scholar were offended by the absence ofhorse-radish; but, as he had eaten nothing for two days, he was inducedto waive this scruple, and presently made a hearty meal. She had alsopersuaded him to come downstairs in the evening, and take a dish oftea.

  Thanks to the Doctor's liberality in the matter of my weekly board, teawas now a luxury in which we could sometimes indulge. Nothing gave Mrs.Esther more gratification than the return, after long deprivation, tothat polite beverage.

  At about five o'clock the poet made his appearance. He was short ofstature, with a turned-up nose, and was dressed in a drab-colouredcoat, with bag-wig, and shoes with steel buckles. Everything that hewore had once been fine, but their splendour was faded now; his linenwas in rags, his shoes in holes; but he carried himself with pride. Hisdignity did not depend upon his purse; he bore his head high, becausehe thought of his fame. It inflicted no wound to his pride to rememberthat he had that day been on the eve of starvation, and was stillwithout a farthing.

  "Miss Kitty," he said, bowing very low, "you see before you one who,though a favourite of the Muses, is no favourite of Fortune:

  ''Gainst hostile fate his heart is calm the while, Though Fortune frown, the tuneful sisters smile.'

  Poetry, ladies, brings with it the truest consolation."

  "And religion," said Mrs. Esther.

  "There lives not--be sure--the wretch," cried the poet, "who woulddissociate religion and the Muse."

  This was very grand, and pleased us all. We had our dish of tea, withbread and butter. I went on cutting it for the poet till the loaf wasquite gone.

  During the evening he gave utterance to many noble sentiments--sonoble, indeed, that they seemed to me taken out of books. And before hewent away he laid down his views as to the profession of letters, ofwhich I have already spoken, perhaps, too severely.

  "It is the mission of the poet and author," he said, "to delight, andto improve while delighting. The man of science may instruct; thepoet embodies the knowledge, and dresses it up in a captivating wayto attract the people: the divine teaches the dogmas of the Church;the poet conveys, in more pleasing form, the lessons and instructionsof religion: the philosopher and moralist lay down the laws of ourbeing; the author, by tropes and figures, by fiction, by poetry, showsthe proper conduct of life, and teaches how the way of virtue leads tohappiness. Is not this a noble and elevating career? Does not a man dowell who says to himself, 'This shall be my life; this my lot?'"

  He paused, and we murmured assent to his enthusiasm.

  "It is true," he went on, "that the ungrateful world thinks littleof its best friends; that it allows me--_me_, Solomon Stallabras,to languish in the Rules of the Fleet. Even that, however, has itsconsolation; because, ladies, it has brought me the honour andhappiness of your friendship."

  He rose, saluted us all three in turn, and sat down again.

  "Art," he went on, "so inspires a man with great thoughts, that itmakes more than a gentleman--it makes a nobleman--of him. Who, I wouldask, when he reads the sorrows of Clarissa, thinks of the trade--themere mechanical trade--in which the author's money was earned? I cannotbut believe that the time will come when the Court itself, unfriendlyas it now is to men of letters, will confer titles and place upon thatpoor poet whose very name cannot now reach the walls of the palace."

  My ladies' good fortune (I mean in receiving the weekly stipend formy maintenance) was thus shared by the starving poet, whom they nolonger saw, helpless to relieve him, suffering the privation of hunger.Often have I observed one or other of the sisters willingly go withouther dinner, pleading a headache, in order that her portion might bereserved for Mr. Stallabras.

  "For sensibility," said Mrs. Esther, "is like walking up a hill: itpromotes appetite."

  "So does youth," said Mrs. Deborah, more practical. "Mr. Stallabras isstill a young man, Kitty; though you think thirty old."

  That he was a very great poet we all agreed, and the more so when,after a lucky letter, he secured a subscriber or two for his nextvolume, and was able to present us once more with a book of his ownpoetry. I do not know whether he more enjoyed hearing me read themaloud (for then he bowed, spread his hands, and inclined his headthis way and that, in appreciation of the melody and delicacy of thesentiments), or whether he preferred to read them himself; for then hecould stop when he pleased, with, "This idea, ladies, was conceivedwhile wandering amid the fields near Bagnigge Wells;" "This came to mewhile watching the gay throng in the Mall;" "This, I confess, was aninspiration caught in church."

  "Kitty should enter these confessions in a book," said Mrs. Esther."Surely they will become valuable in the day--far distant, Itrust--when your life has to be written, Mr. Stallabras."

  "Oh, madam!" He bowed again, and lifted his hands in deprecation. Buthe was pleased. "Perhaps," he said, "meaner bards have found a place inthe Abbey, and a volume dedicated to their lives. If Miss Kitty willcondescend to thus preserve recollections of me, I shall be greatlyflattered."

  I did keep a book, and entered in it all that dropped from his lipsabout himself, his opinions, his maxims, his thoughts, and so forth. Hegradually got possessed of the idea that I would myself some day writehis life, and he began insensibly to direct his conversation mainly tome.

  Sometimes he met me in the market, or on the stairs, when he would tellme more.

  "I always knew," he said, "from the very first, that I was born togreatness. It was in me as a child, when, like Pope, I lisped innumbers. My station, originally, was not lofty, Miss Kitty." He spokeas if he had risen to a dazzling height. "I was but the son of ahosier, born in Fetter Lane, and taught at the school, or academy, keptby one Jacob Crooks, who was handier with the rod than with the Gradusad Parnassum. But I read, and taught myself; became at first the hackof Mr. Dodsley, and gradually rose to eminence."

  He had, indeed, risen; he was the occupant of a garret; his fame lay inhis own imagination; and he had not a guinea in the world.

  "Miss Kitty," he said, one day, "there is only one thing thatdisqualifies you from being my biographer."

  I asked him what that was.

  "You are not, as you should be, my wife. If virtue and beauty fittedyou for the station of a poet's wife, the thing were easy. Alas, child!the poet is poor, and his mistress would be poorer. Nevertheless,believe that the means, and not the will, are wanting to make thee myLaura, my Stella, and me thy Petrarch, or thy Sidney."

  It was not till later that I understood how this starveling poet, aswell as the broken baronet, had both expressed their desire (under morefavourable circumstances) to make love to me. Grand would have been mylot as Lady Lackington, but grander still as Mistress Stallabras, wifeof the illustrious poet, who lived, like the sparrows, from hand tomouth.