The Virginians

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XXXI. The Bear and the Leader

  Our candid readers know the real state of the case regarding HarryWarrington and that luckless Cattarina; but a number of the old ladiesat Tunbridge Wells supposed the Virginian to be as dissipated as anyyoung English nobleman of the highest quality, and Madame de Bernsteinwas especially incredulous about her nephew's innocence. It was the oldlady's firm belief that Harry was leading not only a merry life, but awicked one, and her wish was father to the thought that the lad mightbe no better than his neighbours. An old Roman herself, she liked hernephew to do as Rome did. All the scandal regarding Mr. Warrington'sLovelace adventures she eagerly and complacently accepted. We have seenhow, on one or two occasions, he gave tea and music to the company atthe Wells; and he was so gallant and amiable to the ladies (to ladies ofa much better figure and character than the unfortunate Cattarina), thatMadame Bernstein ceased to be disquieted regarding the silly love affairwhich had had a commencement at Castlewood, and relaxed in her vigilanceover Lady Maria. Some folks--many old folks--are too selfish to interestthemselves long about the affairs of their neighbours. The Baroness hadher trumps to think of, her dinners, her twinges of rheumatism: and hersuspicions regarding Maria and Harry, lately so lively, now dozed, andkept a careless, unobservant watch. She may have thought that the dangerwas over, or she may have ceased to care whether it existed or not, orthat artful Maria, by her conduct, may have quite cajoled, soothed, andmisguided the old Dragon, to whose charge she was given over. At Maria'sage, nay, earlier indeed, maidens have learnt to be very sly, and atMadame Bernstein's time of life dragons are not so fierce and alert.They cannot turn so readily, some of their old teeth have dropped out,and their eyes require more sleep than they needed in days when theywere more active, venomous, and dangerous. I, for my part, know a fewfemale dragons, de par le monde, and, as I watch them and remember whatthey were, admire the softening influence of years upon these whilomdestroyers of man- and woman-kind. Their scales are so soft that anyknight with a moderate power of thrust can strike them: their claws,once strong enough to tear out a thousand eyes, only fall with a feeblepat that scarce raises the skin: their tongues, from their toothless oldgums, dart a venom which is rather disagreeable than deadly. See themtrailing their languid tails, and crawling home to their cavernsat roosting-time! How weak are their powers of doing injury! theirmaleficence how feeble! How changed are they since the brisk days whentheir eyes shot wicked fire; their tongue spat poison; their breathblasted reputation; and they gobbled up a daily victim at least!

  If the good folks at Oakhurst could not resist the testimony whichwas brought to them regarding Harry's ill-doings, why should MadameBernstein, who in the course of her long days had had more experience ofevil than all the Oakhurst family put together, be less credulousthan they? Of course every single old woman of her ladyship's societybelieved every story that was told about Mr. Harry Warrington'sdissipated habits, and was ready to believe as much more ill of him asyou please. When the little dancer went back to London, as she did,it was because that heartless Harry deserted her. He deserted her forsomebody else, whose name was confidently given,--whose name?--whosehalf-dozen names the society at Tunbridge Wells would whisper about;where there congregated people of all ranks and degrees, women offashion, women of reputation, of demi-reputation, of virtue, of novirtue,--all mingling in the same rooms, dancing to the same fiddles,drinking out of the same glasses at the Wells, and alike in search ofhealth, or society, or pleasure. A century ago, and our ancestors, themost free or the most straitlaced, met together at a score of such merryplaces as that where our present scene lies, and danced, and frisked,and gamed, and drank at Epsom, Bath, Tunbridge, Harrogate, as they do atHomburg and Baden now.

  Harry's bad reputation, then, comforted his old aunt exceedingly, andeased her mind in respect to the boy's passion for Lady Maria. So easywas she in her mind, that when the chaplain said he came to escorther ladyship home, Madame Bernstein did not even care to part from herniece. She preferred rather to keep her under her eye, to talk to herabout her wicked young cousin's wild extravagances, to whisper to herthat boys would be boys, to confide to Maria her intention of gettinga proper wife for Harry,--some one of a suitable age,--some one with asuitable fortune,--all which pleasantries poor Maria had to bear with asmuch fortitude as she could muster.

  There lived, during the last century, a certain French duke and marquis,who distinguished himself in Europe, and America likewise, and hasobliged posterity by leaving behind him a choice volume of memoirs,which the gentle reader is specially warned not to consult. Havingperformed the part of Don Juan in his own country, in ours, and inother parts of Europe, he has kindly noted down the names of manycourt-beauties who fell victims to his powers of fascination; and verypleasant reading no doubt it must be for the grandsons and descendantsof the fashionable persons amongst whom our brilliant nobleman moved,to find the names of their ancestresses adorning M. le Duc's sprightlypages, and their frailties recorded by the candid writer who causedthem.

  In the course of the peregrinations of this nobleman, he visited NorthAmerica, and, as had been his custom in Europe, proceeded straightway tofall in love. And curious it is to contrast the elegant refinements ofEuropean society, where, according to monseigneur, he had but to laysiege to a woman in order to vanquish her, with the simple lives andhabits of the colonial folks, amongst whom this European enslaver ofhearts did not, it appears, make a single conquest. Had he done so, hewould as certainly have narrated his victories in Pennsylvania and NewEngland, as he described his successes in this and his own country.Travellers in America have cried out quite loudly enough against therudeness and barbarism of transatlantic manners; let the present writergive the humble testimony of his experience that the conversation ofAmerican gentlemen is generally modest, and, to the best of his belief,the lives of the women pure.

  We have said that Mr. Harry Warrington brought his colonial modestyalong with him to the old country; and though he could not help hearingthe free talk of the persons amongst whom he lived, and who were menof pleasure and the world, he sat pretty silent himself in the midst oftheir rattle; never indulged in double entendre in his conversationwith women; had no victories over the sex to boast of; and was shy andawkward when he heard such narrated by others.

  This youthful modesty Mr. Sampson had remarked during his intercoursewith the lad at Castlewood, where Mr. Warrington had more than onceshown himself quite uneasy whilst cousin Will was telling some of hischoice stories; and my lord had curtly rebuked his brother, biddinghim keep his jokes for the usher's table at Kensington, and not giveneedless offence to their kinsman. Hence the exclamation of "Reverentiapueris," which the chaplain had addressed to his neighbour at theordinary on Harry's first appearance there. Mr. Sampson, if he had notstrength sufficient to do right himself, at least had grace enough notto offend innocent young gentlemen by his cynicism.

  The chaplain was touched by Harry's gift of the horse; and felt agenuine friendliness towards the lad. "You see, sir," says he, "I am ofthe world, and must do as the rest of the world does. I have led a roughlife, Mr. Warrington, and can't afford to be more particular than myneighbours. Video meliora, deteriora sequor, as we said at college. Ihave got a little sister, who is at boarding-school, not very far fromhere, and, as I keep a decent tongue in my head when I am talking withmy little Patty, and expect others to do as much, sure I may try and doas much by you."

  The chaplain was loud in his praises of Harry to his aunt, the oldBaroness. She liked to hear him praised. She was as fond of him as shecould be of anything; was pleased in his company, with his good looks,his manly courageous bearing, his blushes, which came so readily, hisbright eyes, his deep youthful voice. His shrewdness and simplicityconstantly amused her; she would have wearied of him long before, had hebeen clever, or learned, or witty, or other than he was. "We must finda good wife for him, Chaplain," she said to Mr. Sampson. "I have one ortwo in my eye, who, I think, will suit him. We must set him up here;he
never will bear going back to his savages again, or to live with hislittle Methodist of a mother."

  Now about this point Mr. Sampson, too, was personally anxious, andhad also a wife in his eye for Harry. I suppose he must have had someconversations with his lord at Castlewood, whom we have heard expressingsome intention of complimenting his chaplain with a good living or otherprovision, in event of his being able to carry out his lordship's wishesregarding a marriage for Lady Maria. If his good offices could help thatanxious lady to a husband, Sampson was ready to employ them: and he nowwaited to see in what most effectual manner he could bring his influenceto bear.

  Sampson's society was most agreeable, and he and his young friend wereintimate in the course of a few hours. The parson rejoiced inhigh spirits, good appetite, good humour; pretended to no sort ofsqueamishness, and indulged in no sanctified hypocritical conversation;nevertheless, he took care not to shock his young friend by any needlessoutbreaks of levity or immorality of talk, initiating his pupil, perhapsfrom policy, perhaps from compunction, only into the minor mysteries,as it were; and not telling him the secrets with which the unlucky adepthimself was only too familiar. With Harry, Sampson was only a brisk,lively, jolly companion, ready for any drinking bout, or any sport, acock-fight, a shooting-match, a game at cards, or a gallop across thecommon; but his conversation was decent, and he tried much more toamuse the young man, than to lead him astray. The chaplain was quitesuccessful: he had immense animal spirits as well as natural wit, andaptitude as well as experience in that business of toad-eater whichhad been his calling and livelihood from his very earliest years,--eversince he first entered college as a servitor, and cast about to see bywhose means he could make his fortune in life. That was but satire justnow, when we said there were no toad-eaters left in the world. There aremany men of Sampson's profession now, doubtless; nay, little boys at ourpublic schools are sent thither at the earliest age, instructed by theirparents, and put out apprentices to toad-eating. But the flattery is notso manifest as it used to be a hundred years since. Young men and oldhave hangers-on, and led captains, but they assume an appearance ofequality, borrow money, or swallow their toads in private, and walkabroad arm-in-arm with the great man, and call him by his name withouthis title. In those good old times, when Harry Warrington first cameto Europe, a gentleman's toad-eater pretended to no airs of equality atall; openly paid court to his patron, called him by that name to otherfolks, went on his errands for him,--any sort of errands which thepatron might devise,--called him sir in speaking to him, stood up inhis presence until bidden to sit down, and flattered him ex officio. Mr.Sampson did not take the least shame in speaking of Harry as his youngpatron,--as a young Virginian nobleman recommended to him by his othernoble patron, the Earl of Castlewood. He was proud of appearing atHarry's side, and as his humble retainer, in public talked about him tothe company, gave orders to Harry's tradesmen, from whom, let us hope,he received a percentage in return for his recommendations, performedall the functions of aide-de-camp--others, if our young gentlemandemanded them from the obsequious divine, who had gaily discharged theduties of ami du prince to ever so many young men of fashion, sincehis own entrance into the world. It must be confessed that, since hisarrival in Europe, Mr. Warrington had not been uniformly lucky in thefriendships which he had made.

  "What a reputation, sir, they have made for you in this place!" criesMr. Sampson, coming back from the coffee-house to his patron. "Monsieurde Richelieu was nothing to you!"

  "How do you mean, Monsieur de Richelieu?--Never was at Minorca in mylife," says downright Harry, who had not heard of those victories athome, which made the French duke famous.

  Mr. Sampson explained. The pretty widow Patcham who had just arrivedwas certainly desperate about Mr. Warrington: her way of going on atthe rooms, the night before, proved that. As for Mrs. Hooper, that was aknown case, and the Alderman had fetched his wife back to London for noother reason. It was the talk of the whole Wells.

  "Who says so?" cries out Harry, indignantly. "I should like to meet theman who dares say so, and confound the villain!"

  "I should not like to show him to you," says Mr. Sampson, laughing. "Itmight be the worse for him."

  "It's a shame to speak with such levity about the character of ladies orof gentlemen either," continues Mr. Warrington, pacing up and down theroom in a fume.

  "So I told them," says the chaplain, wagging his head and looking verymuch moved and very grave, though, if the truth were known, it had nevercome into his mind at all to be angry at hearing charges of this natureagainst Harry.

  "It's a shame, I say, to talk away the reputation of any man or woman aspeople do here. Do you know, in our country, a fellow's ears would notbe safe; and a little before I left home, three brothers shot down aman, for having spoken ill of their sister."

  "Serve the villain right!" cries Sampson.

  "Already they have had that calumny about me set a-going here,Sampson,--about me and the poor little French dancing-girl."

  "I have heard," says Mr. Sampson, shaking powder out of his wig.

  "Wicked; wasn't it?"

  "Abominable."

  "They said the very same thing about my Lord March. Isn't it shameful?"

  "Indeed it is," says Mr. Sampson, preserving a face of wonderfulgravity.

  "I don't know what I should do if these stories were to come to mymother's ears. It would break her heart, I do believe it would. Why,only a few days before you came, a military friend of mine, Mr. Wolfe,told me how the most horrible lies were circulated about me. Goodheavens! What do they think a gentleman of my name and country canbe capable of--I a seducer of women? They might as well say I was ahorse-stealer or a housebreaker. I vow if I hear any man say so, I'llhave his ears!"

  "I have read, sir, that the Grand Seignior of Turkey has bushels of earssometimes sent in to him," says Mr. Sampson, laughing. "If you took allthose that had heard scandal against you or others, what basketsful youwould fill!"

  "And so I would, Sampson, as soon as look at 'em:--any fellow's who saida word against a lady or a gentleman of honour!" cries the Virginian.

  "If you'll go down to the Well, you'll find a harvest of 'em. I justcame from there. It was the high tide of Scandal. Detraction was at itsheight. And you may see the nymphas discentes and the aures satyrorumacutas," cries the chaplain, with a shrug of his shoulders.

  "That may be as you say, Sampson," Mr. Warrington replies, "but if everI hear any man speak against my character I'll punish him. Mark that."

  "I shall be very sorry for his sake, that I should; for you'll mark himin a way he won't like, sir; and I know you are a man of your word."

  "You may be sure of that, Sampson. And now shall we go to dinner, andafterwards to my Lady Trumpington's tea?"

  "You know, sir, I can't resist a card or a bottle," says Mr. Sampson."Let us have the last first and then the first shall come last." Andwith this the two gentlemen went off to their accustomed place ofrefection.

  That was an age in which wine-bibbing was more common than in ourpoliter time; and, especially since the arrival of General Braddock'sarmy in his native country, our young Virginian had acquired rathera liking for the filling of bumpers and the calling of toasts; havingheard that it was a point of honour among the officers never to declinea toast or a challenge. So Harry and his chaplain drank their claret inpeace and plenty, naming, as the simple custom was, some favourite ladywith each glass.

  The chaplain had reasons of his own for desiring to know how farthe affair between Harry and my Lady Maria had gone; whether it wasadvancing, or whether it was ended; and he and his young friend werejust warm enough with the claret to be able to talk with that greateloquence, that candour, that admirable friendliness, which good winetaken in rather injudicious quantity inspires. O kindly harvests ofthe Aquitanian grape! O sunny banks of Garonne! O friendly caves ofGledstane and Morol, where the dusky flasks lie recondite! May we notsay a word of thanks for all the pleasure we owe you? Are the Temperancemen to be allowed t
o shout in the public places? are the Vegetarians tobellow "Cabbage for ever?" and may we modest Enophilists not sing thepraises of our favourite plant? After the drinking of good Bordeauxwine, there is a point (I do not say a pint) at which men arrive, whenall the generous faculties of the soul are awakened and in full vigour;when the wit brightens and breaks out in sudden flashes; when theintellects are keenest; when the pent-up words and confined thoughts geta night-rule, and rush abroad and disport themselves; when the kindliestaffection, come out and shake hands with mankind, and the timid Truthjumps up naked out of his well and proclaims himself to all the world.How, by the kind influence of the wine-cup, we succour the poor andhumble! How bravely we rush to the rescue of the oppressed! I say, inthe face of all the pumps which ever spouted, that there is a moment ina bout of good wine at which, if a man could but remain, wit, wisdom,courage, generosity, eloquence, happiness were his; but the momentpasses, and that other glass somehow spoils the state of beatitude.There is a headache in the morning; we are not going into Parliamentfor our native town; we are not going to shoot those French officerswho have been speaking disrespectfully of our country; and poor JeremyDiddler calls about eleven o'clock for another half-sovereign, and weare unwell in bed, and can't see him, and send him empty away.

  Well, then, as they sate over their generous cups, the company havingdeparted, and the bottle of claret being brought in by Monsieur Barbeau,the chaplain found himself in an eloquent state, with a strong desirefor inculcating sublime moral precepts whilst Harry was moved by anextreme longing to explain his whole private history, and to impart allhis present feelings to his new friend. Mark that fact. Why must aman say everything that comes uppermost in his noble mind, because,forsooth, he has swallowed a half-pint more wine than he ordinarilydrinks? Suppose I had committed a murder (of course I allow the sherry,and champagne at dinner), should I announce that homicide somewhereabout the third bottle (in a small party of men) of claret at dessert?Of course: and hence the fidelity to water-gruel announced a few pagesback.

  "I am glad to hear what your conduct has really been with regard to theCattarina, Mr. Warrington; I am glad from my soul," says the impetuouschaplain. "The wine is with you. You have shown that you can bear downcalumny, and resist temptation. Ah! my dear sir, men are not all sofortunate. What famous good wine this is!" and he sucks up a glass with"A toast from you, my dear sir, if you please?"

  "I give you 'Miss Fanny Mountain, of Virginia,'" says Mr. Warrington,filling a bumper as his thoughts fly straightway, ever so many thousandmiles, to home.

  "One of your American conquests, I suppose?" says the chaplain.

  "Nay, she is but ten years old, and I have never made any conquests atall in Virginia, Mr. Sampson," says the young gentleman.

  "You are like a true gentleman, and don't kiss and tell, sir."

  "I neither kiss nor tell. It isn't the custom of our country, Sampson,to ruin girls, or frequent the society of low women. We Virginiangentlemen honour women: we don't wish to bring them to shame," cries theyoung toper, looking very proud and handsome. "The young lady whosename I mentioned hath lived in our family since her infancy, and I wouldshoot the man who did her a wrong;--by Heaven, I would!"

  "Your sentiments do you honour! Let me shake hands with you! I willshake hands with you, Mr. Warrington," cried the enthusiastic Sampson."And let me tell you 'tis the grasp of honest friendship offered you,and not merely the poor retainer paying court to the wealthy patron. No!with such liquor as this, all men are equal;--faith, all men are rich,whilst it lasts! and Tom Sampson is as wealthy with his bottle as yourhonour with all the acres of your principality!"

  "Let us have another bottle of riches," says Harry, with a laugh."Encore du cachet jaune, mon bon Monsieur Barbeau!" and exit MonsieurBarbeau to the caves below.

  "Another bottle of riches! Capital, capital! How beautifully you speakFrench, Mr. Harry!"

  "I do speak it well," says Harry. "At least, when I speak, MonsieurBarbeau understands me well enough."

  "You do everything well, I think. You succeed in whatever you try. Thatis why they have fancied here you have won the hearts of so many women,sir."

  "There you go again about the women! I tell you I don't like thesestories about women. Confound me, Sampson, why is a gentleman'scharacter to be blackened so?"

  "Well, at any rate, there is one, unless my eyes deceive me very muchindeed, sir!" cries the chaplain.

  "Whom do you mean?" asked Harry, flushing very red.

  "Nay, I name no names. It isn't for a poor chaplain to meddle with hisbetters' doings, or to know their thoughts," says Mr. Sampson.

  "Thoughts! what thoughts, Sampson?"

  "I fancied I saw, on the part of a certain lovely and respected lady atCastlewood, a preference exhibited. I fancied, on the side of a certaindistinguished young gentleman, a strong liking manifested itself: but Imay have been wrong, and ask pardon."

  "Oh, Sampson, Sampson!" broke out the young man. "I tell you I ammiserable. I tell you I have been longing for some one to confide in,or ask advice of. You do know, then, that there has been somethinggoing on--something between me and--help Mr. Sampson, MonsieurBarbeau--and--and some one else?"

  "I have watched it this month past," says the chaplain.

  "Confound me, sir, do you mean you have been a spy on me?" says theother hotly.

  "A spy! You made little disguise of the matter, Mr. Warrington, andher ladyship wasn't a much better hand at deceiving. You were alwaystogether. In the shrubberies, in the walks, in the village, in thegalleries of the house,--you always found a pretext for being together,and plenty of eyes besides mine watched you."

  "Gracious powers! What did you see, Sampson?" cries the lad.

  "Nay, sir, 'tis forbidden to kiss and tell. I say so again," says thechaplain.

  The young man turned very red. "Oh, Sampson!" he cried, "can I--can Iconfide in you?"

  "Dearest sir--dear generous youth--you know I would shed my heart'sblood for you!" exclaimed the chaplain, squeezing his patron's hand, andturning a brilliant pair of eyes ceilingwards.

  "Oh, Sampson! I tell you I am miserable. With all this play and wine,whilst I have been here, I tell you I have been trying to drive awaycare. I own to you that when we were at Castlewood there were thingspassed between a certain lady and me."

  The parson gave a slight whistle over his glass of Bordeaux.

  "And they've made me wretched, those things have. I mean, you see, thatif a gentleman has given his word, why, it's his word, and he must standby it, you know. I mean that I thought I loved her,--and so I do verymuch, and she's a most dear, kind, darling, affectionate creature, andvery handsome, too,--quite beautiful; but then, you know, our ages,Sampson! Think of our ages, Sampson! She's as old as my mother!"

  "Who would never forgive you."

  "I don't intend to let anybody meddle in my affairs, not Madam Esmondnor anybody else," cries Harry: "but you see, Sampson, she is old--and,oh, hang it! Why did Aunt Bernstein tell me----?"

  "Tell you what?"

  "Something I can't divulge to anybody, something that tortures me!"

  "Not about the--the----" the chaplain paused: he was going to say abouther ladyship's little affair with the French dancing-master; about otherlittle anecdotes affecting her character. But he had not drunk wineenough to be quite candid, or too much, and was past the real moment ofvirtue.

  "Yes, yes, every one of 'em false--every one of 'em!" shrieks out Harry.

  "Great powers, what do you mean?" asks his friend.

  "These, sir, these!" says Harry, beating a tattoo on his own whiteteeth. "I didn't know it when I asked her. I swear I didn't know it.Oh, it's horrible--it's horrible! and it has caused me nights of agony,Sampson. My dear old grandfather had a set a Frenchman at Charlestonmade them for him, and we used to look at 'em grinning in a tumbler, andwhen they were out, his jaws used to fall in--I never thought she had'em."

  "Had what, sir?" again asked the chaplain.

  "Confound it, sir, don't
you see I mean teeth?" says Harry, rapping thetable.

  "Nay, only two."

  "And how the devil do you know, sir?" asks the young man, fiercely.

  "I--I had it from her maid. She had two teeth knocked out by a stonewhich cut her lip a little, and they have been replaced."

  "Oh, Sampson, do you mean to say they ain't all sham ones?" cries theboy.

  "But two, sir, at least so Peggy told me, and she would just as soonhave blabbed about the whole two-and-thirty--the rest are as sound asyours, which are beautiful."

  "And her hair, Sampson, is that all right, too?" asks the younggentleman.

  "'Tis lovely--I have seen that. I can take my oath to that. Her ladyshipcan sit upon it; and her figure is very fine; and her skin is as whiteas snow; and her heart is the kindest that ever was; and I know, that isI feel sure, it is very tender about you, Mr. Warrington."

  "Oh, Sampson! Heaven, Heaven bless you! What a weight you've taken offmy mind with those--those--never mind them! Oh, Sam! How happy--that is,no, no--ob, how miserable I am! She's as old as Madam Esmond--by Georgeshe is--she's as old as my mother. You wouldn't have a fellow marrya woman as old as his mother? It's too bad: by George it is. It's toobad." And here, I am sorry to say, Harry Esmond Warrington, Esquire, ofCastlewood, in Virginia, began to cry. The delectable point, you see,must have been passed several glasses ago.

  "You don't want to marry her, then?" asks the chaplain.

  "What's that to you, sir? I've promised her, and an Esmond--a VirginiaEsmond mind that--Mr. What's-your-name--Sampson--has but his word!"The sentiment was noble, but delivered by Harry with rather a doubtfularticulation.

  "Mind you, I said a Virginia Esmond," continued poor Harry, lifting uphis finger. "I don't mean the younger branch here. I don't mean Will,who robbed me about the horse, and whose bones I'll break. I give youLady Maria--Heaven bless her, and Heaven bless you, Sampson, and youdeserve to be a bishop, old boy!"

  "There are letters between you, I suppose?" says Sampson.

  "Letters! Dammy, she's always writing me letters!--never lets me into awindow but she sticks one in my cuff. Letters! that is a good idea! Lookhere! Here's letters!" And he threw down a pocket-book containing a heapof papers of the poor lady's composition.

  "Those are letters, indeed. What a post-bag!" says the chaplain.

  "But any man who touches them--dies--dies on the spot!" shrieks Harry,starting from his seat, and reeling towards his sword; which he draws,and then stamps with his foot, and says, "Ha! ha!" and then lunges atM. Barbeau, who skips away from the lunge behind the chaplain, who looksrather alarmed. I know we could have had a much more exciting picturethan either of those we present of Harry this month, and the lad, withhis hair dishevelled, raging about the room flamberge au vent, andpinking the affrighted innkeeper and chaplain, would have afforded agood subject for the pencil. But oh, to think of him stumbling over astool, and prostrated by an enemy who has stole away his brains! Come,Gumbo! and help your master to bed!