Rowlandson the Caricaturist; a Selection from His Works. Vol. 2 by Joseph Grego

Rowlandson. Stadler, aquatinta. Published by T. Tegg. A View in Camelford, Cornwall Sept. 1, 1809. The Seat of M. Mitchell, Esq., Hengar, Cornwall Sept. 1 " A Cottage in the Duchy of Cornwall Sept. 1 " Village of St. Udy, Cornwall Sept. 1 " Fowey, Cornwall Sept. 30 " A View near Richmond Oct. 4 " A View in Devonshire Oct. 4 " Taunton Vale, Somersetshire Nov. 25 " View near Newport, Isle of Wight Nov. 25 " Temple at Strawberry Hill Nov. 25 " White Lion Inn, Ponders End, Middlesex Nov. 25 " STERNE'S 'SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.' CALAIS. _The Coach-yard of Monsieur Dessein's Inn._--'This certainly, fair lady,' said I, raising her hand up a little lightly as I began, 'must be one of Fortune's whimsical doings: to take two utter strangers by their hands--of different sexes, and perhaps from different corners of the globe--and in one moment place them together in such a cordial situation as Friendship herself could scarce have achieved for them, had she projected it for a month.' 'And your reflection upon it shews how much, monsieur, she has embarrassed you by the adventure.' In saying this she disengaged her hand with a look which I thought a sufficient commentary upon the text. The triumphs of a true feminine heart are short upon these discomfitures. In a very few seconds she laid her hand upon the cuff of my coat, in order to finish her reply. * * * * * I fear, in this interval, I must have made some slight efforts towards a closer compression of her hand, from a subtle sensation I felt in the palm of my own--not as if she was going to withdraw hers, but as if she thought about it--and I had infallibly lost it a second time, had not instinct more than reason directed me to the last resource in these dangers--to hold it loosely, and in a manner as if I was every moment going to release it of myself; so she let it continue, till Monsieur Dessein returned with the key; and in the meantime I set myself to consider how I should undo the ill impressions which the poor monk's story, in case he had told it her, must have planted in her breast against me. [Illustration: YORICK AND FATHER LORENZO.] _The Snuffbox._--The good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of them crossed my mind, and was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no. He stopped, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness; and having a horn snuffbox in his hand, he presented it, open, to me. 'You shall taste mine,' said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoiseshell one), and putting it into his hand. ''Tis most excellent,' said the monk. 'Then do me the favour,' I replied, 'to accept of the box and all; and, when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.' The poor monk blushed as red as scarlet. '_Mon Dieu!_' said he, pressing his hands together, 'you never used me unkindly.' 'I should think,' said the lady, 'he is not likely.' I blushed in my turn, but from what movements I leave to the few who feel to analyse. 'Excuse me, madame,' replied I, 'I treated him most unkindly, and from no provocations.' ''Tis impossible,' said the lady. 'My God!' cried the monk, with a warmth of asseveration which seemed not to belong to him, 'the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal.' The lady opposed it, and I joined with her in maintaining it was impossible that a spirit so regulated as his could give offence to any. I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the nerves as I then felt it. We remained silent, without any sensations of that foolish pain which takes place when in such a circle you look for ten minutes in one another's faces without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the monk rubbed his horn box upon the sleeve of his tunic; and as soon as it had acquired a little air of brightness by the friction, he made a low bow and said 'twas too late to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of our tempers which had involved us in this contest; but be it as it would, he begged we might exchange boxes. In saying this he presented his to me with one hand as he took mine from me in the other, and having kissed it, with a stream of good nature in his eyes, he put it into his bosom--and took his leave. I guard this box, as I would the instrumental parts of my religion, to help my mind on to something better: in truth, I seldom go abroad without it; and oft and many a time have I called up by it the courteous spirit of its owner to regulate my own, in the jostlings of the world: they had found full employment for his, as I learnt from his story, till about the forty-fifth year of his age, when, upon some military services ill requited, and meeting at the same time a disappointment in the tenderest of passions, he abandoned the sword and the sex together, and took sanctuary, not so much in his convent as in himself. I feel a damp upon my spirits as I am going to add, that in my last return through Calais, upon enquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard he had been dead near three months, and was buried, not in his convent, but, according to his desire, in a little cemetery belonging to it, about two leagues off. I had a strong desire to see where they had laid him--when, upon pulling out his little horn box, as I sat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the head of it, which had no business to grow there, they all struck together so forcibly upon my affections, that I burst into a flood of tears. But I am as weak as a woman; and I beg the world not to smile, but pity me. MONTRIUL. _The Bidet._--When all is ready, and every article is disputed and paid for in the inn, unless you are a little soured by the adventure, there is always a matter to compound at the door, before you can get into your chaise; and that is with the sons and daughters of poverty, who surround you. Let no man say, 'Let them go to the devil'--'tis a cruel journey to send a few miserables, and they have had sufferings enow without it. I always find it better to take a few sous out in my hand; and I would counsel every gentle traveller to do so likewise: he need not be so exact in setting down his motives for giving them--they will be registered elsewhere. * * * * * Having settled all these small matters, I got into my postchaise with more ease than ever I got into a postchaise in my life; and La Fleur having got one large jack-boot on the far side of a little _bidet_ (post-horse), and another on this (for I count nothing of his legs), he cantered away before me, as happy and as perpendicular as a prince. But what is happiness! What is grandeur in this painted scene of life! A dead ass, before we had got a league, put a stop to La Fleur's career--his _bidet_ would not pass it; a contention arose betwixt them, and the poor fellow was kicked out of his jack-boots the very first kick. La Fleur bore his fall like a French Christian, saying neither more or less upon it than _Diable!_ so presently got up and came to the charge again--then this way--then that way: and, in short, every way but by the dead ass. La Fleur insisted upon the thing--and the _bidet_ threw him. 'What's the matter, La Fleur,' said I, 'with this _bidet_ of thine?' '_Monsieur_,' said he, '_c'est un cheval le plus opiniatre du monde_.' 'Nay, if he is a conceited beast, he must go his own way,' replied I. So La Fleur got off him, and giving him a good sound lash, the _bidet_ took me at my word, and away he scampered back to Montriul. '_Peste!_' said La Fleur. * * * * * _Le Diable!_ which is the first and positive degree, is generally used for ordinary emotions of the mind, where small things only fall out contrary to your expectation, such as--the throwing one's doublets--La Fleur's being kicked off his horse, and so forth--cuckoldom, for the same reason, is always--_Le Diable!_ But in cases where the cast has something provoking in it, as in that of the _bidet's_ running away after--and leaving La Fleur aground in jack-boots--'tis the second degree. 'Tis then _Peste!_ As there was no hunting down a frightened horse in jack-boots, there remained no alternative but taking La Fleur either behind the chaise or into it. I preferred the latter, and in half an hour we got to the post-house at Namport. NAMPORT. _The Dead Ass._--'And this,' said he, putting the remains of a crust into his wallet, 'and this should have been thy portion,' said he, 'had'st thou been alive to have shared it with me.' I thought by the accent it had been an apostrophe to his child; but it was to his ass, and to the very ass we had seen dead in the road, which had occasioned La Fleur's misadventure. The man seemed to lament it much; and it instantly brought into my mind Sancho's lamentation for his; but he did it with more true touches of nature. The mourner was sitting upon a stone bench at the door, with the ass's pannel and its bridle on one side, which he took up from time to time--then laid them down--looked at them, and shook his head. He then took his crust of bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it; held it some time in his hand, then laid it upon the bit of his ass's bridle--looked wistfully at the little arrangement he had made, and then gave a sigh. The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him, and La Fleur among the rest, whilst the horses were getting ready; as I continued sitting in the postchaise, I could see and hear over their heads. [Illustration: LA FLEUR AND THE DEAD ASS.] He said he had come last from Spain, where he had been from the farthest borders of Franconia, and had got so far on his return home, when his ass died. Everyone seemed desirous to know what business could have taken so old and poor a man so far a journey from his own home. It had pleased heaven, he said, to bless him with three sons, the finest lads in Germany; but having, in one week, lost two of them by the smallpox, and the youngest falling ill of the distemper, he was afraid of being bereft of them all; and made a vow, if heaven would not take him from him also, he would go, in gratitude, to St. Jago, in Spain. When the mourner got thus far in his story he stopped to pay Nature her tribute, and wept bitterly. He said heaven had accepted the conditions, and that he had set out from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a patient partner of his journey--that it had eat the same bread with him all the way and was unto him as a friend. Everybody who stood about heard the poor fellow with concern. La Fleur offered him money. The mourner said he did not want it--it was not the value of the ass, but the loss of him. The ass, he said, he was assured loved him--and upon this told them a long story of mischance upon their passage over the Pyrenean mountains, which had separated them from each other three days: during which time the ass had sought him as much as he had sought the ass, and that they had neither scarce eat or drank till they met. 'Thou hast one comfort, friend,' said I, 'at least in the loss of thy poor beast: I am sure thou hast been a merciful master to him.' 'Alas!' said the mourner, 'I thought so when he was alive, but now he is dead I think otherwise. I fear the weight of myself and my afflictions together have been too much for him--they have shortened the poor creature's days, and I fear I have them to answer for.' 'Shame on the world!' said I to myself, 'did we love each other as this poor soul but loved his ass, 'twould be something.'