CHAPTER XXXVII. In which various Matches are fought
Reading in the London Advertiser, which was served to his worship withhis breakfast, an invitation to all lovers of manly British sport tocome and witness a trial of skill between the great champions Sutton andFigg, Mr. Warrington determined upon attending these performances, andaccordingly proceeded to the Wooden House, in Marybone Fields, drivingthither the pair of horses which he had purchased on the previous day.The young charioteer did not know the road very well, and veered andtacked very much more than was needful upon his journey from CoventGarden, losing himself in the green lanes behind Mr. Whitfield's roundTabernacle of Tottenham Road, and the fields in the midst of whichMiddlesex Hospital stood. He reached his destination at length,however, and found no small company assembled to witness the valorousachievements of the two champions.
A crowd of London blackguards was gathered round the doors of thistemple of British valour; together with the horses and equipages of afew persons of fashion, who came, like Mr. Warrington, to patronisethe sport. A variety of beggars and cripples hustled round the younggentleman, and whined to him for charity. Shoeblack-boys tumbledover each other for the privilege of blacking his honour's boots;nosegay-women and flying fruiterers plied Mr. Gumbo with their wares;piemen, pads, tramps, strollers of every variety, hung round thebattle-ground. A flag was flying upon the building; and, on to thestage in front, accompanied by a drummer and a horn-blower, a managerrepeatedly issued to announce to the crowd that the noble English sportswere just about to begin.
Mr. Warrington paid his money, and was accommodated with a seat in agallery commanding a perfect view of the platform whereon the sportswere performed; Mr. Gumbo took his seat in the amphitheatre below; or,when tired, issued forth into the outer world to drink a pot of beer,or play a game at cards with his brother-lacqueys, and the gentlemen'scoachmen on the boxes of the carriages waiting without. Lacqueys,liveries, footmen--the old society was encumbered with a prodigiousquantity of these. Gentlemen or women could scarce move without one,sometimes two or three, vassals in attendance. Every theatre had itsfootman's gallery: an army of the liveried race hustled around everychapel-door: they swarmed in anterooms: they sprawled in halls and onlandings: they guzzled, devoured, debauched, cheated, played cards,bullied visitors for vails:--that noble old race of footmen is well-nighgone. A few thousand of them may still be left among us. Grand, tall,beautiful, melancholy, we still behold them on levee days, with theirnosegays and their buckles, their plush and their powder. So have I seenin America specimens, nay camps and villages, of Red Indians. But therace is doomed. The fatal decree has gone forth, and Uncas with histomahawk and eagle's plume, and Jeames with his cocked hat and longcane, are passing out of the world where they once walked in glory.
Before the principal combatants made their appearance, minor warriorsand exercises were exhibited. A boxing-match came off, but neither ofthe men were very game or severely punished, so that Mr. Warringtonand the rest of the spectators had but little pleasure out of thatencounter. Then ensued some cudgel-playing; but the heads broken wereof so little note, and the wounds given so trifling and unsatisfactory,that no wonder the company began to hiss, grumble, and show other signsof discontent. "The masters, the masters!" shouted the people, whereuponthose famous champions at length thought fit to appear.
The first who walked up the steps to the stage was the intrepid Sutton,sword in hand, who saluted the company with his warlike weapon, makingan especial bow and salute to a private box or gallery in which sate astout gentleman, who was seemingly a person of importance. Sutton wasspeedily followed by the famous Figg, to whom the stout gentleman waveda hand of approbation. Both men were in their shirts, their heads wereshaven clean, but bore the cracks and scars of many former gloriousbattles. On his burly sword-arm, each intrepid champion wore an"armiger," or ribbon of his colour. And now the gladiators shookhands, and, as a contemporary poet says: "The word it was bilboe."[The antiquarian reader knows the pleasant poem in the sixth volume ofDodsley's Collection, in which the above combat is described.]
At the commencement of the combat the great Figg dealt a blow sotremendous at his opponent, that had it encountered the other's honesthead, that comely noddle would have been shorn off as clean as thecarving-knife chops the carrot. But Sutton received his adversary'sblade on his own sword, whilst Figg's blow was delivered so mightilythat the weapon brake in his hands, less constant than the heart ofhim who wielded it. Other sword were now delivered to the warriors. Thefirst blood drawn spouted from the panting side of Figg amidst a yellof delight from Sutton's supporters; but the veteran appealing to hisaudience, and especially, as it seemed, to the stout individual in theprivate gallery, showed that his sword broken in the previous encounterhad caused the wound.
Whilst the parley occasioned by this incident was going on, Mr.Warrington saw a gentleman in a riding-frock and plain scratch-wig enterthe box devoted to the stout personage, and recognised with pleasure hisTunbridge Wells friend, my Lord of March and Ruglen. Lord March, who wasby no means prodigal of politeness seemed to show singular deference tothe stout gentleman, and Harry remarked how his lordship received,with a profound bow, some bank-bills which the other took out from apocket-book and handed to him. Whilst thus engaged, Lord March spied outour Virginian, and, his interview with the stout personage finished, mylord came over to Harry's gallery and warmly greeted his young friend.They sat and beheld the combat waging with various success, butwith immense skill and valour on both sides. After the warriors hadsufficiently fought with swords, they fell to with the quarter-staff,and the result of this long and delightful battle was, that victoryremained with her ancient champion Figg.
Whilst the warriors were at battle, a thunderstorm had broken over thebuilding, and Mr. Warrington gladly enough accepted a seat in my LordMarch's chariot, leaving his own phaeton to be driven home by his groom.Harry was in great delectation with the noble sight he had witnessed:be pronounced this indeed to be something like sport, and of the besthe had seen since his arrival in England: and, as usual, associating anypleasure which he enjoyed with the desire that the dear companion ofhis boyhood should share the amusement in common with him, he began bysighing out, "I wish..." then he stopped. "No, I don't," says he.
"What do you wish and what don't you wish?" asks Lord March.
"I was thinking, my lord, of my elder brother, and wished he had beenwith me. We had promised to have our sport together at home, you see;and many's the time we talked of it. But he wouldn't have liked thisrough sort of sport, and didn't care for fighting, though he was thebravest lad alive."
"Oh! he was the bravest lad alive, was he?" asks my lord, lolling on hiscushion, and eyeing his Virginian friend with some curiosity.
"You should have seen him in a quarrel with a very gallant officer,our friend--an absurd affair, but it was hard to keep George off him. Inever saw a fellow so cool, nor more savage and determined, God help me.Ah! I wish for the honour of the country, you know, that he could havecome here instead of me, and shown you a real Virginian gentleman."
"Nay, sir, you'll do very well. What is this I hear of Lady Yarmouthtaking you into favour?" said the amused nobleman.
"I will do as well as another. I can ride, and, I think, I can shootbetter than George; but then my brother had the head, sir, the head!"says Harry, tapping his own honest skull. "Why, I give you my word, mylord, that he had read almost every book that was ever written; couldplay both on the fiddle and harpsichord, could compose poetry andsermons most elegant. What can I do? I am only good to ride and play atcards, and drink Burgundy." And the penitent hung down his head. "Butthem I can do as well as most fellows, you see. In fact, my lord, I'llback myself," he resumed, to the other's great amusement.
Lord March relished the young man's naivete, as the jaded voluptuarystill to the end always can relish the juicy wholesome mutton-chop. "ByGad, Mr. Warrington," says he, "you ought to be taken to Exeter 'Change,and put in a show."
"And for
why?"
"A gentleman from Virginia who has lost his elder brother and absolutelyregrets him. The breed ain't known in this country. Upon my honour andconscience, I believe that you would like to have him back again."
"Believe!" cries the Virginian, growing red in the face.
"That is, you believe you believe you would like him back again. Butdepend on it you wouldn't. 'Tis not in human nature, sir; not as I readit, at least. Here are some fine houses we are coming to. That at thecorner is Sir Richard Littleton's, that great one was my Lord Bingley's.'Tis a pity they do nothing better with this great empty space ofCavendish Square than fence it with these unsightly boards. By George!I don't know where the town's running. There's Montagu House made intoa confounded Don Saltero's museum, with books and stuffed birds andrhinoceroses. They have actually run a cursed cut--New Road they callit--at the back of Bedford House Gardens, and spoilt the Duke's comfort,though, I guess, they will console him in the pocket. I don't knowwhere the town will stop. Shall we go down Tyburn Road and the Park, orthrough Swallow Street, and into the habitable quarter of the town? Wecan dine at Pall Mall, or, if you like, with you; and we can spend theevening as you like--with the Queen of Spades, or..."
"With the Queen of Spades, if your lordship pleases," says Mr.Warrington, blushing. So the equipage drove to his hotel in CoventGarden, where the landlord came forward with his usual obsequiousness,and recognising my Lord of March and Ruglen, bowed his wig on to mylord's shoes in his humble welcomes to his lordship. A rich youngEnglish peer in the reign of George the Second; a wealthy patricianin the reign of Augustus; which would you rather have been? There is aquestion for any young gentlemen's debating-clubs of the present day.
The best English dinner which could be produced, of course, was at theservice of the young Virginian and his noble friend. After dinner camewine in plenty, and of quality good enough even for the epicurean earl.Over the wine there was talk of going to see the fireworks at Vauxhall,or else of cards. Harry, who had never seen a firework beyond anexhibition of a dozen squibs at Williamsburg on the fifth of November(which he thought a sublime display), would have liked the Vauxhall, butyielded to his guest's preference for piquet; and they were very soonabsorbed in that game.
Harry began by winning as usual; but, in the course of a half-hour, theluck turned and favoured my Lord March, who was at first very surly whenMr. Draper, Mr. Warrington's man of business, came bowing into the room,where he accepted Harry's invitation to sit and drink. Mr. Warringtonalways asked everybody to sit and drink, and partake of his best. Had hea crust, he would divide it; had he a haunch, he would share it; hadhe a jug of water, he would drink about with a kindly spirit; had he abottle of Burgundy, it was gaily drunk with a thirsty friend. And don'tfancy the virtue is common. You read of it in books, my dear sir, andfancy that you have it yourself because you give six dinners of twentypeople and pay your acquaintance all round; but the welcome, thefriendly spirit, the kindly heart? Believe me, these are rare qualitiesin our selfish world. We may bring them with us from the country when weare young, but they mostly wither after transplantation, and droop andperish in the stifling London air.
Draper did not care for wine very much, but it delighted the lawyer tobe in the company of a great man. He protested that he liked nothingbetter than to see piquet played by two consummate players and men offashion; and, taking a seat, undismayed by the sidelong scowls of hislordship, surveyed the game between the gentlemen. Harry was not neara match for the experienced player of the London clubs. To-night, too,Lord March held better cards to aid his skill.
What their stakes were was no business of Mr. Draper's. The gentlemensaid they would play for shillings, and afterwards counted up theirgains and losses, with scarce any talking, and that in an undertone. Abow on both sides, a perfectly grave and polite manner on the part ofeach, and the game went on.
But it was destined to a second interruption, which brought anexecration from Lord March's lips. First was heard a scufflingwithout--then a whispering--then an outcry as of a woman in tears,and then, finally, a female rushed into the room, and produced thatexplosion of naughty language from Lord March.
"I wish your women would take some other time for coming, confound 'em,"says my lord, laying his cards down in a pet.
"What, Mrs. Betty!" cried Harry.
Indeed it was no other than Mrs. Betty, Lady Maria's maid; and Gumbostood behind her, his fine countenance beslobbered with tears.
"What has happened?" asks Mr. Warrington, in no little perturbation ofspirit. "The Baroness is well?"
"Help! help! sir, your honour!" ejaculates Mrs. Betty, and proceeds tofall on her knees.
"Help whom?"
A howl ensues from Gumbo.
"Gumbo! you scoundrel! has anything happened between Mrs. Betty andyou?" asks the black's master.
Mr. Gumbo steps back with great dignity, laying his hand on his heart,and saying, "No, sir; nothing hab happened 'twix' this lady and me."
"It's my mistress, sir," cries Betty. "Help! help! here's the letter shehave wrote, sir! They have gone and took her, sir!"
"Is it only that old Molly Esmond? She's known to be over head and heelsin debt! Dry your eyes in the next room, Mrs. Betty, and let me and Mr.Warrington go on with our game," says my lord, taking up his cards.
"Help! help her!" cries Betty again. "Oh, Mr. Harry! you won't bea-going on with your cards, when my lady calls out to you to come andhelp her! Your honour used to come quick enough when my lady used tosend me to fetch you at Castlewood!"
"Confound you! can't you hold your tongue?" says my lord, with morechoice words and oaths.
But Betty would not cease weeping, and it was decreed that Lord Marchwas to cease winning for that night. Mr. Warrington rose from his seat,and made for the bell, saying:
"My dear lord, the game must be over for to-night. My relative writes tome in great distress, and I am bound to go to her."
"Curse her! Why couldn't she wait till to-morrow?" cries my lord,testily.
Mr. Warrington ordered a postchaise instantly. His own horses would takehim to Bromley.
"Bet you, you don't do it within the hour! bet you, you don't do itwithin five quarters of an hour! bet you four to one--or I'll take yourbet, which you please--that you're not robbed on Blackheath! Bet you,you are not at Tunbridge Wells before midnight!" cries Lord March.
"Done!" says Mr. Warrington. And my lord carefully notes down the termsof the four wagers in his pocket-book.
Lady Maria's letter ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR COUSIN--I am fell into a trapp, which I perceive themachinations of villians. I am a prisner. Betty will tell you all. Ah,my Henrico! come to the resque of your MOLLY."
In half an hour after the receipt of this missive, Mr. Warrington wasin his postchaise and galloping over Westminster Bridge on the road tosuccour his kinswoman.