The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom — Complete
quest of preferment in the church—the Temple is considered as a
receptacle or seminary for younger sons intended for the bar; but a
great number of each profession turn aside into other paths of life,
long before they reach these proposed goals. An abbe is often
metamorphosed into a foot soldier; a templar sometimes sinks into an
attorney’s clerk. The galleys of France abound with abbes; and many
templars may be found in our American plantations; not to mention those
who have made a public exit nearer home. Yet I would not have it
thought that my description includes every individual of those
societies. Some of the greatest scholars, politicians, and wits, that
ever Europe produced, have worn the habit of an abbe; and many of our
most noble families in England derive their honours from those who have
studied law in the Temple. The worthy sons of every community shall
always be sacred from my censure and ridicule; and, while I laugh at
the folly of particular members, I can still honour and revere the
institution.
But let us return from this comparison, which some readers may think
impertinent and unseasonable, and observe, that the Westphalian count,
Dutch officer, and English knight, were not excepted from the
particular regard and attention of our adventurer. He pledged the
German in every bumper; flattered the Hollander with compliments upon
the industry, wealth, and policy of the Seven United Provinces; but he
reserved his chief battery for his own countryman, on the supposition
that he was, in all respects, the best adapted for the purposes of a
needy gamester. Him, therefore, he cultivated with extraordinary care
and singular observance; for he soon perceived him to be a humourist,
and, from that circumstance, derived an happy presage of his own
success. The baronet’s disposition seemed to be cast in the true
English mould. He was sour, silent, and contemptuous; his very looks
indicated a consciousness of superior wealth; and he never opened his
mouth, except to make some dry, sarcastic, national reflection. Nor was
his behaviour free from that air of suspicion which a man puts on when
he believes himself in a crowd of pick-pockets, whom his caution and
vigilance set at defiance. In a word, though his tongue was silent on
the subject, his whole demeanour was continually saying, “You are all a
pack of poor lousy rascals, who have a design upon my purse. ’Tis true,
I could buy your whole generation, but I won’t be bubbled, d’ye see; I
am aware of your flattery, and upon my guard against all your knavish
pranks; and I come into your company for my own amusement only.”
Fathom having reconnoitred this peculiarity of temper, instead of
treating him with that assiduous complaisance, which he received from
the other gentlemen of the party, kept aloof from him in the
conversation, with a remarkable shyness of distant civility, and seldom
took notice of what he said, except with a view to contradict him, or
retort some of his satirical observations. This he conceived to be the
best method of acquiring his good opinion; because the Englishman would
naturally conclude he was a person who could have no sinister views
upon his fortune, else he would have chosen quite a different manner of
deportment. Accordingly, the knight seemed to bite at the hook. He
listened to Ferdinand with uncommon regard; he was even heard to
commend his remarks, and at length drank to their better acquaintance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH ADDRESS IN A NOCTURNAL RIOT.
The Italian and the abbe were the first who began to grow whimsical
under the influence of the burgundy; and, in the heat of their
elevation, proposed that the company should amuse themselves during the
remaining part of the night, at the house of an obliging dame, who
maintained a troop of fair nymphs for the accommodation of the other
sex. The proposal was approved by all, except the Hollander, whose
economy the wine had not as yet invaded; and, while he retreated
soberly to his own lodgings, the rest of the society adjourned in two
coaches to the temple of love, where they were received by the
venerable priestess, a personage turned of seventy, who seemed to
exercise the functions of her calling, in despite of the most cruel
ravages of time; for age had bent her into the form of a Turkish bow.
Her head was agitated by the palsy, like the leaf of the poplar tree;
her hair fell down in scanty parcels, as white as the driven snow; her
face was not simply wrinkled, but ploughed into innumerable furrows;
her jaws could not boast of one remaining tooth; one eye distilled a
large quantity of rheum, by virtue of the fiery edge that surrounded
it; the other was altogether extinguished, and she had lost her nose in
the course of her ministration. The Delphic sibyl was but a type of
this hoary matron, who, by her figure, might have been mistaken for the
consort of Chaos, or mother of Time. Yet there was something
meritorious in her appearance, as it denoted her an indefatigable
minister to the pleasure of mankind, and as it formed an agreeable
contrast with the beauty and youth of the fair damsels that wantoned in
her train. It resembled those discords in music, which, properly
disposed, contribute to the harmony of the whole piece; or those
horrible giants, who, in the world of romance, used to guard the gates
of the castle in which the enchanted damsel was confined.
This Urganda seemed to be aware of her own importance, and perfectly
well acquainted with the human appetite; for she compelled the whole
company to undergo her embrace. Then a lacquey, in magnificent livery,
ushered them into a superb apartment, where they waited some minutes,
without being favoured with the appearance of the ladies, to the
manifest dissatisfaction of the abbe, who, sending for the gouvernante,
reprimanded her severely for her want of politesse. The old lady, who
was by no means a pattern of patience and submission, retorted his
reproaches with great emphasis and vivacity. Her eloquence flowed
altogether in the Covent Garden strain; and I question whether the
celebrated Mother Douglas herself could have made such a figure in an
extemporaneous altercation.
After having bestowed upon the abbe the epithets of saucy insignificant
pimp, she put him in mind of the good offices which he had received at
her hands; how she had supplied him with bed, board, and bedfellow, in
his greatest necessity; sent him abroad with money in his pockets—and,
in a word, cherished him in her bosom, when his own mother had
abandoned him to distress. She then reviled him for presuming to
affront her before strangers, and gave the company to understand, that
the young ladies would wait upon them as soon as they could be
confessed and receive absolution from a worthy cordelier, who was now
employed in performing that charitable office. The gentlemen were
satisfied with this remonstrance, which argued the old lady’s pious
concern for the souls that were under her care, and our adventurer
proposed an accommodation betwixt her and the abbe, who was prevailed
upon to ask her pardon, and received her blessing upon his knees.
This affair had not been long adjusted, when five damsels were
introduced in a very gay dishabille, and our hero was complimented with
the privilege of choosing his Amanda from the whole bevy. When he was
provided, the others began to pair themselves, and, unhappily, the
German count chanced to pitch upon the same nymph who had captivated
the desires of the British knight. A dispute immediately ensued; for
the Englishman made his addresses to the lady, without paying the least
regard to the priority of the other’s claim; and she, being pleased
with his attachment, did not scruple to renounce his rival, who swore
by the thunder, lightning, and sacrament, that he would not quit his
pretensions for any prince in Christendom, much less for a little
English cavalier, whom he had already honoured too much in
condescending to be his companion.
The knight, provoked at this stately declaration, which was the
immediate effect of anger and ebriety, eyed his antagonist with a most
contemptuous aspect, and advised him to avoid such comparisons for the
future. “We all know,” said he, “the importance of a German count; I
suppose your revenue amounts to three hundred rix-dollars; and you have
a chateau that looks like the ruins of an English gaol. I will bind
myself to lend you a thousand pounds upon a mortgage of your estate,
(and a bad bargain I am sure I shall have,) if I do not, in less than
two months, find a yeoman of Kent, who spends more in strong ale than
the sum-total of your yearly income; and, were the truth known, I
believe that lace upon your coat is no better than tinsel, and those
fringed ruffles, with fine Holland sleeves, tacked to a shirt of brown
canvas, so that, were you to undress yourself before the lady, you
would only expose your own poverty and pride.”
The count was so much enraged at these sarcastic observations, that his
faculty of speech was overwhelmed by his resentment; though, in order
to acquit himself of the Englishman’s imputation, he forthwith pulled
off his clothes with such fury, that his brocade waistcoat was tore
from top to bottom. The knight, mistaking his meaning, considered this
demeanour as a fair challenge, to try which was the better man in the
exercise of boxing; and, on that supposition, began to strip in his
turn, when he was undeceived by Fathom, who put the right
interpretation upon the count’s behaviour, and begged that the affair
might be compromised. By this time the Westphalian recovered the use of
his tongue, and with many threats and imprecations, desired they would
take notice how falsely he had been aspersed, and do him justice in
espousing his claim to the damsel in question.
Before the company had time or inclination to interest themselves in
the quarrel, his opponent observed that no person who was not a mere
German, would ever dream of forcing the inclinations of a pretty girl,
whom the accidents of fortune had subjected to his power; that such
compulsion was equivalent to the most cruel rape that could be
committed; and that the lady’s aversion was not at all surprising; for,
to speak his own sentiments, were he a woman of pleasure, he would as
soon grant favours to a Westphalian hog, as to the person of his
antagonist. The German, enraged at this comparison, was quite abandoned
by his patience and discretion. He called the knight an English clown,
and, swearing he was the most untoward beast of a whole nation of
mules, snatched up one of the candlesticks, which he launched at him
with such force and violence, that it sung through the air, and,
winging its flight into the ante-chamber, encountered the skull of his
own valet, who with immediate prostration received the message of his
master.
The knight, that he might not be behindhand with the Westphalian in
point of courtesy, returned the compliment with the remaining
chandelier, which also missed its mark, and, smiting a large mirror
that was fixed behind them, emitted such a crash as one might expect to
hear if a mine were sprung beneath a manufacture of glass. Both lights
being thus extinguished, a furious combat ensued in the dark; the
Italian scampered off with infinite agility, and, as he went
downstairs, desired that nobody would interpose, because it was an
affair of honour, which could not be made up. The ladies consulted
their safety in flight; Count Fathom slyly retired to one corner of the
room; while the abbe, having upon him the terrors of the commissaire,
endeavoured to appease and part the combatants, and, in the attempt,
sustained a random blow upon his nose, which sent him howling into the