Debt, Imprisonment for -- Fiction; London (England) -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
"I like not the breaking of legs on wheels," cried Mrs. Gambit. "But to
call the flogging of Bridewell hussies barbarous! Fie, sir! You might
as well call bull-baiting barbarous."
No one wanted to encourage highway-robbers, yet none but this merchant
from foreign parts would allow than an Englishman, however wicked,
should cruelly have his limbs broken and crushed by a rod of iron.
"As for the gentlemen of the road," said Mrs. Gambit, "I, for one, fear
them not. They may take the butter and eggs in my basket, but they
won't find my money, for that is in my shoe."
"Nor mine," said I, taking courage and thinking to show my cleverness;
"for it is all sewn safe inside my petticoats."
"Hush, silly women!" cried the merchant. "You know not but there is a
highwayman sitting in disguise on the coach beside you. I beg pardon,
sir," he turned to the clergyman beside me--"no offence, sir--though I
have heard of a thief who robbed a coach after travelling in it dressed
as a gentleman of your cloth."
"None, sir, none," replied his reverence. "Yet am I not a highwayman,
I do assure you for your comfort. Nor have I any money in my pocket or
my shoe. I am but a simple clergyman, going to look at a benefice which
hath been graciously bestowed upon me."
"That, sir," said the merchant, "is satisfactory, and I hope that
no other ears have heard what these ladies have disclosed. Shoes?
petticoats? Oh, the things that I have seen and heard!"
The clergyman then told us that he had a wife and six daughters, and
that the preferment (two hundred pounds a year!) would make a man of
him, who had as yet been little better than a slave with sixty pounds
for all his income. The Christian year, he told us, was a long Lent for
him, save that sometimes, as at Christmas and Eastertide, he was able
to taste meat given to him. Yet he looked fat and hearty.
"My drink," he said, "is from the spring, which costs nothing; and my
bread is but oatmeal-porridge, potatoes, or barley-meal."
Then he pressed my hand in his, said I resembled his wife in her
younger days, and declared that he already felt to me like a father.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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