The Prose Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D. — Volume 09: Contributions to The Tatler, The Examiner, The Spectator, and The IntelligencerSwift, Jonathan
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The Prose Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D. — Volume 09: Contributions to The Tatler, The Examiner, The Spectator, and The Intelligencer
Swift, Jonathan
English essays -- 18th century; English prose literature -- 18th century
year for provisions, that they were at a great distance from any market,
that they were afraid I should be starved, and they knew they kept me to
my loss," the lady went, and left me to her husband (for they took
special care I should never be alone.) As soon as her back was turned,
the little misses ran backwards and forwards every moment; and constantly
as they came in or went out, made a curtsy directly at me, which in good
manners I was forced to return with a bow, and "Your humble servant
pretty Miss." Exactly at eight the mother came up, and discovered by the
redness of her face, that supper was not far off. It was twice as large
as the dinner, and my persecution doubled in proportion. I desired at
my usual hour to go to my repose, and was conducted to my chamber by the
gentleman, his lady, and the whole train of children. They importuned me
to drink something before I went to bed, and upon my refusing, at last
left a bottle of stingo, as they called it, for fear I should wake and be
thirsty in the night. I was forced in the morning to rise and dress
myself in the dark, because they would not suffer my kinsman's servant to
disturb me at the hour I had desired to be called. I was now resolved to
break through all measures to get away, and after sitting down to a
monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neats'-tongues, venison-pasty,
and stale beer, took leave of the family; but the gentleman would needs
see me part of my way, and carry me a short cut through his own grounds,
which he told me would save half a mile's riding. This last piece of
civility had like to have cost me dear, being once or twice in danger of
my neck, by leaping over his ditches, and at last forced to alight in the
dirt, when my horse, having slipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up
more than an hour to recover him again.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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