The Splendid Spur: Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Majesty King Charles I, in the Years 1642-3Quiller-Couch, Arthur
History
The Splendid Spur: Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Majesty King Charles I, in the Years 1642-3
Quiller-Couch, Arthur
Great Britain -- History -- Charles I, 1625-1649 -- Fiction
“Unless you pack and go, I’ll step out amongst you all!”
Whereat they fled with mock squeals, calling out that the very thought
made them blush: and left me to dress.
Downstairs I found a giant’s breakfast spread for me, and ate the hole,
and felt the better for it: and thereupon paid my scot, resisting the
landlady’s endeavor to charge me double for the bed, and walked out to
see the town.
“Take care o’ thysel’,” the chambermaid bawled after me; “nor flourish
thy attainments abroad, lest they put thee in a show!”
Dark was coming on fast: and to my chagrin (for I had intended
purchasing a horse) the buying and selling of the fair were over, the
cattle-pens broken up, and the dealers gather’d round the fiddlers,
ballad singers, and gingerbread stalls. There were gaming booths, too,
driving a brisk trade at Shovel-board, All-fours, and Costly Colors; and
an eating tent, whence issued a thick reek of cooking and loud rattle of
plates. Over the entrance, I remember, was set a notice: “_Dame Alloway
from Bartholomew Fair. Here are the best geese, and she does them as
well as ever she did_.” I jostled my way along, keeping tight hold on my
pockets, for fear of cut-purses; when presently, about halfway down the
street, there arose the noise of shouting. The crowd made a rush toward
it; and in a minute I was left alone, standing before a juggler who had
a sword halfway down his throat, and had to draw it out again before
he could with any sufficiency curse the defection of his audience; but
offered to pull out a tooth for me if I wanted it.
I left him, and running after the crowd soon learn’d the cause of this
tumult.
’Twas a meagre old rascal that someone had charged with picking pockets:
and they were dragging him off to be duck’d. Now in the heart of Wantage
the little stream that runs through the town is widen’d into a cistern
about ten feet square, and five in depth, over which hung a ducking
stool for scolding wives. And since the townspeople draw their water
from this cistern, ’tis to be supposed they do not fear the infection. A
long beam on a pivot hangs out over the pool, and to the end is a chair
fasten’d; into which, despite his kicks and screams, they now strapped
this poor wretch, whose grey locks might well have won mercy for him.
Souse! he was plunged: hauled up choking and dripping: then—just as he
found tongue to shriek—souse! again.
’Twas a dismal punishment; and this time they kept him under for a full
half minute. But as the beam was lifted again, I heard a hullaballoo and
a cry—
“The bear! the bear!”
And turning, I saw a great brown form lumbering down the street behind,
and driving the people before it like chaff.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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