A Maggot

by John Fowles

Prologue

A MAGGOT IS the larval stage of a winged creature; as is the written text, at least in the
writer's hope. But an older though now obsolete sense of the word is that of whim or
quirk. By extension it was sometimes used in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth
century of dance-tunes and airs that otherwise had no special title ... Mr Beveridge's
Maggot, My Lord Byron's Maggot, The Carpenters' Maggot, and so on. This fictional
maggot was written very much for the same reason as those old musical ones of the
period in which it is set: out of obsession with a theme. For some years before its writing
a small group of travellers, faceless, without apparent motive, went in my mind towards
an event. Evidently in some past; since they rode horses, and in a deserted landscape; but
beyond this very primitive image, nothing. I do not know where it came from, or why it
kept obstinately rising from my unconscious. The riders never progressed to any desti-
nation. They simply rode along a skyline, like a sequence of looped film in a movie
projector; or like a single line of verse, the last remnant of a lost myth.
However, one day one of the riders gained a face. By chance I acquired a pencil
and water-colour drawing of a young woman. There was no indication of artist, simply a
little note in ink in one corner, which seemingly says, in Italian, 16July 1683. This pre-
cise dating pleased me at first as much as the drawing itself, which is not of any
distinction; yet something in the long dead girl's face, in her eyes, an inexplicable
presentness, a refusal to die, came slowly to haunt me. Perhaps it was that refusal to die
that linked this real woman with another I have much longer admired, from rather later in
history.
This fiction is in no way biographically about that second woman, though it does
end with her birth in about the real year and quite certainly the real place where she was
born. I have given that child her historical name; but I would not have this seen as a
historical novel. It is maggot.

John Fowles 1985

IN THE LATE and last afternoon of an April long ago, a forlorn little group of travellers
cross a remote upland in the far south-west of England. All are on horseback, proceeding
at a walk along the moorland track. There lies about them, in the bleak landscape, too
high to have yet felt the obvious effects of spring, in the uniform grey of the overcast sky,
an aura of dismal monotony, an accepted tedium of both journey and season. The peaty
track they follow traverses a waste of dead heather and ling; below, in a steep-sided
valley, stand unbroken dark woodlands, still more in bud than in leaf. All the furthest
distances fade into a mist, and the travellers' clothes are by chance similarly without
accent. The day is quite windless, held in a dull suspension. Only in the extreme west
does a thin wash of yellow light offer some hope of better weather to come.
A man in his late twenties, in a dark bistre greatcoat, boots and a tricorn hat, its
upturned edges trimmed discreetly in silver braid, leads the silent caravan. The underparts
of his bay, and of his clothes, like those of his companions, are mud-splashed, as if earlier
in the day they have travelled in mirier places. He rides with a slack rein and a slight
stoop, staring at the track ahead as if he does not see it. Some paces behind comes an
older man on a smaller, plumper horse. His greatcoat is in dark grey, his hat black and
plainer, and he too looks neither to left nor right, but reads a small volume held in his free
hand, letting his placid pad tread its own way. Behind him, on a stouter beast, sit two
people: a bareheaded man in a long-sleeved blouse, heavy drugget jerkin and leather
breeches, his long hair tied in a knot, with in front of him, sitting sideways and resting
against his breast - he supports her back with his right arm - a young woman. She is
enveloped in a brown hooded cloak, and muffled so that only her eyes and nose are
visible. Behind these two a leading-line runs back to a pack horse. The animal carries a
seam, or wooden frame, with a large leather portmanteau tied to one side, and a smaller
wooden box, brassbound at its corners, on the other. Various other bundles and bags lie
bulkily distributed under a rope net. The overburdened beast plods with hanged head, and
sets the pace for the rest.
They may travel in silence, but they do not go unobserved. The air across the
valley opposite, above where its steepness breaks into rocks and small cliffs, is noisy with
deep and ominous voices, complaining of this intrusion into their domain. These threaten-
ing voices come from a disturbed ravenry. The bird was then still far from its present rare
and solitary state, but common and colonial, surviving even in many towns, and
abundantly in isolated countryside. Though the mounted and circling black specks stay at
a mile's distance, there is something foreboding in their alarm, their watchful hostility.
All who ride that day, for all their difference in many other things, know their reputation;
and secretly fear that snoring cry.
One might have supposed the two leading riders and the humble apparent
journeyman and wife chance-met, merely keeping together for safety in this lonely place.
That such a consideration - and not because of ravens - was then requisite is plain in the
leading rider. The tip of a sword-sheath protrudes beneath his greatcoat, while on the
other side a bulge in the way the coat falls suggests, quite correctly, that a pistol is hung
behind the saddle. The journeyman also has a brass-ended holstered pistol, even readier
to hand behind his saddle, while strung on top of the netted impedimenta on the dejected
pack-horse's back is a long-barrelled musket. Only the older, second rider seems not
armed. It is he who is the exception for his time. Yet if they had been chance-met, the
two gentlemen would surely have been exchanging some sort of conversation and riding
abreast, which the track permitted. These two pass not a word; nor does the man with the
woman behind him. All ride as if lost in their own separate worlds.
The track at last begins to slope diagonally down the upland towards the first of
the woods in the valley below. A mile or so on, these woods give way to fields; and as far
away again, where the valley runs into another, can just be made out, in a thin veil of
wood smoke, an obscure cluster of buildings and an imposing church tower. In the west
the sky begins to show amber glints from invisible breaks of cloud. That again, in other
travellers, might have provoked some remark, some lighter heart; but in these, no
reaction.
Then, dramatically, another figure on horseback appears from where the way
enters the trees, mounting towards the travellers. He does provide colour, since he wears
a faded scarlet riding-coat and what seems like a dragoon's hat; a squareset man of
indeterminate age with a large moustache. The long cutlass behind his saddle and the
massive wooden butt of a stout-cased blunderbuss suggest a familiar hazard; and so does
the way in which, as soon as he sees the approaching file ahead, he kicks his horse and
trots more briskly up the hill as if to halt and challenge them. But they show neither alarm
nor excitement. Only the elder man who reads as he rides quietly closes his volume and
slips it into his greatcoat pocket. The newcomer reins in some ten yards short of the
leading younger gentleman, then touches his hat and turns his horse to walk beside him.
He says something, and the gentleman nods, without looking at him. The newcomer
touches his hat again, then pulls aside and waits until the last pair come abreast of him.
They stop, and the newcomer leans across and unfastens the leading-line of the pack-
horse from its ring behind the saddle. No friendly word seems spoken, even here. The
newcomer then takes his place, now leading the pack-horse, at the rear of the procession;
and very soon it is as if he has always been there, one more mute limb of the indifferent
rest.
They enter the leafless trees. The track falls steeper and harsher, since it serves as
a temporary stream bed during the winter rains. More and more often comes the ring of
iron shoes striking stone. They arrive at what is almost a ravine, sloping faces of half-
buried rock, an awkward scramble even on foot. The leading rider seems not to notice it,
though his horse hesitates nervously, picking its way. One of its hind feet slips, for a
moment it seems it must fall, and trap its rider. But somehow it, and the lurching man,
keep balance. They go a little slower, negotiate one more slip and scramble with a clatter
of frantic hooves, then come to more level ground. The horse gives a little snorting
whinny. The man rides on, without even a glance back to see how the others fare.
The older gentleman has stopped. He glances round at the pair behind him. The man
there makes a little anti-clockwise circle with a finger and points to the ground: dismount
and lead. The man in the scarlet coat at the rear, wise from his own recent upward
passage, has already got down, and is tying the pack horse to an exposed root by the
trackside. The older gentleman dismounts. Then his counsellor behind jumps off, with a
singular dexterity, kicking free of his right stirrup and swinging his leg, over the horse's
back and slipping to the ground all in one lithe movement. He holds his arms out for the
woman, who leans and half sinks towards him, to be caught, then swung free and set
down.
The elderly man goes gingerly down the ravine, leading his pad, then the
bareheaded man in the jerkin, and his horse. The woman walks behind, her skirts held
slightly off the ground so that she can see her feet and where they are placed; then the last
man, he in the faded scarlet coat. Once down, he extends the rein of his riding-horse to
the man in the jerkin to hold, then turns and climbs heavily back for the pack-horse. The
older gentleman laboriously mounts again, and rides on. The woman raises her hands and
pushes back the hood of her cloak, then loosens the white linen band she has swathed
round the lower part of her face. She is young, hardly more than a girl, pale-faced, with
dark hair bound severely back beneath a flat-crowned chip, or willow-shaving, hat. Its
side-brims are tied down against her cheeks, almost into a bonnet, by the blue kissing-
ribbons beneath her chin. Such a chip or wheat-straw hat is worn by every humbler
English country-woman. A little fringe of white also appears beneath the bottom of her
cloak: an apron. She is evidently a servant, a maid.
Unfastening the top of her cloak, and likewise undoing the kissing-ribbons, she goes
beside the track a little ahead and stoops where some sweet-violets are still in flower on a
bank. Her companion stares at her crouched back, the small movements of her hands, the
left one picking, ruffling the heart-shaped green leaves to reveal the hidden flowers, the
right one holding the small sprig of deep mauve heads she has found. He stares as if he
does not comprehend why she should do this.
He has a strangely inscrutable face, which does not reveal whether its
expressionlessness is that of an illiterate stupidity, an ignorant acceptance of destiny not
far removed from that of the two horses he is holding; or whether it hides something
deeper, some resentment of grace, some twisted sectarian suspicion of personable young
women who waste time picking flowers. Yet it is also a strikingly regular, well-
proportioned face, which, together with his evident agility, an innate athleticism and
strength, adds an incongruous touch of the classical, of an Apollo, to one of plainly low-
born origins - and certainly not Greek ones, for his strangest features are his eyes, that are
of a vacant blue, almost as if he were blind, though it is clear he is not. They add greatly
to the impression of inscrutability, for they betray no sign . of emotion, seem always to
stare, to suggest their owner is somewhere else. So might twin camera lenses see, not
normal human eyes.
Now the girl straightens and comes back towards him, smelling her minuscule
posy; then gravely holds the purple flowers, with their little flecks of orange and silver,
out and up for him to smell as well. Their eyes meet for a moment. Hers are of a more
usual colour, a tawny brown, faintly challenging and mischievous, though she does not
smile. She pushes the posy an inch or two nearer still. He briefly sniffs; nods, then as if
they waste time, turns and mounts with the same agile grace and sense of balance that he
showed before, still holding the other horse's rein. The girl watches him a moment more
while he sits above, tightening the loosened linen muffler, pulling it to cover her mouth
once more. She tucks her violets carefully inside the rim of white cloth, just below her
nostrils.
The man in the military coat comes with the pack-horse - he has stopped above to
piss beside it - and takes his own horse from the man in the jerkin, and reties the leading-
line. The girl stands waiting beside the pillion horse's withers; and now, in a seemingly
familiar ritual, the military man comes round, faces her, then bends and enlaces his
fingers to make a mounting stirrup. She sets her left foot in his hands, springs and is
lightly lifted up to her blanketed seat before the impassive man in the jerkin. She looks
down, the bunch of violets like an absurd moustache beneath her nose. The man in the
scarlet coat drily tips his forefinger to his hat and winks. She looks away. Her companion,
who has observed this, abruptly kicks the pillion horse's sides. It breaks into an
immediate clumsy trot. He reins the beast sharply back, and she has to catch against him.
Fists on hips, the man in the military coat watches them go for a moment or two, soon to
settle to a walk, then mounts and follows.
A faint sound comes to his ears, as they wind down through the woodland. The
young woman is singing, or rather humming a tune to herself. It is that of the melancholy
old folk-air, Daphne, already ancient in this time; yet it seems, this intrusion of a human
voice in the previous silence, less melancholy than vaguely impudent. The man at the rear
rides closer, to hear the voice better. The sound of hooves, an occasional creak of leather,
a tiny jingle of harness metal; tumbling water below, and the sound of a misselthrush also
singing, from far across the valley, barely audible, as fragmented as the muffled girl's
voice. Through the bare branches ahead, there is a gleam of luminous gold, where the
sinking western sun has found a first direct interstice in the clouds.
Now the sound of rushing water dominates. They ride for a little way close above
a fast and furious moorland stream and greener vegetation: more violets, wood-sorrel,
first ferns, nests of primroses, emerald young rushes and grass. They come to a small
clearing where the track descends to stream-level,, then bends into the water, smoother
here, at a ford. On the other side, facing them, wait the two gentlemen on their horses;
and it is evident now, as masters wait for laggard servants. The elder, behind, takes snuff.
The girl stops her singing. The three horses splash across, beside a line of stepping-
stones, blundering their way among the small rocks beneath the swift-running water. The
younger gentleman stares at the girl, at her floral moustache, as if she is in some way to
blame for this delay. She does not look at him, but nestles close against her companion,
whose arms surround her to keep her balanced. Only when all three horses and their
burdens are safely across does the younger gentleman turn his horse and proceed, in the
same order as before, and the same silence.

Some few minutes later this sombre cavalcade of five came out of the trees and once
more upon an open prospect, for here the valley bottom broadened considerably. The
track ran slightly downhill across a long open meadow. In those days a single animal
dominated the agricultural economy of the West of England: the sheep - and the needs of
its pasturing. The huge hundred-acre sheep-run was a much more frequent feature of
cultivated landscapes than today's densely hedged and enclosed patchwork of small
fields. In the distance could be seen the small town whose church tower they had made
out from the moorland above. Three or four flocks studded the long meadow before
them; and as many shepherds, monolithic figures in cloaks of brown frieze, like primitive
bishops with their crooks. One had two children beside him. Their sheep, Exmoor Horns,
were smaller and scraggier than modern sheep, and tight-coated. To the travellers' left,
where the hillside came down to the valley bottom, was a massive stone pen, and yet
another further along.
The younger gentleman reined in slightly and let the older come beside him; and
from then on they rode abreast, though still without talking. The two shepherd children
ran across the closecropped turf to the side of the open track, ahead of the party, and
waited once they were there, with strangely intent eyes, watching beings from fable, not
reality, approach; and as if they imagined themselves not seen in return. They made no
greeting, this small upstaring boy and his sister, both barefoot; and received none. The
younger gentleman ignored them completely, the elder gave them no more than a casual
glance. The manservant on the doubly laden horse similarly ignored them, while the man
in the scarlet coat seemed to find himself, even before such a minute audience as this, put
upon dignity. He rode a little more erect, staring ahead, like a would-be cavalry trooper.
Only the young woman smiled, with her eyes, down at the small girl.
For three hundred yards the two children alternately walked and trotted beside the
travellers; but then the boy ran ahead, for a first banked hedge and a gate now barred the
road. He heaved it off its latch, then pushed it wide back and open; and stood there,
staring at the ground, with a hand outstretched. The older gentleman felt in his greatcoat
pocket, and tossed a farthing down. The boy and his sister both scrambled for it as it
rolled on the ground, but the boy had it first. Now once more they both stood, with
outstretched small arms, the palms upwards, heads bowed, as the rear of the cavalcade
passed. The young woman raised her left hand and took a pinch of her spray of violets,
then threw them at the small girl. They fell across the child's arm, over her bent crown of
no doubt lice-ridden hair, then to the ground: where the child stared at them, the arm
dropped, nonplussed by this useless, incomprehensible gift.
A quarter of an hour later the five came to the outskirts of the small town of C-. It
was town more by virtue of being a few hundred inhabitants larger than any surrounding
village in this thinly populated area than in any modern sense of the term; town also by
virtue of an ancient charter, granted in palmier or more hopeful days four hundred years
before; and which still absurdly permitted its somnolent mayor and tiny corporation to
elect two members to parliament. It boasted also a few tradesmen and craftsmen, a
weekly market, an inn beside its two or three ale- and ciderhouses, and even an ancient
grammar-school, if one can call school one aged master, also parish clerk, and seven
boys; but in all else it was a village.
Nothing, indeed, could have misled more than the majestic high-pinnacled and
battlemented tower of its medieval church; it now dominated and surveyed a much less
prosperous and confident place than the one that had built it nearly three centuries earlier,
and stood far more relic than representative. No gentry lived permanently there, though a
manor house existed. The place was too remote, and like all remote Britain then, without
turnpike or decent carriage-road. Above all it was without attraction to an age whose
notion of natural beauty - in those few capable of forming such notions - was strictly
confined to the French or Italianate formal garden at home and the denuded but ordered
(through art) classical landscapes of southern Europe abroad.
To the educated English traveller then there was nothing romantic or picturesque
at all in domestic wild landscapes, and less than nothing in the cramped vernacular
buildings of such townlets as C-. All this was so much desert, beneath the consideration
of anyone who pretended to taste. The period had no sympathy with unregulated or
primordial nature. It was aggressive wilderness, an ugly and all-invasive reminder of the
Fall, of man's eternal exile from the Garden of Eden; and particularly aggressive, to a
nation of profit-haunted puritans, on the threshold of an age of commerce, in its flagrant
uselessness. The time had equally no sense (except among a few bookworms and
scholars) of the antique outside the context of Greece and Rome; even its natural
sciences, such as botany, though by now long founded, remained essentially hostile to
wild nature, seeing it only as something to be tamed, classified, utilized, exploited. The
narrow streets and alleys, the Tudor houses and crammed cottage closes of such towns
conveyed nothing but an antediluvian barbarism, such as we can experience today only in
some primitive foreign land ... in an African village, perhaps, or an Arab souk.
A twentieth-century mind, could it have journeyed back and taken on the
sensibilities and eyes of those two better-class travellers riding that day into the town,
must have felt itself landed, or becalmed, in some strange doldrum of time, place and
spirit; in one of those periods when Clio seems to stop and scratch her tousled head, and
wonder where the devil to go next from here. This particular last day of April falls in a
year very nearly equidistant from 1689, the culmination of the English Revolution, and
1789, the start of the French; in a sort of dozing solstitial standstill, a stasis of the kind
predicted by those today who see all evolution as a punctuated equilibrium, between
those two zenith dates and all they stand for; at a time of reaction from the intemperate
extremisms of the previous century, yet already hatching the seeds (perhaps even in that
farthing and careless strew of fallen violets) of the world-changing upheaval to come.
Certainly England as a whole was indulging in its favourite and sempiternal national
hobby: retreating deep within itself, and united only in a constipated hatred of change of
any kind.
Yet like so many seemingly inert troughs in history, it was not altogether a bad
time for the six million or so there then were of the English, however humble. The two
begging children by the road might wear ragged and patched clothes; but at least they
were visibly neither starved nor starving. There were higher real wages than for centuries
past - and for very nearly two centuries to come. Indeed it was only just becoming
anything but a distinctly prosperous time for this county of Devon. Its ports, its ships, its
towns and villages lived, and largely thrived, as they had for the last half-millennium, on
one great staple: wool. In the abrupt course of the next seventy years this trade was to be
first slowly throttled, then finally annihilated by a national change of taste, towards
lighter fabrics, and the more enterprising North of England; but still at this time half
Europe, even colonial America and imperial Russia, bought and made clothes from the
Devonshire dozen, its famous length of serge and perpetuana.
There was evidence of the cloth trade in nearly every thatched doorway and open
cottage shutter of C ; women spinning, men spinning, children spinning, their hands so
accustomed that eyes and tongues were entirely free; or if not doing that, then engaged in
cleaning, carding and combing the raw fleece-wool. Here and there in a dark interior
might be glimpsed or heard looms, but the spinning predominated. The mechanical jenny
was still several decades in the future and the bottleneck in the ancient hand process
always lay with the production of the yarn, for which the great weaving, finishing and
market centres like Tiverton and Exeter and their rich clothiers had an insatiable greed. In
all this, too, the endless treadling, blurred wheels, distaffs, the very scent of raw wool,
our travellers found nothing picturesque or of interest. Throughout the country, industry
still lay inside the cottage, in outwork, in the domestic system.
This contempt, or blindness, was returned, in an inverse way. The riders were
forced to go at an even slower pace by a lumbering ox-cart, which left no room to pass;
and the doorway spinners, the townspeople about in the street, or attracted to their
windows and thresholds by the horses' hooves, betrayed a similar sense of alienation by
staring, as the shepherd's children had, at these strangers as if they were indeed
foreigners, and not to be trusted. There was also the beginning of a political and a class
feeling about this. It has been proved fifty years earlier, in the neighbouring counties of
Somerset and Dorset, when nearly half of those who had flocked to join the Monmouth
Rebellion had come from the cloth trade; most of the rest had come from the agricultural
community, and virtually none at all from the local gentry. It would be wrong to speak
yet of a trade-union mindedness, or even of the mob spirit by then recognized and feared
in larger cities; but of an inherent resentment of those who lived in a world not ruled by
cloth, here was evidence.
The two gentlemen studiously avoided the watching eyes; and a sternness and
gravity in their demeanour forbade greeting or enquiry, if now chowring comment. The
young woman passenger did from time to time glance shily sideways; but something
bizarre in her muffled appearance puzzled the spectators. Only the man in the faded
scarlet coat at the rear seemed like a normal traveller. He gave stare for stare; and even
tipped his hat to two girls in a doorway.

Then a young man in a smock darted forward from the niche of a cob buttress
supporting a leaning cottage wall and brandished an osier ring of dead birds up at the
military-looking man. He had the sly grin of a yokel, half joker, half village idiot.
'Buy 'un, maister? Penny a'oop, penny a'oop!'
He was waved aside, but walked backwards, still thrusting the little ring of dead
birds, each pierced through the neck, crimson and brown breasts and coal-black heads, up
towards the rider. Hoops, or bullfinches, then had a price on their head, paid against their
bodies by parish vestries.
`Where be's 'ee to then, maister?'
The man in the scarlet coat rode on a pace or two in silence, and threw an answer
back over his shoulder.
`The fleas in thy poxy inn.'
`What business?'
Again the rider waited to answer, and this time did not turn his head.
`None o' thine.'
The ox-cart now turned into a smith's yard, and the cavalcade could go more
quickly. In a hundred yards or so they came to a more open square, paved with small dark
setts sunk on edge. Though the sun had set, the sky had now cleared extensively in the
west. Rose streaks of vapour floated in a honeycoloured light, suffusing the canopy still
above with pink and amethyst tints. Somewhat finer and taller buildings surrounded this
square and its central building, an open-sided shed, or market, made of massive oak
timbers and with a steep-pitched and stone-tiled roof. There was a clothier's shop, a
saddler's, a grocer's, an apothecary and barber-surgeon's, the latter being the nearest the
place had to a doctor; a cordwainer's. At the far end of the square beyond the market
house stood a knot of people, around a long wooden pole lying on its side, the central
totem for the next day's celebrations, in process of being dressed with streamers.
Closer, beside the roof-supporting outer columns of the market house, groups of
children noisily played lamp-loo and tutball, those primitive forms of tag and baseball.
Modern lovers of the second game would have been shocked to see that here it was
preponderantly played by the girls (and perhaps also to know that its traditional prize, for
the most skilled, was not the milliondollar contract, but a mere tansy pudding). An older
group of lads, some men among them, stood all with short knob-ended sticks of heavy
holly and hawthorn in their hands, and took turns to throw at a bizarre and ragged shape
of stuffed red cloth, vaguely birdlike, set at the foot of the market-house wall. To the
travellers this last was a familiar sight, no more than practice for the noble, ancient and
universal English sport to be played on the morrow: that of cocksquailing, or slaughtering
cocks by throwing the weighted squailers, or sticks, at them. Its traditional main season
was Shrovetide; but in Devon it was so popular, as cockfighting was among the gentry,
that it was celebrated at other festivals. A very few hours would see a series of terrified
living birds tied in place of the stuffed red puppet, and blood on the setts. Eighteenth-
century man was truly Christian in his cruelty to animals. Was it not a blasphemous cock
that crowed thrice, rejoicing each time the apostle Peter denied? What could be more
virtuous than bludgeoning its descendants to death?
The two gentlemen reined in, as if somewhat taken aback by this unexpected open
stage and animated crowd. The cockthrowers had already turned away from their
rehearsal; the children as quickly dropped their games. The younger gentleman looked
back to the man in the scarlet coat, who pointed across to the northern side of the square,
at a ramshackle stone building with a crudely painted black stag on a wall-board above its
porch and an archway to a stableyard beside it.
The clattering and clopping procession now headed up across the slightly sloping
square. The maypole was also forsaken for this more interesting entertainment, which had
already gathered a small train on its way to the square. Some seventy or eighty faces were
waiting, when they approached the inn; but just before they came to dismount, the
younger gentleman politely gestured the elder forward, as if he must take precedence. A
florid-faced man with a paunch came out under the porch, a serving-girl and a
potboy behind him; then a man with a bustling limp from the yard, the ostler. He took the
older gentleman's horse as he slid stiffly to the ground; the potboy, the younger
gentleman's behind him. The landlord bowed.
`Welcome, sirs. Puddicombe, at your service. Us trust you be came an easy
journey.'
The elder gentleman answered. `All is ready?'
`As your man bespoke, sir. To the letter.'
`Then show to our chambers. We are much fatigued.'
The landlord backed, and offered entrance. But the younger gentleman waited a
moment or two, watching the other three horses and their riders into the yard, to which
they had headed direct. His senior eyed him, then the ring of onlookers, and spoke with a
firm, even faintly testy, authority.
`Come, nephew. Enough of being the cynosure of nowhere.'
With that he passed into the inn, leaving his nephew to follow.

Io the best upstairs chamber, the uncle and nephew have just finished their supper.
Candles have been lit on a wall-sconce by the door, three more in a pewter branch on the
table. An ash-log fire burns in a wide open hearth not far away, and the faintly acrid
smell of its smoke pervades the trembling shadows in the large old room. A four-poster
bed, its curtains drawn, stands with its head against a side wall opposite the fire, with a
ewer and bowl on a stand beside it. There is another table and chair by the window. Two
ancient and worm-eaten wooden-armed chairs with leather-padded seats face each other
on either side of the hearth; a long seventeenth-century benchstool guards the foot of the
bed. There is no other furniture. The windows are hidden by folding shutters, now latched
across; there are no hangings, drawings or pictures, except for a framed engraving, on the
wall above the fire, of the last but one monarch, Queen Anne, and a small tarnished
mirror by the wall-sconce.
Ranged by the door lie the leather trunk, lid flung open on clothes, and the
brassbound wooden chest. The fire and its shifting lights and shadows somewhat hide the
room's bareness, and at least the old half-panelling and uncarpeted yet polished broad-
planks are warm.
The nephew fills his glass from a blue-and-white china decanter of madeira, then
rises and goes to the fire. He stares down at it for a few moments in silence. He has
unbuckled his neck-stock and put on a damask night-gown (at that period a loose
informal coat, not what it means today) over his long waistcoat and breeches. He has also
taken his wig off, revealing that he is shaven-headed to the apparent point, in the poor
light, of baldness; and indeed looks like nothing so much as a modem skinhead, did not
his clothes deny it. His riding-coat and long suit-coat, and the fashionably brief campaign
wig, hang from hooks by the door, the top-boots and sword stand below. His uncle has
remained more formally dressed, and still wears his hat and much fuller wig, whose knot-
ends lie against his coat. The two men bear little physical resemblance. The nephew is
slightly built, and his face shows, as he stares at the fire, a blend of fastidiousness and
intransigence. It is, with its aquiline nose and fine mouth, not an unhandsome face; but
something broods in it. It certainly does not suggest any lack of breeding or urbanity,
indeed he looks like a man confident, even certain, of his position in life, and of his
general philosophy, despite his comparative youth. But unmistakably it suggests will, and
an indifference to all that is not that will.
Its present meditative expression is in marked contrast to that of the corpulent
uncle, at first sight a man of more imposing mien:: jowly, doctorial, heavy-browed,
incipiently choleric. Yet for all that he seems distinctly less at ease than his companion,
whose stance in front of the fire, the downbent face, he now contemplates. His look
reveals a certain wryness, not untinged with impatience. But he ends by looking down at
his plate. His quick glance up, when suddenly the younger man speaks, although it is
seemingly to the fire, suggests that the meal, like the journey, has lacked conversation.
`I thank you for bearing with me, Lacy. And my vacua.'
`I had fair warning, sir. And fair fee.'
`Even so. For one to whom speech must be the bread of life ... I fear I have been
poor company.'
They do not speak like nephew and uncle. The older man produces a snuffbox;
and slides a sly look under his eyebrows at his interlocutor.
'Speech has brought me rotten cabbages before now. And far worse rewards than
yours.' He takes snuff. `No more than the cabbages themselves, on occasion.'
The man by the fire looks back then, with a faint smile. `I'll wager never such a
part as this.'
`I can't deny you there, sir. Most assuredly no such part as this.'
`I am grateful. You have played it well.'
The older man bows, though with a perceptibly mock exaggeration.
 `I might have played it better still had I...' but he breaks off, and opens his hands.
'Had you had more confidence in the author?'
`In his final design, Mr Bartholomew. With respect.'
The younger man stares back at the fire.
`We might all say that, might we not? In comoedia vitae.'
`True, sir.' He takes a lace handkerchief out and dabs at his nose. `But our craft
conforms us. We like to have our morrows fixed. Therein cloth lie our art. Without we
are disarmed of half our powers, sir.'
`I have not remarked it.'
The actor smiles down, and closes his snuffbox. The younger man walks slowly
to the window and idly unlatches the shutters, and folds a creaking half-panel back. He
looks out, almost as if he expects to see someone waiting below in the market-place. But
it is empty now and dark. In one or two of the surrounding houses windows shine faintly
with candlelight. There is still a very barely perceptible luminescence, a last breath of the
gone day, in the western sky; and stars, some nearly overhead, announce that the sky
continues to clear eastwards. He recloses the shutter and turns to face the man at the
table.
`We may ride the same road for an hour tomorrow. Then we must part.'
The older man looks down with a slight rise of his eyebrows and a tilted nod of
reluctant acquiescence, like a chess-player forced to acknowledge he has met his master.
`I trust I may at least hope to meet you in more auspicious circumstances.'
`If fortune wishes it.'
The actor gives him a prolonged look.
`Come, sir. At this happy juncture -did you yourself not mock at superstition but a
day or two ago? You speak as if fortune is your foe.'
`Hazard is no superstition, Lacy.'
`One throw of the dice, perhaps. But you may throw again.'
`May one cross the Rubicon twice?'
`But the young lady -'
`This time ... or never more.'
Lacy is silent a moment.
`My dear sir, with all respect, you take too tragical a view of matters. You are no
Romeo in a history, bound upon destiny's wheel. Such notions are but a poet's
contrivance, to achieve his effect.' He pauses, but gets no answer. `Very well, you may
fail this time in your venture, as you tell me you failed before. But may you not try again
- as true lovers must? The old adage warns us so.'
The young man goes back to his chair and sits, and once more stares at the fire a
long moment.
`Say it were a history that has neither Romeo nor Juliet. But another end, as dark
as the darkest night.' He looks up. There is a sudden force, a directness in his look. `What
then, Lacy?'
`The comparison is better made between ourselves. When you speak thus, it is I
who am thrown into darkest night.'
Again the younger man is slow to reply.
`Allow me to put a strange fancy to you. You spake just now of fixed morrows.
Suppose one came to you, to you alone, and said that he had pierced the secrets of the
world to come - I mean not those of Heaven, but of this world we live in. Who could
persuade you he was no fairbooth charlatan, but had truly discovered what he pretended
by some secret study, mathematick science, astrology, what you will. Then told you of
the world to come, what shall happen tomorrow, shall happen this day month, next year,
a hundred, a thousand years from now. All, as in a history. Now - would you run crying it
in the streets or keep silent?'
`I should first doubt my own mind.'
`But if that doubt were removed by some irrefutable proof?
'Then I should warn my fellow-men. So that they might consider to avoid what
might harm them.'
'Very well. But now further suppose that this prophet reveals that the predestinate
future of this world is full of fire and plague, of civil commotion, of endless calamity.
What then? Is the case the same?'
`I cannot conceive your case, sir. How it should be proven.'
`Bear with me. It is but conjecture. Let us grant he shall find proof to convince
you.'
`You are too deep for me, Mr Bartholomew. If it be in the stars that my house
shall be struck by a thunderbolt tomorrow, I grant you I may not avert that. Yet if it be
also in the stars that I may be told as much, I can surely remove from my house in the
expectation.'
`But suppose the bolt will strike you, wheresoe'er you flee or shelter? You are
none the better off. You should as well have stayed at home. Besides, he might not know
how you in person should die, or when such and such an evil fall on any one of mankind,
no more than that one day it must fall on most. I would ask this, Lacy. Would you not, if
such a man, before coming to you, advised you of his purpose in coming, so that you had
time to reflect and conquer natural curiosity – would you not most wisely refuse to hear a
single word from him??
'Perhaps. I can allow that.'
`And would not he, if he were Christian and kind - and mark you, even if his
prophetick science foretold the very opposite, that this corrupt and cruel world should one
day live in eternal peace and plenty - would not he still most wisely keep his secret to
himself? If all were one day assured of paradise, who would any longer trouble to stir
himself to virtue or merit?'
`I take your general argument, sir. But not why you should speak so in present
circumstance.'
`This, Lacy. Suppose you were he that can read this most awful decree upon what
shall come. Is it not best that you should accept to be its only victim? Might not a most
condign divine anger at such blasphemous breaking of the seals of time be assuaged at
the price of your silence - nay, your own life?'
`I cannot answer that. You touch upon matters ... it is not for us to trespass upon
the privilege of our Creator alone.'
The younger man, his eyes still lost in the fire, bows his head a little in
acquiescence.
'I but put a case. I mean no blasphemy.'
Then he falls silent, as if he regrets having opened the subject at all. It is clear that
this does not satisfy the actor, for now he rises, and in his turn slowly goes to the
window, his hands behind his back. He stands there a moment before the shutters, then
suddenly clasps his hands more firmly, and turns and addresses the back of the bald head
that sits silhouetted between him and the fire.
`I must speak frankly, Mr Bartholomew, since we part tomorrow. One learns in
my profession to read men by their physiognomies. By their looks, their gait, their cast of
countenance. I have ventured to form an opinion of you. It is highly favourable, sir.
Behind the subterfuges we are presently reduced to, I believe you an honest and
honourable gentleman. I trust you know me well enough by now to permit me to say that
I should never have entered upon this enterprise were I not persuaded that you had justice
upon your side.'
The younger man does not turn, and there is a tinge of dryness in his voice.
`But?'
`I can forgive you, sir, for hiding some circumstances in this our present business.
I apprehend there is necessity and good sense in that. To use such necessity to deceive me
as to the very business itself, that I could not forgive. I won't conceal it, sir. You may
speak of fancies, but what am I to make -'
Suddenly the younger man stands, it seems almost in a rage, so abrupt is the
movement. Yet he merely turns towards the actor with another of his direct looks.
`I give you my word, Lacy. You know I am a disobedient son, you know I have
not told you all. If such be sins, I confess to 'em. You have my word that what I do breaks
no law of this land.' He comes forward and reaches out a hand. `I would have you believe
that.'
The actor hesitates, then takes the hand. The younger man fixes him with his eyes.
`Upon my honour, Lacy. You have not misjudged me there. And I pray you to
remember this, whatever lies ahead.' He drops the hand and turns away to the fire again,
but looks back at the actor standing by the chair. `I have deceived you in much. I beg you
to believe that it is to spare you much, also. No one shall ever find in you any but an
innocent instrument. Should it come to that.'
The older man's eyes are stern.
`None the less, something other than what you have led me to believe is afoot?'
The younger man looks back down to the fire.
`I seek a meeting with someone. That much is true.'
`But not of the kind you have given me to suppose?' Mr
Bartholomew is silent. `An affair of honour?'
Mr Bartholomew smiles faintly. `I should not be here without a friend, if that
were the case. Nor ride so many miles to do what may be done far closer London.'
The actor opens his mouth to speak, in vain. There is the sound of a footstep
outside the door, then a knock. The younger man calls. The landlord Puddicombe
appears, and addresses the supposed uncle.
'Mr Brown, there be a gentleman below. His compliments, sir. With your pardon.'
The actor throws a sharp look at the man by the fire, but he shows no sign of
expectation fulfilled. Yet it is he who speaks impatiently to the landlord.
‘Who?’
`Mr Beckford, sir.'
`And who may Mr Beckford be?'
`Our parson, sir.'
 The man by the fire looks down, it seems almost with relief, then up again at the
actor.
'Forgive me, uncle. I am tired. Let me not prevent you.'
The actor smoothly, if belatedly, takes his cue. `Tell the reverend gentleman I
shall be pleased to wait on him downstairs. My nephew craves his indulgence.'
`Very good, sir. At once. Your honours.'
He withdraws. The younger man makes a small grimace.
`Gird yourself, my friend. One last throwing of dust.'
`I cannot leave our conversation here, sir.'
'Be rid of him as soon as you civilly can.'
The actor feels for his neck-stock, touches his hat and straightens his coat.
`Very well.'
With a slight bow, he goes to the door. His hand is already on it when the younger
man speaks one last time.
`And kindly ask our worthy landlord to send up more of his wretched tallow. I
would read.'
The actor silently bows again, and leaves the room. For a few moments the man
by the fire stares at the floor. Then he goes and carries the small table near the window to
beside the chair he was sitting in; he fetches the candle-branch from the supper table and
sets it there in preparation. Next, feeling in the pocket of his knee-length waistcoat for a
key, he goes and crouches and unlocks the brassbound chest by the door. It seems to
contain nothing but books and loose manuscript papers. He rummages a little and finds a
particular sheaf, takes it to his chair and begins to read.
In a few moments there is a knock on the door. An inn maid comes in, carrying
another lit branch on a tray. She is gestured to put it on the table beside him; which she
does, then turns to clear the supper things. Mr Bartholomew does not look at her; as if he
lived not two hundred and fifty years ago, but five centuries ahead, when all that is
menial and irksome will be done by automata. Leaving with the dishes on the tray, she
turns at the door, and curtseys awkwardly towards the oblivious figure in the armchair,
absorbed in his reading. He does not look up; and awed, perhaps because reading belongs
to the Devil, or perhaps secretly piqued by such indifference, since even in those days inn
maids were not hired for their plain looks, she silently goes.

In a much humbler room above, a garret beneath the roof, the young woman lies
seemingly asleep beneath her brown ridingcloak, spread over her as blanket on a narrow
truckle-bed. At the end of the unceiled room, by the one small gable-window, sits a single
candle on a table, whose faint light barely reaches the far and inner end of the room
where the girl lies; half on her stomach, her legs bent up beneath the cloak, and a crooked
arm on the coarse pillow, on which she has spread the linen band that she used as a
muffler. There is something childlike in her pose and in her face, with its slightly snub
nose and closed eyelashes. Her left hand still holds the limp last of her violets. A mouse
rustles as it runs here and there below the table, investigating and sniffing.
On the back of a chair beside the bed sits perched above the discarded chip hat
something apparently precious and taken from the opened bundle on the floor: a flat
white cambric hat, its fronts and sides goffered into little flutes, with hanging from the
sides, to fall behind the wearer's ears, two foot-long white lappetbands. It seems strangely
ethereal, even faintly absurd and impertinent in that rough room. Such caps, without the
lappets, were in history to become a mark of the house-maid and waitress, but they were
then worn by all female fashionable society, mistresses and maids alike, as indeed were
aprons on occasion. Male servants, the slaves of livery, were easily known; but female
ones, as at least one contemporary male disapprovingly noted, and tried to prevent, were
allowed considerable licence at this date. Many a gentleman entering a strange drawing-
room had the mortification of bowing politely to what he supposed a lady intimate of his
hostess, only to find he was wasting fine manners on a mere female domestic.
But the owner of this delicate and ambiguous little cap is not truly asleep. At the
sound of steps on stairs outside, her eyes open. The feet stop at her door, there is a
momentary pause, then two thumps, as its bottom-board is kicked. She throws aside the
cloak and stands from the bed. She wears a dark green gown, fastened between her
breasts, but with its edges folded back, as also just below her elbows, to reveal a yellow
lining. Below she wears a full white apron, to the ground. The dress is stayed, to a narrow
waist, and gives her upper body the unnatural and breastless shape of an inverted cone.
She slips her stockinged feet into a pair of worn mules and goes and opens the door.
The manservant she has ridden with stands there, a large brass jug of warm water
in one hand, an ochre-glazed earthenware bowl in the other. He is hardly visible in the
darkness, his face in shadow. The sight of her seems to freeze him, but she stands back
and points to the end of the narrow room, to the table. He goes past her and puts down the
jug by the candle, then the bowl; but that done, he stands once more frozen, his back to
her, his head hanging.
The young woman has turned to pick up her large bundle, then lay it on the bed. It
reveals an assembly of clothes,ribbons, an embroidered cotton scarf; and wrapped in
them another bundle, that holds an array of minute earthenware gallipots, whose lids are
formed, rather like those on modern jamjars, of scraps of parchment bound with string.
There are some small and corked blue glass bottles also; a comb, a brush, a handmirror.
Suddenly she becomes aware of the man's stillness, and turns to look at him.
For a moment she does nothing. Then she goes towards him, takes his arm and
urges him round. His face remains impassive; yet there is something both haggard and
resentful in his stance, mute and tormented, a beast at bay, unbestially questioning why it
should be so. Her look is steady. She shakes her head; at which his vacant blue eyes look
away from her brown ones, past her head, at the far wall, though nothing else of his body
moves. Now she looks down and lifts one of his hands, seems to examine it; touches and
pats it with her other hand. They stand so for half a minute or more, in a strange
immobility and silence, as two people waiting for something to happen. Finally she lets
his hand fall and walking back to the door, relatches it; turns and looks back at the man,
whose eyes have followed her. Now she points to the floor beside where she stands, as
one might to a pet dog - gently, yet not without a hint of firmness. The man moves back
down the room, still searching her eyes. Once more she touches his hand, but this time
only to press it briefly. She goes back herself to the table, begins untying the apron. Then,
as if she has forgotten, she returns to the bed and delving for a moment in the opened
bundle, picks out one of the little pots, a small bottle and a square of worn linen,
evidently a makeshift towel. With these she turns back to the table and stands there silent
a moment, unfastening the cover of the pot in the candle-light.
 She begins to undress. First the apron is removed, and hung on one of a row of
primitive wooden pegs beside the window. Next the yellow-lined green gown, which
reveals a quilted calamanco petticoat (a skirt in modern terms, the lower part of the dress
opens upon it). It is of a plum colour, and strangely glazed, for satin is woven in its
worsted cloth. She unties that at the waist, and hangs it on another hook; then her
stomacher. Beneath there remains only a smicket, or small white under-bodice, that one
might have expected left on for modesty's sake. Yet that too is pulled over her close-
drawn hair and hung beside the rest. She is naked now, above her swanskin and linen
under-petticoats.
She does all this quickly and naturally, as if she is alone. The effect on the
watching man is peculiar, since from the moment she has begun undressing, his feet have
been cautiously shifting; but not towards her. He edges thus back against the inner wall of
the room; only its beams and plaster can prevent him from retreating further still.
Now she pours water and washes, having extracted a small wash-ball of
gilliflower soap from the glass pot: her face and neck, the front of her body and her arms.
Her movements make the candle-light in front of her tremble a little; occasionally some
small twist of her body or arms causes a gleaming reflection on the wet skin, or shows a
soft rim of its whiteness on the edge of the black-brown silhouette of her bare back.
Among the rafters moves a sinister parody, in elongated and spiderlike shadows, of the
simple domesticity of the ritual. It is sinister in both senses, for it is clear now she is left-
handed by nature. Not once does she turn while this is going on, or while she is patting
herself dry; and not once do the silent man's eyes move from her half-naked body.
Now she takes the blue bottle and moistens a corner of her linen towel in the liquid it
contains, which she dabs here and there about her bared body; at the sides of her neck,
beside her armpits, and somewhere in front. A perfume of Hungary water creeps down
the room.
She reaches sideways for her smicket and puts it on again. And now she does
turn, and brings the candle to the bed, beside the man. She sits. Another little china pot is
taken - the ball of soap has been carefully dried and replaced in its own container - and
set beside the candle. It contains ceruse, a white cream or unguent made of lead
carbonate, a universal cosmetic of her age, more properly seen as a lethal poison. She
takes some on a forefinger and rubs it on her cheeks, then all over her face with little
circular movements. The neck receives similar treatment; the tops of the shoulders. She
reaches next back to the bundle an takes the mirror and one of the minuscule blue bottles,
stoppered with a cork. She examines her face for a moment. The light o this improvised
dressing-table is too far away; picking up th candlestick, she turns towards the man,
indicating where she wants it held, closer.
He comes forward and takes it, and holds it slightly to one side, within a foot of
the girl's face. She spreads the linen towel on he lap, carefully unlids the last small
gallipot; it holds a carmine ointment. A minute amount of this she touches across her lips
spreading the colouring first with her tongue, next, mirror in hand, with a fingertip; every
so often she touches the fingertip against each cheekbone and rubs the colouring there as
well, using it as a rouge as well as a lip-salve. At last, satisfied with the effect, she puts
the mirror down and relids the gallipot. Having done that, she pushes the human candle-
holder's wrist gently away and reaches for another blue bottle. That has a goose quill in
its cork when it is opened. To apply its colourless liquid she tilts her head back and
allows one drop to fall into each opened eye. Perhaps it stings, for she blinks rapidly on
each occasion. That bottle is recorked; and only then does she look up at the man.
The brilliance of her eyes, already dilating under the influence of the belladonna,
the heightened colour of her mouth and cheeks - the carmine is not a natural red at all -
make it clear that this is no maid, though the effect is far more doll-like than aphrodisiac.
Only those tawny irises, in their enlarging pupils, remain of the simple young woman
who dozed on the bed fifteen minutes before. The corner of her red lips curve just enough
to hint at a smile; yet innocently, almost as if she is the staring man's sister, indulging
some harmless foible in him. After a few moments she closes her eyes, without altering
the upward angle of her face.
Another might have assumed it was an invitation to kiss, but this man's only
reaction is to move the candle a little closer; to one side, to the other. He seems to search
every inch of that faintly waxlike facial skin, every curve, every feature, as if somewhere
among them lies a minute lost object, a hidden symptom, an answer; and his face grows
mysterious in its intensity of concentration, its absence of emotion. The impression is of a
profound innonence, such as congenital idiots sometimes display; of in some way seeing
her more sustainedly, more wholly than normal intelligence could. Yet there is nothing of
the idiot about his own face. Beneath its regularity, even handsomeness - the mouth is
particularly strong and well shaped - there lurks a kind of imperturbable gravity, an
otherness.
She bears this silent scrutiny for nearly a minute. His free hand rises, hesitates,
gently touches her right temple. He traces the line of her face, down her cheek to the
jawbone and chin, as if she is indeed not flesh, but wax, painted marble, a death-mask.
The tracing continues, and she closes her eyes again: the forehead, the eyebrows, the
eyelids, the nose, the mouth itself. Her lips do not move against the fingers that brush
across them.
Suddenly the man falls to his knees, putting the candle upon the floor at her feet;
and sinks his face into her lap, almost as if he cannot stand further sight of what he has
caressed, and yet is at its mercy. She does not flinch or seem surprised at this; but stares
down for a long moment at the back of the head buried against her; then reaches her left
hand and strokes the bound hair. She whispers, so softly it seems to be to herself, not to
him.
`Oh my poor Dick. Poor Dick.'
He does not answer, seems once again frozen. She continues slowly to stroke his hair and
pat it for a minute or more, in the silence. At last she gently pushes him away, and stands,
though only to turn to her opened bundle and from it to unroll an oyster-pink gown and
petticoat, which she smoothes out flat, as if preparing to put them on. Still he kneels, with
his head bowed, it might seem in some kind of submission or supplication. The candle on
the floor lights something that suggests neither, and at which he stares down, as
hypnotized by it as he has been by her face; and that both his hands clutch, as a drowning
man a branch, though they do not move. The top of his breeches have been torn aside,
and what he clutches is no branch, but a large, naked and erect penis. The young woman
shows no shock or outrage when she realizes this obscenity, though her hands are
arrested in their smoothing. She goes quietly to the top of her truckle-bed, where the
violets still lie strewn on the rough pillow; gathers them up, and returns to where he
kneels, to toss them, it seems casually, almost mockingly under the down-turned face and
across the hands and the monstrous blood-filled glans.
His face jerks up as in an agony at the painted one above, and they stare for a
moment into each other's eyes. She steps round him and unlatches the door and stands
holding it open, for poor Dick to leave; at which, clutching his opened breeches, he strug-
gles clumsily to his feet and without looking at her, and still in obscene disarray, lurches
through the open door. She steps into the doorway, it seems to give him light down the
dark stairway to the landing below. Some draught threatens to extinguish the candle, and
she draws back, shielding the guttering flame, like a figure from a Chardin painting, and
closes the door with her back. She leans against it, and stares down at the pink brocaded
clothes on the truckle-bed. There is no one to see she has tears in her eyes, besides the
belladonna.

Dick had been, during his absence upstairs, briefly a subject of conversation at the long
table in the inn kitchen. Such kitchens were once semi-public and as much the centre of
the inn's life, for the humbler traveller or the servants of grander ones, as the equivalent
room in the old farmhouse. If not finer, the food eaten there - and no doubt the company -
was certainly warmer than in the more public parlours or private chambers. The inn
servants welcomed the gossip, news and entertainment brought by strangers of their own
approximate class and kind. The undisputed king of the Black Hart's kitchen, that
evening, and from the moment he had stamped through the door from the stableyard,
cutlass and cased blunderbuss under one arm, and managed, in one comprehensive
removal of his hat and sweep of his eyes, to ogle kitchen maids, cook and Dorcas the inn
maid, had been he of the scarlet coat, soon self-announced as Sergeant Farthing.
He was, it equally soon seemed, of that ancient type- as ancient as the human
race, or certainly as human war - the Roman comedians dubbed the miles gloriosus; the
military boaster, or eternal bag of bullshit. Even to be a modest soldier was no
recommendation in eighteenth-century England. The monarchs and their ministers might
argue the need for a standing army; to everyone else soldiers seemed an accursed
nuisance (and insult, when they were foreign mercenaries), an intolerable expense both
upon the nation and whatever particular and unfortunate place they were quartered in.
Farthing appeared oblivious to this, and immoderately confident of his own credentials:
how he was (despite his present dress) an ex-sergeant of marines, how as a drummer boy
he had been on Byng's flagship during the glorious engagement of Cape Passaro in 't8,
where the Spaniards were given such a drubbing; had been commended for his courage
by Admiral Byng himself (not the one to be filled with Portsmouth lead in 1757 to
encourage the others, but his father), though `no bigger than that lad' ... the potboy. He
had a way of fixing attention; and not letting it go, once it was fixed. There was certainly
no one in that kitchen to challenge such a self-proclaimed man of war, and of the outer
world. He had in addition a bold eye for his female listeners, since like all his kind he
knew very well that half the trick of getting an audience into the palm of one's hand is
flattering them. He also ate and drank copiously, and praised each drop and mouthful;
perhaps the most truthful sentence he spoke was when he said he knew good cider when
he tasted it.
 Of course he was questioned in return, as to the present journey. The younger
gentleman and his uncle were riding, it seemed, to pay court to a lady who was
respectively their aunt and their sister: a lady as rich as a supercargo, old and ailing
besides, who lived at Bideford or thereabout; who had never married, but inherited lands
and property fit for a duchess. Various winks and nose-taps glossed this already
sufficiently explicit information: the young gentleman, it was hinted, had not always in
the past been a model of assiduity, and lay even now in debt. The wench upstairs was a
London lady's maid, destined for the aunt's service, while he, Timothy Farthing, had
come as a service to the uncle, with whom he had been long acquainted and who was of
nervous disposition as regards highwaymen, footpads and almost any other human face
met more than a mile from St Paul's. Though he said it himself, they had travelled thus
far under his vigilant eye as safe as with a company of foot.
And this uncle? He was a man of means, a substantial merchant in the City of
London, however with children of his own to provide for. His brother, the younger
gentleman's father, had died improvidently some years before, and the uncle stood as his
nephew's effective guardian and mentor.
Only once had he broken off during all this discourse or quasi-monologue; and
that was when Dick had come from the stables and stood, as if lost; uncomprehending,
unsmiling, in the doorway. Farthing had bunched fingers to his mouth and pointed to an
empty place on the far side of the table, then winked at Puddicombe, the landlord.
`Hears naught, says naught. Born deaf and mute, Master Thomas. And simple into
the bargain. But a good fellow. My younger gentleman's servant, despite his clothes. Sit
you down, Dick. Eat your share, we've met none so good as this on our way. Now where
was I?'
How as you came on the Spainer's tail,' ventured the potboy.
Now and again, while the silent servant ate, Farthing did appeal to him. `Isn't that
so, Dick?' Or, 'Ecod, Dick could tell more if he had a tongue - or a mind to wield it.'
It was not that these appeals were answered, indeed Dick seemed oblivious to
them, even when his vacant blue eyes were on Farthing and he was being addressed; yet
his companion seemingly wanted to show avuncularity among all his other virtues. The
eyes of the maids, however, did wander the deaf-mute's way more and more frequently;
perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was a kind of wistfulness, that so well-proportioned
and fundamentally attractive a young male face, for all its expressionlessness and lack of
humour, should belong to such a pitiful creature mentally.
There had been one other interruption: the `wench upstairs' had appeared in the
inner doorway towards the end of the supper, bearing a tray with the remains of her own,
and beckoned to the inn maid Dorcas, who rose to speak there with her. Some low words
were exchanged between them, and Dorcas looked round at the deaf-mute. Farthing
would have had the newcomer join them, but she declined, and pertly.
`I have heard all your bloodthirsty tales, I thank you.'
The little curtsey she gave as she retreated was almost as much a snub as her
words. The ex-sergeant touched up his right moustache and sought sympathy from the
landlord.
`There's London for you, Master Thomas. I'll warrant you that girl was as pleasant
and fresh of face as yon Dorcas a few years ago. Now the chit's all Frenchified airs, like
her name, that I'll warrant she never was born with. She'd be all pale civility, nice as a
nun's hen, as the saying goes.' He put on an affected voice. `Would the man I love best
were here, that I might treat him like a dog. So's her kind. I tell you, you'd have ten times
more a better treating from her mistress than a maid like Louise. Louise, what name is
that for an Englishwoman, I ask you, sir. Isn't it so, Dick?'
Dick stared and said nothing.
`Poor Dick. He has her mincing manners up with him all day long. Don't you, lad?' He
went through a pantomine, cocking his thumb towards the door through which the
mincing manners had Just departed, then mimicking by means of forked fingers two
people riding together. Finally he pushed up his nose and once more cocked his thumb at
the door. The deaf-mute still stared blankly back at him. Farthing winked at the landlord.
`I' faith, I know blocks of wood with more wit.'
However, a little later, when he saw Dorcas filling the brass jug from the copper
in which it had heated, since that had evidently been the matter discussed with the girl
upstairs, the deaf-mute stood and waited to take it; and again at the door, where the maid
handed him an earthenware bowl from a dresser. He even nodded, in some token of
thanks for her help; but she turned to Farthing as if in doubt.
'Doth 'er know where to take 'un, then?'
`Aye. Let him be.' He closed an eye, and tapped it with a finger. `Eyes like a
falcon, has Dick. Why, he sees through walls.'
`Never.'
`He must, my love. Leastways I never met a man so fond of staring at 'em.' And
he winked again, to make clear he was joking.
Mr Puddicombe advanced the opinion that this was a strange case for a
gentleman's servant - how could a master use one who understood so little? How
command, and make him fetch?
Farthing glanced towards the door and leant forward confidentially.
`I'll tell you this, Master Thomas. The master's a match for his man. I never met a
gentleman spoke less. 'Tis his humour, his uncle warned me thus. So be it, I take no
offence.' He pointed a finger at the landlord's face. `But mark my words, he'll speak with
Dick.'
`How so?'
`By ciphers, sir.'
`And what might they be?'
Farthing leant back, then tapped his chest with a finger and raised a clenched fist.
His audience stared, as blankly as the deaf-mute. The gestures were repeated, then
glossed.
`Bring me ... punch.'
Dorcas put her hand over her mouth. Farthing tapped his own shoulder, then
raised one open hand and the forefinger of the other. Again he waited, then deciphered.
`Wake me, six of the clock prompt.'
Now he extended a palm and put his other hand, clenched, upon it; touched
himself; cupped his hands against his breasts; raised four fingers. The same fascinated
faces waited for an explanation..
`Wait - a play upon words, do you not take it, a weight in a balance - wait on me
at the lady's house at four o'clock.'
Mr Puddicombe nodded a shade uncertainly. `I grasp it.'
 `I could give you ten times more. A hundred times. Our Dick is not the fool he
looks. I'll tell you something more, sir. Between ourselves.' Once again he looked to the
door, and dropped his voice. `This yesternight I must share a bed with him at Taunton,
we could find no better place. I wake, I know not why, in the middle of the night. I find
my bed-partner gone, slipped away as I slept. I think not too much on that, he must to the
vaults, the more room for me, and would sleep again. Whereupon I hear a sound, Master
Thomas, as of one talking in his sleep. No words, but a hum in the throat. So.' And he
hummed as he had described, paused, then hummed again. `I look. And there I see the
fellow in his shirt, and on his knees, as it might be praying, by the window. But not as a
Christian, to our Lord. Nay. To the moon, sir, that shone bright on where he was. And he
stood, sir, and pressed to the glass, still making his sounds, as if he would fly up to
where he gazed. And I thought, Tim, thou'st faced the Spanish cannon, thou'st given the
ruff of the drum, thou'st seen death and desperate men more times than thou canst tell,
but, rat or rot me, none like this. 'Twas clear as day he was in a lunatick fit, and might at
any moment turn and spring and tear me limb from limb.' He paused, for effect, and
surveyed the table. `I tell you, my good people, no jest, I would not pass another hour
like that for a hundred pound. Ecod, no, nor for a thousand.'
`Could you not seize him?'
Farthing allowed a knowing smile to cross his features.
`I take it you were never at Bedlam, sir. Why, I've seen one there, a fellow you'd
spit upon for a starving beggar in his quiet hours, throw off ten stout lads in his passions.
Your lunatick's a tiger when the moon is on him, Master Thomas. 'Sdeath, he'll out-hector
Hector himself, as the saying is. Finds the rage and strength of twenty. And mark, Dick's
no weakling, even in his settled mind.'
`What did you then?'
I lay as dead, sir, with this hand on the hilt of my blade beside my bed. A weaker
spirit might have cried for help. But I give myself the credit of keeping my head, Master
Thomas. I braved it out.'
`And what happened?'
`Why, the fit passed, sir. He comes once more to the bed, gets in. He starts
snoring. But not I, oh no, 'fore George not I. Tim Farthing knows his duty. Ne'er a wink
all night, my blade at the ready, sat in a chair where I could swash him down if the fit
came on again or worse. I tell you no lie, my friends, had he but woke a second, he
should have been carbonadoed in a trice, by Heaven he should. I reported all to Mr
Brown next morning. And he said he would speak to his nephew. Who seemed not
troubled, and said Dick was strange, but would do no harm, I was to take no account.' He
leant back, and touched his moustache. `I keep my own counsel on that, Master Thomas.'
`I should think so, verily.'
`And my blunderbush to hand.' His eyes sought Dorcas's face. `No need to fright
yourself, my dear. Farthing's on watch. He'll do no harm here.' The girl's eyes lifted
involuntarily towards the ceiling. `Nor up there, neither.'
"Tis only three stairs.'
Farthing leant back and folded his arms, then put his tongue in his cheek. `By hap
she finds him work to do?'
The girl was puzzled. `What work would that be then?'
`Work no man finds work, my innocent.' He leered, and the girl, at last
understanding what he would say, raised a hand to her mouth. Farthing transferred his
eyes to the master. `I tell you, London's an evil place, Master Thomas. The maid but apes
the mistress there. Ne'er rests content, the hussy, till she's decked out in her shameless
sacks and trollopees. If my lady has her lusty lackey, why shouldn't I, says she. Spurn the
poor brute by day, and have him to my bed each night.'
Prithee no more, Mr Farthing. If my good wife were here... '
‘Amen, sir. I should not speak of it, were the fellow not lecherous as a Barbary
ape. Let your maids be warned. He came on one in the stable on our road here ... happily
I passed and prevented the rogue. Enough's enough. He knows no better, he thinks all
women as lascivious as Eve, God forgive him. As eager to raise their petticoats as he to
unbreech.'
'I wonder his master don't give him a good flogging.'
'And well you may, sir. Well you may. No more of it. A word to the wise, as the
saying goes.'
They passed then to other matters; but when, some ten minutes later, the deaf-
mute re-appeared, it was as if a draught of cold air had entered the room. He seemed as
expressionless as ever, looked at no one, regained his place. One by one all there covertly
glanced at him, as if searching for some flush, some outward sign of his sin. However, he
stared down with his blue eyes at the old table just beyond his plate, blankly awaiting
some further humiliation.

`Well powdered, I trust?'

`His flock, his lodgings, his vestry, his churchwardens, I have had damnation on
them all, anathema singular and plural. You are invited to dine tomorrow to hear the
recitation over again. I ventured to decline on your behalf.'
`And no inquiry?'
`Beyond civility, and barely that. The gentleman has only one profound object of
interest in life. It does not comprehend the affairs of others.'
`You have had a poor last audience for your talents. My apologies.' The actor,
who stood planted on the opposite side of the fire from where Mr Bartholomew sat with
his papers, stared heavily at him, as if not to be fobbed off by this lighter mood.
`Come, my dear Lacy. My word to you stands. I mean no evil, I do no evil. No
one shall, or could blame you for your part.'
`But your purpose is not what you led me to believe, Mr Bartholomew. Is it not
so? No, I must speak now. I have no doubt you mean well to me in all your concealings.
But I must doubt whether you mean well to yourself.'
`Do we say a poet lies when he speaks of meeting the Muses?'
`We know what he intends to convey by that figure.'
'But do we say he lies?'
`No.'
Then in that sense I have not lied to you. I go to meet one I desire to know, and
respect, as much as I would a bride - or my Muse indeed, were I a poet; before whom I
am as Dick before myself, nay, more lacking still. And whom I have been hitherto
prevented from seeing as much as by a jealous guardian. I may have deceived you in the
letter. But not in the spirit.'
The actor's eyes glanced at the papers.
 `I am bound to ask why a meeting with a learned stranger has to be conducted in
such very great secrecy, and in this remote place, if the purpose be wholly innocent.'
Mr Bartholomew leant back in his chair, this time with a distinctly sardonic
smile.
`Perhaps I am one of those seditious northern jacks? Another Bolingbroke?
These papers here are all in cipher. If not in plain French or Spanish. I go to plot with
some emissary of James Stuart.'
For a moment the actor seemed confused, as if his secret thought had been read.
`My blood chills, sir.'
`Look. They are indeed in a cipher of a kind.'
He held out the sheet of paper he had been reading, which Lacy took. After a
few moments the actor looked up.
`I can make nothing of it.'
'Necromantical, think you not? I am here to creep into the woods and meet some
disciple of the Witch of Endor. To exchange my eternal soul against the secrets of the
other world. How does that cap fit?'
The actor passed the paper back to him.
You choose to be playful. I think this not the moment.'
'Then let us talk no more nonsense. I bring no harm to king or country, nor to any
person thereof. I place neither body nor soul in danger. My mind perhaps, but a man's
mind is his own business. What I am upon may be a wild goose chase, a foolish dream.
Whom I wish to meet may . . . ' but he broke off, then put the paper with the others on the
table beside his chair. `No matter.'
`This person is in hiding?'
Mr Bartholomew stared at him for a moment.
`No more, Lacy. I beg you.'
`I must still ask why I should be deceived, sir.'
`My friend, that question sits strangely in your mouth. Have you not spent your own life
deceiving?' Lacy seemed set back a moment by such a charge. The man in the chair stood
and went to the fire, his back to the actor. `But I will tell you. I am born with a fixed
destiny. All I told you of my supposed father I might have said of my true one - and much
worse, for he is an old fool; and hath given birth to another, that is my elder brother. I am,
as you might be, offered a part in a history, and I am not forgiven for refusing to play it.
Mark, the case between us is not exact. If you will not play, you lose but your money. I
lose ... more than you may imagine.' He turned. `I have no liberty, Lacy, unless I steal it
first. If I go where I will, as now, I must go as a thief from those who would have me do
as they want. That is all. And now truly, I would say no more.'
The actor looked down, with a little shrug and nod, as if confessing himself
baffled; and the speaker went on in a more even tone, and watching him.
`Tomorrow we leave together. In a very few miles we shall come to where we
must part. The road you and your man shall take joins that to Crediton and Exeter, which
city I would have you gain with all speed. Once there you may return to London as you
please and when you please. The only thing I desire of you to conceal is all that concerns
me and the manner of our coming to this place. As we agreed at the beginning.'
`Does the maid not come with us?' `No.'
`I must tell you something.' He left a little pause. `Jones, that is Farthing, believes
 he has seen her before.'
Mr Bartholomew turned away to the fire again. There was a small silence.
`Where?'
The actor eyed his back. `Entering a bagnio, sir. Where he was told she was
employed.'
`And what said you to that?'
`I would not believe him.'
`You were right. He is mistaken.'
`But nor is she now a lady's maid, sir, by your own admittance. I think you must
know your man is smitten. Farthing tells me, for good reason. He is not spurned.' He
hesitated. `He has gone to where she lies, at night.'
Mr Bartholomew gave him a long look, as if the actor now grew impertinent; but
then he showed a distinctly sarcastic smile.
`May a man not lie with his own wife?'
The actor was once again caught unawares. He stared moment at Mr
Bartholomew, then down.
`So be it. I have said what I must.'
`And I do not impugn the regard that inspired it. We will settle our business and
bid our formal adieux tomorrow, but permit me now to thank you for your assistance and
patience. I have had little commerce with your profession. If they are all like you, I
perceive I have lost by my ignorance. Though you cannot credit me in so much else, you
will, I hope, credit me in that. I most sincerely wish we might have met in more open
circumstances.'
The actor gave him a drily rueful smile. `And I wish that we still may, sir. You
have raised a devilish curiosity in me, beside my apprehensions.'
`The first you must quell. For the second you may rest easy. It is truly like a tale,
why, one of your play-pieces. I think you would not let an audience have the final act
before the first, for all your love of fixed tomorrows? Then leave me my mysteries also.'
The final act of my pieces will be told, sir. I am not to have that privilege.'
'And nor can I give it, for it is not yet written. There is the true difference.' He
smiled. `Lacy, I bid you goodnight.'
The actor gave him one last searching, yet uncertain, look, as if he would still say
more; then bowed and turned away. But on opening the door to leave, he stopped in
surprise, and looked back.
`Your man waits here.'
`Send him in.'
The actor hesitated, cast one more look at the silent man in the shadows outside,
passed him with a curt gesture, and dis
appeared.

The deaf-mute servant comes into the room, and closes the door. He stands by it, staring
at his master by the fireplace, who looks back. Such a fixed, mutual, interlocked regard
would have been strange if it had lasted only a second or two, for the servant has made
no sign of respect. In fact the stare lasts much longer, beyond all semblance of a natural
 happening, almost as if they speak, though their mouths do not move. It is such a look as
a husband and wife, or siblings, might give, in a room where there are other people, and
they cannot say what they truly feel; yet prolonged far beyond that casual kind of
exchange of secret feeling, and quite devoid even of its carefully hidden hints of
expression. It is like turning a page in a printed book - and where one expects dialogue,
or at least a description of movements and gestures, there is nothing: a Shandy-like blank
page, or a gross error in binding, no page at all. The two men stand in their silence, in
each other's looking, as in a mirror.
At last both move, and simultaneously, as a stopped film begins again. Dick turns to
the box beside which he stands by the door. Mr Bartholomew goes back to his chair and
sits, and watches his servant lift the box and carry it to the hearth before the fire. There
he begins immediately to feed the sheafs of written paper inside the box to the red
embers; without a look at his master, as if they were no more than old newspapers. They
catch almost at once, and now Dick kneels and starts disposing similarly of the
leatherbound books. One by one he takes them out, demi-folios and large quartos, some
smaller, and many stamped in gilt with a coat of arms, and drops them opened with their
pages down, into the mounting flames. One or two he tears apart by main force, but most
he simply lets drop, and does no more than push them to a heap where they have fallen
loose, or with the primitive poker splays those that are slow to burn from the packed
density of their pages.
Mr Bartholomew stands and picks up the sheaf of papers on the table, and throws
them to blaze with the rest; then stands behind the crouched servant, who now reaches
beside the huge hearth, where more logs stand piled, to set five or six transversely across
the incandescent pile of paper; then resumes once more his watching pose. Both men now
stare at this small holocaust as they had earlier stared at each other. Intense shadows dart
and shiver about the bare room, since the hearth flames are far brighter than the candle-
branches. Mr Bartholomew makes a step to look down into the chest beside the hearth, to
be sure that it has been properly emptied. It seems it has, for he bends and closes its lid;
then returns to his chair and sits again, waiting for this incomprehensible sacrifice to be
concluded; each fallen scrap, each leaf and page, burnt to ashes.
Several minutes later, when it is near complete, Dick looks across at Mr
Bartholomew; and now there is the ghost of a smile on his face, the smile of someone
who knows why this is done, and is glad. It is not a servant's smile, so much as an old
friend's, even a collusive fellow criminal's. There, it is done, is it not better so? As
mysterious a smile meets his, and for a few seconds there begins another stare between
the two. This time it is brought to an end by Mr Bartholomew. He raises his left hand,
making a circle of the thumb and forefinger; then he stiffens his other forefinger and
firmly pierces the circle, just once.
Dick rises and goes to the foot of the bed, where the benchstool lies; lifts it and
comes back with the long piece of furniture and sets it facing the still lively fire, some ten
feet from it. Then, returning to the bed, he opens its curtains. Without another look at his
master he leaves.
Mr Bartholomew watches the fire, seemingly lost in thought. He remains so until
the door opens again. The young woman from upstairs, with her painted face, stands on
the threshold. She curtseys, unsmiling, comes into the room a few paces. Dick appears
behind her and closes the door, then waits by it. Mr Bartholomew goes back to watching
the fire, almost as if he resents this interruption; at last looks coldly at the standing girl.
He examines her as he would an animal: the matching grey-pink brocaded gown and
petticoat, the lace wing-cuffs on the threequarter sleeves, the inverted cone of her tight-
laced bust, the cherry and ivory stomacher, the highly unnatural colour of the face, the
pert white head-cap with its two hanging side-bands. She wears now also a small throat-
necklace of cornelians, the colour of dried blood. The net result is perhaps not
aesthetically unattractive; yet it seems pathetically out-of-place, something plain and
pleasant turned artificial and pretentious. The new clothes do not improve appearance,
they ruin it.
`Shall I send thee back to Claiborne, Fanny? And bid her whip thee for thy
sullenness?' The girl neither moves nor speaks; nor seems surprised to be called a
different name from the one that Farthing gave her, of Louise. `Did I not hire thee out to
have my pleasure?'
`Yes, sir.'
`French, Italian, all thy lewd tricks.' Again the girl says nothing. `Modesty sits on
thee like silk on dung. How many different men have cleft thee this last six month?'
`I don't know, sir.',
`Nor how many ways. Claiborne told me all of thee before we struck our bargain.
Even the pox is afraid to touch thy morphewed carcase.' He watches her. `Thou hast
played boy to every Bulgar in London. Why, even worn men's clothes to please their
lust.' He stares at her. `Answer. Yea or nay?'
`I have worn men's clothes, sir.'
`For which thou shale roast in hell.'
`I shan't be alone, sir.'
`But double roasted, since thou art the cause. Think'st thou God makes no
distinction in his wrath between those that fall and those that make them fall? Between
Adam's weakness and Eve's wickedness?'
`I cannot tell, sir.'
`I tell thee. And I tell thee I'll have my money's worth of thee, whether thou wilt or
not. Didst ever hear a public hackney tell its master how to ride?'
`I have done your will, sir.'
`In shadow. Thy insolence has showed as naked as thy breasts. Dost think me so
blind I did not catch that look of thine at the ford?'
`It was but a look, sir.'
`And that tuft of flowers beneath thy nose but violets?'
`Yes, sir.'
`Thou lying jade.'
`No, sir.'
`I say yes, sir. I saw thy glance and what it spake: what stench in the nostrils thy
damned violets were for.'
`I wore them for themselves, sir. I meant no else.'
`And swear to it?'
`Yes, sir.'
``Then get thee to thy knees. Here.' He points to a place in front of him, beside the
bench. The girl hesitates, then comes forward and kneels, her head still bowed. `And let
me see thy eyes.' The grey ones stare down into the uplifted brown. `Say this: I am a
 public whore.'
`I am a public whore.'
`Hired for your use.'
`Hired for your use.'
`To please you in all.'
To please you in all.'
`I am issued of Eve, with all her sins.'
`I am issued of Eve.' `With all her sins.'
`With all her sins.'
`And guilty of insolence.'
`Guilty of insolence.'
`Which henceforward I do renounce.'
`Which henceforward I do renounce.'
`And so I swear.'
`So I swear.'
`Or may I be damned in hell.'
`Damned in hell.'
Mr Bartholomew stares down into her eyes a long moment. There seems something
demonic now in that face beneath the bald head; demonic not in its anger or emotion, but
in its coldness, its indifference to this female thing before him. It speaks of a hitherto
hidden trait in his character: a sadism before Sade, still four years unborn in the dark
labyrinths of real time; and as unnatural as the singeing smell of burnt leather and paper
that pervades the room. Had one to represent in a face the very antithesis of human
feeling, it is here, and frighteningly so.
`Thou art shriven. Now bare thy putrid body.'
The girl looks down a moment at the floor, then rises to her feet and begins to
unlace her dress. Mr Bartholomew still sits implacably in the chair where he has read. The
girl turns her back slightly to him as her undressing proceeds. At the conclusion of it she
sits on the far end of the benchstool, beside the garments she has removed, and peels off
her clocked stockings. At last she sits naked, but for the necklace of cornelians and the
cap, with her hands in her lap, her head once more bowed. Her body is not truly to the
masculine taste of its time: it is slim and small-breasted, and more white than rosy,
although it shows not a sign of the morphew it has just been accused of.
`Shall he serve thee?' The girl says nothing. `Answer.'
My inclination is to you, sir. But you won't have it.'
`No, to him. And his cockpiece.'
`It was your will.'
`To see you sport and couple. Not strut your attachment like turtling doves. Art not
ashamed, to have had acquaintance with the finest, and now fall so low?' Once more she
says nothing. `Answer.'
Seemingly driven at last beyond timidity, she does not. Mr Bartholomew stares at
her, with her mutely mutinous bowed head, then across at Dick by the door; and again
they regard each other, as before she came, in some mysterious blank page. Yet not for
long; although with no apparent sign from Mr Bartholomew, Dick turns abruptly and
leaves. The girl glances quickly round at the door, as if surprised at this going; but will
not look at Mr Bartholomew for explanation.
 Now they are alone, he stands and goes to the fire. There he stoops and takes the
poker and carefully pushes some last scraps of page and paper that have escaped burning
towards the now flaming logs that were added. He straightens and looks down at what he
has done, his back to her. Slowly her head comes up to watch him. Some kind of
speculation, or calculation, clouds those brown eyes. She hesitates, then stands and goes
softly on her bare feet behind that impassive back. She murmurs something in a low
voice, inaudible across the room. The offer made is not difficult to guess, since her hands
rise in a cautious yet practised fashion and come to rest on the sides of his damask coat,
while her naked body moves to press lightly against his back, as a pillion passenger's
might.
The hands are immediately caught; not angrily, but merely prevented from slipping
forward; and unexpectedly his voice is less scathing and bitter.
`Thou art a fool and a liar, Fanny. I heard thy pantings when last he rammed thee.'
"Twas only feigning, sir.'
What thou'dst fain have.'
`No, sir. 'Tis you I desire to please.'
`He says nothing, and her hands attempt to escape his and insinuate themselves
forward. Now they are firmly removed.
`Then dress. And I'll tell thee how.'
Still she solicits. `With all my heart, sir. I'll make you stand tall as a beadle's staff,
that then you may use on me.'
`Thou hast no heart. Cover thy shamelessness. Away.'
He remains at the fire with his back turned while she dresses, it a seeming brown
study. When she is ready, she sits again on the bench and waits; so long that in the end
she speaks.
`I am dressed, sir.'
`He glances half round, as if indeed from some reverie, then resumes his staring
down at the fire.
`When wert thou first debauched?'
Something in that voice from the hidden face, some unexpected spark of curiosity,
makes her slow to answer.
`At sixteen, sir.'
`In a bagnio?'
`No, sir. A son of the house where I was maid.'
`In London?'
`In Bristol. Where I was born.'
`He got thee with child?'
'No, sir. But his mother discovered us one day.'
`And gave thee thy wages?'
`If a broom-handle be wages.'
`How cam'st thou to London?'
'By starving.'
"God gave thee no parents?'
`They would not have me back, sir. They are Friends.'
'How friends?'
`What people call Quakers, sir. My master and mistress too.'
He turns, and stands astride, his hands behind his back.
 What next?'
`The young man gave me a ring, before we were discovered. It was stole from his
mother's box, sir. And I knew when 'twas found out, I should be accused, for she would
not hear wrong of him. So I sold it where I could and came to London, and found a place,
and thought myself fortunate. But I was not, for the husband, my master, came to lust
after me; and I must let him have his way, fear of my place. Which my new mistress
discovered, and then was I out again upon the street. Where I must come in the end to
begging, because I could find no honest work. There was that in my face seemed not to
please mistresses, and 'tis they who do the hiring.' After a moment she adds, `I was
carried to it by need, sir. 'Tis so with most of us.'
`Most in need do not turn strumpet.'
`I know, sir.'
`Therefore the corruption lies in thy wanton nature?'
`Yes, sir.'
`And thy parents were right to reprobate, for all their false doctrine?'
`For what I did, sir. But I was blamed for all. My mistress made out I had bewitched
her son. Not true, he forced the first kiss, he stole the ring without my asking, and all that
followed. My father and mother would not hear, for they said I had denied the inner light.
That I was Satan's child, not theirs, and would poison my sisters.'
`What inner light is that?'
`The light of Christ. 'Tis the manner of their faith, sir.'
`And not thine, since that day?'
`No, sir.'
`No belief in Christ?'
`No belief that I shall meet Him in this world, sir. Nor the next.'
`Thou hast belief in a next world?'
`Yes, sir.'
`Which must be Hell, must it not, for such as thee?'
`I pray not, sir.'
`Is it not as sure as that this wood will burn to ashes?' The girl's head bows deeper,
and she does not reply. He goes on in the same even voice. `Or as sure as the hell that
awaits thee here on earth, when thou'rt become too stale for the bagnio. Thou'lt end a
common bawd, Fanny, or a crone in the poorhouse. If the pox has not already claimed
thee. Or think'st thou to multiply thy sins and swell to another Claiborne in thy after-
years? That will not save thee.' He waits, but the girl does not speak. `What stops thy
tongue?'
`I would not be what I am, sir. Far less Mistress Claiborne.'
`The virtuous wife, no doubt. With mewling brats at thy skirts.'
`I am barren, sir.'
`Then thou art a prize pigeon indeed, Fanny.'
Slowly her head rises and she meets his eyes; it seems more in puzzlement than in
outrage at being taunted so, as if she were trying to read on his face what she could not
comprehend in his words. His next action is even more incomprehensible, for of a sudden
that arctic face smiles - it is true, hardly an unmistakably human smile, yet neither is it a
cynical or sneering one. Most singularly, it is nearest to an understanding one. Greater
strangeness still follows, for he takes three or four steps, plants himself in front of her;
bends and takes her right hand and raises it briefly to his lips. Having done which, he
does not release the hand, but holds it, staring down at her face, and still not without a
smile. For a moment they are, Mr Bartholomew with his bald head, Fanny with her
painted face, like pantaloon figures from some fete galante by Watteau, despite the very
different environment. Abruptly, he drops the hand and turns away to his original chair,
where he sits, leaving her to stare in shock after him.
`Why did you that, sir?'
`Know you not why gentlemen kiss a woman's hand?' That final surprise, in his
change of person of address to her, is too much. She lowers her head, and shakes it. `For
what you are about to give me, dear lamb.'
Her lost eyes seek his again.
`What shall I give, sir?'
`We are come near those waters I spake of, that shall cure me. Tomorrow we shall meet
those who keep them, and who have it in their power to advance my most cherished
hopes. I would bring them a present, a token of my esteem. Not of money, nor jewels,
they care not for such things. It shall be of you, Fanny.' He contemplates her. `What say
you to that?'
`What I must, sir. That I am bound to Mistress Claiborne, and sworn to return.'
`A bond with the Devil's no bond.'
`That may be, sir. But she's worse than the Devil to those that forsake her. She
must, or we should all run loose.'
`Have you not said, but a minute past, that you wish you were not what you are?'
Her voice is almost inaudible.
`I would not be worse still.'
`Did she not say when we engaged that you must please me in all?'
`Yes, sir. But not that I must please others also.'
`I purchased you for three weeks, did I not?'
`Yes, sir.'
`Then I have two weeks' use of you yet. And in that use that I have purchased, and
dearly, I command this. You shall tomorrow essay to please those we hope to meet.'
She bows her head, as if in reluctant submission, and he continues.
`I would have you mark my every word, Fanny. You must not mistake the manner
and appearance of those who keep these waters. They are but late arrived from their
native country. It is most far from this of ours, and they do not speak our tongue.'
`I know some little French, of Dutch some words also.'
`Nor that neither. With them you must converse as you have learnt with Dick.' He
is silent, staring at her still bowed head. `You have shown well enough there, Fanny. My
displeasure was semblance, to test you for this my real intent. But listen well. In their
country there are no women like you. You have a faculty of playing the prudish virgin.
Such I would have you be tomorrow. No paint, no finery, no London manners. No
knowing looks, no sign of what you truly are. Demure in all, a young woman brought up
in country modesty, one innocent of men. They we meet would see respect in you, not
your practised lust, not such as you showed me but this half-hour gone, and have showed
a thousand others besides. Is that understood?'
`So be it they would have me to their beds, I must?'
`What they shall plainly want, that you must do.'
 `Whether I would or not?'
`I tell you you shall do their will, that is mine. Doth Claiborne let you pick and
choose, as you were fine lady?'
She bows her head again, and there is silence. Mr Bartholomew surveys her. His
expression now is without cynicism or sarcasm, or the former cruelty. If anything it
shows a strange patience, or calm; from anachronistic skinhead he seems now become
something even more improbable: Buddhist monk, praeternaturally equable and
contained, drowned in what he is and does. Yet there is a hint of something else in his
eyes, that is more unexpected still. Nothing in his seeming behaviour until now has
predicted this: a contentment, a satisfaction of the kind his servant Dick had momentarily
shown when the papers were burnt. Nearly a minute passes, and then he speaks again.
`Go to the window, Fanny.'
She looks up at him, and her side of the silence at least is explained. Her eyes are
wet with tears again, the small tears of one who knows herself without choice. Her time
has little power of seeing people other than they are in outward; which applies even to
how they see themselves, labelled and categorized by circumstance and fate. To us such a
world would seem abominably prescribed, with personal destiny fixed to an intolerable
degree, totalitarian in its essence; while to its chained humans our present lives would
seem incredibly fluid, mobile, rich in free will (if not indeed Midas-rich, less to be envied
than to be pitied our lack of absolutes and of social certainty); and above all anarchically,
if not insanely, driven by self-esteem and self-interest. Fanny does not weep with
frustrated rage, from a modem sense of self, because life obliges it to suffer this kind of
humiliation, but much more with a dumb animal's sadness. Such humiliation is as
inseparable from life as mud from winter roads; or as child-death from child-birth (of the
2,710 deaths registered in England in the by no means unusual month previous to this
day, very nearly half were of infants below the age of five). The conditions of such past
worlds were more inexorably fixed than we can imagine; and as little worth expecting
sympathy from as seems proven by Mr Bartholomew's impassive face.
He says quietly, `Do as I say.'
She still hesitates, but then abruptly stands and goes to it.
`Now open the shutter and look out.' He waits till he hears, for he does not turn in
his chair to look, the shutter open. `Do you see the Redeemer on His throne in the
heavens, beside His Father?'
She looks back to where he sits. `You know not, sir.'
Then what instead?'
`Nothing. The night.'
`And in that night?'
She glances quickly out of the window. `Nothing but the stars. The sky is come
clear.'
`Do the beams of the brightest shake?'
Again she looks. `Yes, sir.'
`Do you know why?'
`No, sir.'
`I will tell you. They shake with laughter, Fanny, for they mock you. They have
mocked you since your day of birth. They will mock you to your day of death. You are
but a painted shadow to them, and all your world. It matters not to them whether you
have faith in Christ or not. Are sinner or saint, drab or duchess. Man or woman, young or
old, it is all one. Whether Hell or Heaven awaits you, good fortune or bad, pain or bliss,
to them it is equal. You are born for their amusement, as you are bought for mine.
Beneath their light you are but brute, as deaf and dumb as Dick, as blind as Fate itself.
They care not one whit what may become of you, no more for the courses of your
miserable existence than those on a high hill who watch a battle in the plain below,
indifferent to all but its spectacle. You are nothing to them, Fanny. Shall I tell thee why
they scorn?' She is silent. `Because thou dost not scorn them back.'
The girl stares across the room at the oblivious back of his head.
`How should I scorn stars, sir?'
`How do you scorn a man?'
She is slow to answer.
`I turn away, or flout his desire.'
`But say that man's a justice, who would have you whipped and clapped in the
stocks without fair cause?'
`I should protest I was innocent.'
`And if he doth not hear?' She is silent. `Then you must needs sit
in the stocks.'
'Yes, sir.'
`Is such, true justice?'
'No.'
`Now say the justice who gives you such justice is no man, but you yourself, and
the stocks you sit in made not of iron and wood, but of your blindness for the one part
and your folly for the other? What then?'
`I am bemused, sir. I know not what you would have of me.'
He stands and walks to the hearth.
`What I should have of far more than thee, Fanny.' `Sir?'
`No more. Get thee to where thou must lie, until thou wak'st.'
She does not move for a moment or two, then starts to cross the room towards the
door; but stops behind the stool, and looks obliquely at him.
`My lord, I beg you, what would you have?'
But the only answer she receives is his raised left arm and hand, that point
towards the door. He turns his back upon her, in final dismissal. She gives Mr
Bartholomew one last look, and an unseen curtsey, and leaves.
For some time in the silence he remains standing and staring at the now dying
fire. At last he turns and looks at the stool; and a little later goes to the window. There he
looks out and up as she had done, almost as if he wishes to assure himself that there are
indeed stars alone in the sky. It is impossible to read by his face what he is thinking,
although there appears on it now a last paradoxical metamorphosis. If anything it seems a
translation, in terms of his own sex and features, of the meekness the girl's face has
shown him during their one-sided conversation. In the end he quietly latches the shutter
close again. He walks towards the bed, unbuttoning his long waistcoat. As he comes to it,
he sinks to his knees on the broadplanks and buries his bald head against its side, as a
man seeking undeserved forgiveness or the oblivion of infancy might, against a mother's
skirt.
Barnstaple, Thursday, June 17th. The Discovery six Weeks since, in a Wood of
a Parish some 10 Miles from this Place, of a Stranger hang'd by his own
Hand, or so adjudg'd by the Coroner, whose first Inquiries could find no
Name to this Felon de se nor Cause for so ghastly a Deed, now raises upon
fresh-found Informations Alarm of a far greater Crime. It is now learn'd he
was Manservant, tho' deaf and dumb, to a Gentleman named Bartholomew
that pass'd for Bideford, with three others, in April last, but not heard of, nor
his Companions, since that Time. 'Tis thought the mute Servant may have
kill'd all, and hid their Corses, in a fit of lunatick Madness; then overcome
by Remorse, or Fear of justice, ended his wretched Days; but the more to be
wonder'd, that to this Present no Inquiry is made by Mr Bartholomew's
Friends.
The Western Gazette, 1736

The Examination and Deposition of

Thomas Puddicombe
the which doth attest upon his sworn
oath, this one and thirtieth day
of July in the tenth year of the
reign of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.
I AM THREE score years and six of age. I am landlord of the Black Hart Inn. I have been
so nigh upon these forty years and my father before me. I am capital burgess of this town.
I have been thrice its mayor, and justice also, in that office.

Q. Now, Master Puddicombe, I would have you first affirm that this portrait in miniature
I have shown and now show you again is that of the younger of the two gentlemen that
stayed in this your inn some three months past.
A. To the best of my belief, sir. 'Tis very like. I will swear thus far. Tho' he was dressed
less fine.
Q. Look upon his face. The dress matters not. A. So I judge it. 'Tis he.
Q. Very well. When came they?
A. The last day of April past. I remember it well, I shall never forget it.
Q. At what hour?
A. The man came first, a three hours before sunset, to command chambers and victuals.
For he said they had dined ill, and had empty bellies.
Q. His name?
A. Farthing. Then rode back to conduct them, and they came as he promised, a little after
six of the clock, or thereabout.
Q. Five in all?
A. The uncle and nephew. The two men and the maid.
Q. Mr Brown and Mr Bartholomew, they so gave themselves?
A. That they did, sir.
Q. Marked you whatsoever untoward in their manner?
A. Not at that time. Until what ye know of was discovered.
Q. But on this night they stayed?
A. Why, sir, they seemed in all what they said, that is, journeying for Bideford. I spake
very little with either gentleman. The younger went straight to his chamber on the coming
and did not show his face outside until he left. I know no more of him than one I might
pass in the street. He supped, he slept, woke up and brake his fast. 'Twas all within these
four walls. And then he went.
Q. And the uncle?
A. I can tell ye little else, sir. But that he took chay after supper with Mr Beckford and -
Q. Who is this?
A. Our curate. For he came with his compliments to the gentlemen.
Q. He knew them?
A. I think not, sir. When I told them he was below, they seemed not to know him.
Q. How soon was this upon their coming?
A. An hour, sir. Mayhap more. They had supped.
Q. But they did speak with him?
A. Mr Brown came down, sir, in a few minutes. And sat with Mr Beckford in the private
parlour.
Q. That is the uncle? The nephew was not present?
A. But the uncle, sir.
Q. How long?
A. Not an hour, sir. I think less.
Q. Did you hear the subject of their conversation?
A. No, sir.
 Q. Not a word?
A. No, sir. My maid Dorcas served them. She said -
Q. I will hear that from her. Tell what you know of your own eyes and ears.
A. I took Mr Brown to where Mr Beckford was in wait. They bowed and sat, there was
manners and compliments, but I did not mark them, I went to see for their chay.
Q. Met they as strangers - or as men who had fore-acquaintance?
A. As strangers, sir. Mr Beckford does often thus.
Q. How so?
A. Why, with they of quality who pass here. They who have letters and Latin:
Q. In sum, two gentlemen encountered by chance?
A:So I thought to it, sir.
Q. Did Mr Beckford speak to you afterwards of this meeting? Of what passed?
A. No, sir. Save as he went, he said I should see the two gentlemen well served and
lodged. That the uncle was a worthy person of London, on Christian business. He said
that, sir. Christian business.
Q. To wit?
A. He did not say, sir. But the man Farthing had spake in the kitchen of why they
travelled. Of the young gentleman's a-coming to court his aunt, at Bideford. A rich lady,
he said, sister to Mr Brown. Rich as a sultaness, so 'twas said. And the maid carried from
London to serve her and dress her hair, the like.
Q. But there is none such at Bideford?
A. No, for they have lately inquired. And when I said I knew her not, this Farthing said
'twas not to be wondered, for she lived much retired, and not in Bideford town itself, but
near. But he lied, the rogue, they have asked all about, and there is none such lady of that
name.
Q. What said Farthing of Mr Brown's profession?
A. That he was London merchant, and alderman of that city, and had children of his own,
but was left guardian of the nephew on his parents' decease. For he was child to another
sister, who was dead, and her husband also.
Q. And he had inherited no fortune of his own, this nephew?
A. All spent and wasted. So I took the man to mean. Tho' he lied in all.
Q. Was aught said of Mr Bartholomew's dead parents?
A. No, sir. But that their son had grown above himself.
Q. Very well. I would have your closer remembrance of the servants.
A. One is easy said, sir. The nephew's man, he that was found,
him I might make nothing of.
Q. His name?
A. They called him Dick, no other name, sir. Farthing told tales of him, of a kind I would
not have had my maids hear. I had a scolding for that, when Mistress Puddicombe came
home. She was away to Molton for our youngest daughter's lyingin, who bore a -
Q. Yes, yes, Master Puddicombe. What tales?
A. Why, that he was moon-struck, and a lecher into the bargain. But I put no credence in
Farthing. He was Welsh. They are not to be believed.
Q. You are sure he was Welsh?
A. As I am of my own name, sir. By his voice, first. Then his bluster and bragging, for
that he was ancient sergeant of marines, or so would have us believe. He was one who
would seem to know much, to be wiser than us. He boasted but to make favour with my
maids. And as for the lechery, it turned out he could have better charged himself than him
they called Dick.
Q. Why?
A. I did not hear till they was gone, sir, the girl was afraid to tell till then. My maid
Dorcas, sir. He would have made free of her in the night. He offered her a shilling for it.
Though she is a good girl, and promised, and gave no encouragement.
Q. What else did he speak of?
A. Much on military matters, and his past prowess therein. Then he would have us
believe him better than he was. Thus always he spake of my friend Mr Brown when 'twas
clear he was servant to the gentleman. He made more noise than a company of dragoons.
I counted him an idle fellow, sir, and well named. As hollow as brass, and as bold. And
then his going off before sunrise, there was more to that than met the eye.
Q. What was this?
A. Why, sir, he was saddled and gone before dawn, and ne'er a word of warning.
Q. He was sent ahead for some purpose?
A. He was gone when we rose. 'Tis all I know.
Q. You would say, without his master's knowledge?
A. I know not, sir.
Q. Did Mr Brown show surprise that Farthing was gone?
A. No, sir.
Q. Nor any of the others?
A. No, sir. 'Twas not spoken of.
Q. And yet you say there was more in it than meets the eye?
A. That he said nothing of it when we supped.
Q. What age was he?
A. He did say he was drummer-boy in a battle of '18, by which I did have him to be born,
a year or two given, these thirty years past; to which also he might answer, by his present
looks.
Q. And as to those - had he especial that you marked?
A. Save his mustachios, that he wore quilled, like the false Turk he was. For the general,
did show more tall than short and carried more lard than meat beside, of which my table
and cellar did bear the proving. For he did so eat and drink that my cook did call him, tho'
then in jest, Sergeant Cut and Come-again.
Q. But a well-built fellow, in appearance?
A. More in the eye than truth, sir, or my name is not Puddicombe.
Q. What colour were his eyes?
A. Dark and quick, not as an honest man's.
Q. And he bore no scars, ancient wounds, I know not, that you saw?
A. No, sir.
Q. Nor was halt, or limped in his gait?
A. No, sir. Us doubts us now he had fought an inch, outside of taverns or in his cups.
Q. Very well. And the other fellow, this Dick? What of him?
A. Said not a word, sir. Since he could not. But I saw somewhat in his eye that Farthing
was no more in his books than mine. For which I blame him not one whit, seeing he must
dure that Farthing would use him for a Jack-a-Lent. For the rest, brisk to his work, so far
as I could tell.
Q. And no lunatick?
A. He seemed simple, sir. Able for nothing beyond the doing of his duties. But rather a
poor dog of a man than aught else. Poor dog for his wits, that is. A strapping fellow for
his body, I would I had one such in my service. I think he meant no harm. For all they
say now.
Q. Nor lecher, neither?
A. Farthing told tattle when he took water to the maid upstairs and was slow to come
down again. Which us did credit a little then.
Q. He made no advances to your maids?
A. No, sir.
Q. And this maid they brought - what name had she?
A. A strange one, sir, that is after the king of France, God rot him. Louise, 'twas said, or
some such.
Q. She was French?
A. No, sir, or not by her voice, that sounded of Bristow or thereabout. Tho' in manner,
she was fine enough to be of France, such as I have heard tell. But Farthing said, 'twas
these times the mode in London for such as she, that are lady's maids, to ape their
betters.
Q. She came from London?
A. So 'twas given, sir.
Q. But she did speak as one born in Bristol, you say?
A. Yes, sir, and would sup in her room, like a lady, and not share it neither. Which we
found strange. Farthing spoke great ill of her and her fine airs. In contrary my girl
Dorcas said she spake kind, and made no great pretence of being other than she was.
And said she would not sup below because she had the megrims, would rest, so asked to
be excused. I fancy 'twas Farthing she could not abide, not us.
Q. What manner of looks had she?
A. Fair enough, sir, fair enough. A trifle pale and city sickly, but well featured, tho' small
in flesh. I do not forget her eyes, that were brown and grave as hind or hare's - aye, that
spake doubt of all. I mind not to have seen her once smile.
Q. What mean you by doubt of all, Master Puddicombe?
A. Why, sir, doubt of why she was come among us; as trout before oven, so say we here.
Q. She said little?
A. No, sir, except it be to Dorcas.
Q. Might she have been no maid, but a person of breeding in disguise?
A. Well, sir, some now think her such, some lady upon an adventure.
Q. An elopement, you would say?
A. I say nothing, sir. 'Tis Betty the cook and Mistress Puddicombe will have it so. And I
can't decide, sir.
Q. Very well. Now I have an important question. Did what this rogue Farthing say of Mr
Bartholomew fit his demeanour? Seemed he to be such, one who had lived above his
fortune and was now- come, albeit against his will, to grovel at his aunt's feet?
A. I could not say, sir. He seemed one used to command, impatient in his manner. But no
more than many young gentlemen are in these times.
Q. Did he seem truly a greater gentleman than you was led to believe, one who came
from a finer world than his merchant uncle?
A. Why, he had the air and manner of a gentleman, sir. I can't say more. Unless it be they
seeming spake no common voice. Mr Brown as of London, like enow; but he his nephew,
what little he said, it did sound of more northern parts, somewhat as to your own, sir.
Q. He appeared to respect his uncle?
A. More in the seeming than the heart, sir. He took my best and largest chamber to
himself, which I also counted strange at the time. I would look to Mr Brown for
instructions, but it was his nephew that gave 'em. His uncle would see Mr Beckford, not
he. And suchlike. Tho' 'twas done with politeness.
Q. Did he take much wine?
A. Neither, sir. A sneaker of punch when they came, a pint of burnt claret, a flask of best
Canary with their supper. But that last still not empty when they left.
Q. Let us come to that. At what hour did they leave?
A. I would say soon after seven of the clock, sir. We were much occupied, it being May
Day. I did not mark it in the particular.
Q. Who paid you the lodging?
A. Mr Brown.
Q. Handsomely?
A. Well enough. I bear no complaint there.
Q. And they took the Bideford road?
A. They did, sir. Leastways asked they my ostler Ezekiel directions for the leaving of the
town thither.
Q. And you heard no more of them that day?
A. Only from some that had met them on their road here for the maying. Who did ask
their business of me, supposing they had lodged by my roof.
Q. Out of mere curiosity?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. But no other news of their journeying that day?
A. No sir, not a word. Until that of the violet man, a sennight later.
Q. The which, what is he?
A. 'Tis how they named him, poor Dick, seeing they knew none other for him. But first,
sir, I must say the mare. Of which I heard, without knowing what I heard. 'Twas late on
the morrow, the second of May. One Barnecott of Fremington, that is badger and that I
do know well of his trade these many years, did come by upon his business, and did
speak of a loose horse on his way hither. He said, 'twas wild, would not be caught, and
the hour pressing for him. So he gave up.
Q. What manner of horse?
A. An old bay pad-mare, sir. She wore no harness, no bridle nor saddle. He but said it
idly in passing, thinking it run from its field. 'Tis nothing unaccustomed, our horses here
are much mixed with the moorland kind, and such no more like being crimped in the one
meadow than an Egyptian.
Q. This was the pack-horse?
A. As I know now, sir. But I took no account of it till the man Dick was found.
Q. How heard you of that?
A. From one who passed at Daccombe when his corse was brought on a hurdle.
Q. How far is Daccombe from here?
A. A good league, sir.
Q. And how and where was the body found?
A. By a shepherd-boy. In a great wood we call Cleave Wood, that stretches to the moor
and is more steep than ne'er a man may walk in many places, more cleave than combe.
He might have hung there seven years and not been found. If God had not willed it
otherwise. 'Tis place fitter for polecats than human mortals.
Q. This is near where the horse was seen?
A. A mile above the road, sir, where it was seen.
Q. And this tale of violets?
A. Is true, sir. 'Twas all said at the inquisition. I have spaken with one who went to cut
the corse down and carry it back before 'twas staked and buried at Daccombe Cross. He
said 'twas a tuft torn up by its roots, stuffed in the poor man': mouth before he took his
last leap, and still bloomed as green as on a bank. 'Twas taken as witchcraft, sir, by many.
But the more learned say the plant took sustenance from the flesh, finding it soil at heart,
as we must all come to. Yet 'twas as strange a sight as ever he saw, my man said, to see
such sweetness in a blackened face.
Q. You took here no suspicion as to who it was?
A. No, sir. Nor then, nor when the crowner's man first came For it was a full week gone,
ye must understand, since the had passed. And Daccombe, 'tis not our parish. With that
my guests were five, I had no thought of one alone come to such an end, without inquiry
made of the gentlemen his masters.
Q. And next?
A. Next was the finding of the brassbound chest, sir, close by the road where Cleave
Wood runs and the old mare was seen. Then at last I waked, and prompt advised my
friend Mr Tucker, who is mayor, of my reasonings. And then did Mr Tucker and myself,
with Mr Acland the apothecary, that is clerk to our town, for he do know somewhat also
of the law, and Digory Skinner, that is sergeant at mace and our constable, and others
beside, ride out upon Posse comitatus, that we might inquire and make report.
Q. When was this?
A. The first week of June, sir. We rode to where they had took the chest. And I knew at
once 'twas the same as the gentleman's, Mr Bartholomew's. My ostler Ezekiel has
likewise since seen it, who helped rope it on with their other baggages that very morning
they left. Then I would see the horse, 'twas haltered by then and kept in a farm nearby.
And I took a suspicion that that too was the same, sir, and sat down and bethought me,
and would hear more of the violet man's looks. Which he I spoke of that had seen him,
told me. That he was fair of hair, and had blue eyes. And then it was plain, and all was
writ by Mr Acland to Barnstaple, to the Crowner.
Q. Have you no coroner here?
A. By charter, sir. But none to fill the place. 'Tis lapsed. So he of Barnstaple was called.
Q. Dr Pettigrew?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. This chest had been hidden?
A. 'Twas thrown in a goyal of thick bushes, four hundred paces from the road. But he
who found it saw a glint of the brass, amid the leaves.
Q. A goyal, what is that?
A. A combelet, sir. A narrow sunken place.
Q. And this place lies also below where the body was found?
A. Yes.
Q. The chest was empty?
A. As your glass, sir. And there is a tale there, that Dorcas must tell. For some say now
'twas full of gold, but she saw when 'twas open, and that it was not.
Q. I shall ask her. Now, had they not other baggage?
A. Yes, sir. A great leather portmantee, and else. But 'tis not found, not a smallest piece,
nor the seam beside.
Q. It was searched for well?
A. Ten men, sir. And the constables. And they were much afeared they should come upon
other corses, that all was waylaid and murthered. Some think 'tis so still, if we but knew
where to look.
Q. Then why was the fellow Dick's not hidden also?
A. I know not, sir. 'Tis all riddle. Some say he murthered and hid, and ended his life in
despair. Others would have it he was in league with the murtherers, but repented, and so
they must silence him and made it seem like self-murther, they being in too much haste to
bury him.
Q. You are troubled with such here?
A. Not this twenty years past, sir, thank the Lord.
Q. Then I think not much to your second explanation, Master Puddicombe.
A. Nor I, sir. I say no more than what is said. But certain 'tis that some foul deed was
done, about the place where the mare ran loose and the chest was found. And I'll tell ye
why, sir. If they had gone further, they must have passed by Daccombe. And being May
Day, with many in the streets, it would have beer marked.
Q. They were seen by none there?
A. Not one eye, sir. They passed not.
Q. There are no other roads?
A. Not that wise travellers take, nor cumbered as they were Nor would they know them,
sir, being strangers. Nor even i1 they did, take them if they were truly for Bideford.
Q. They were asked of there?
A. Yes, sir. But the scent was cold. For it is a busy town, and full enough of strange
faces. Those Dr Pettigrew sent had no gain for their pains. 'Twas said as much at the
second inquisition.
Q. That night they passed beneath this roof, heard you no quarrels? High words?
A. No, Sir.
Q. None came to speak to them, apart from Mr Beckford? No messenger, no strange
person?
A. No, sir.
Q. Mr Brown, may you describe his looks?
A. Why, sir, more fierce in face than manner.
Q. How, fierce?
A. Rather I would say grave. Such as a learned doctor, as us say here.
Q. Then unlike to his supposed occupation? Was he not said a merchant?
A. I cannot tell, sir. I know not London. But they be great men there, 'tis said.
Q. Was he fat or thin? How tall?
A. Why, middling in all, sir. A sound carriage.
Q. Of what age?
A. Near fifty, sir, I can say no more. Perhaps more.
Q. No other thing that bears upon my enquiry?
A. Not that I can think of at this present, sir. Naught of importance, ye may be sure.
Very well, Master Puddicombe. I thank you. And at your pain to keep my commission
secret, as I warned.
A. I have sworn, sir. My word is my bond, I assure ye. King and true church. I am no
fanatick nor meeting man. Ask any here.

Jurat tricesimo uno die Jul. anno Domini 1736 coram me

Henry Ayscough
 The Examination and Deposition of
Dorcas Hellyer
the which doth attest upon her sworn
oath, this one and thirtieth day
of July in the tenth year of the
reign of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.

I AM SEVENTEEN years of age, born of this place, spinster. I am maid of all work to
Master and Mistress Puddicombe.

Q. Your master has told you of my purpose here?

A. Yes, Sir.
Q. And that you stand upon oath as in a court of law?
A. Yes, Sir.
Q. So speak truth, for this person will write down all you say.
A. Book truth, sir.
Q. Very well. Now I would have you look upon this portrait again. Is he the gentleman
you attended in this very chamber on the last of April past?
A. Yes, Sir. I believe 'tis he.
Q. You are sure? Thou must say if thou art not, girl. No harm will come to thee for that.
A. I be sure.
Q. Very well. You served the two gentlemen their supper?
A. Yes, Sir. Their supper and all else.
Q. Is it not a more usual case that travelling gentlemen, such as lodge here, are served by
their own servants?
A. 'Tis as they please, sir. Few do pass.
Q. No remark on this was made?
A. No, Sir.
Q. Did they speak together as you served?
A. No, Sir. Not that us heard.
Q. You stayed as they ate?
A. I would, sir. But they told I to leave, once 'twas brought ready.
Q. They would serve themselves?
A. Yes, Sir.
Q. Marked you naught in their manner?
A. What should us mark, sir?
Q. I but ask thee. Recollect. Seemed they troubled, or impatient to be left alone?
A. Not beyond the having rid far, sir. And 'twas said, poorly dined.
Q. And wishing to sup without further ado? A. Yes, sir.
Q. What ate they?
A. Collops and eggs and a mess of dry pease and onion with brook-sallet beside, and a
bowl of whitepot after.
Q. They ate well of these?
A. Yes, sir. Passing well.
Q. Seemed they friendly the one to the other? Not angry, as if they had quarrelled?
A. No, sir.
Q. Which gentleman gave you their commands?
A. The older gentleman, sir.
Q. And later you brought tea to the same and Mr Beckford?
(Non comprendit.) Chay, girl. Bohea. China leaf.
A. Yes, sir. 'Twas below.
Q. What did they speak that you heard?
A. Mr Beckford spake of himself, that I do remember.
Q. What of himself?
A. Of his family, sir. For he come from Wiltshire. I heard he to tell of a lady his sister,
who is new-married in Salisbury city.
Q. And nothing else?
A. No, sir.
Q. Have you seen Mr Beckford converse thus with strangers before?
A. Yes, sir. For where he lodges, 'tis close across the square, no more than there where
you may turn and see, sir. And he may see all from his window.
Q. He enjoys genteel company?
A. None else, sir. Or so it be said.
Q. Now, Dorcas, what saw you in either gentleman's bed chamber, among their
belongings, that you thought strange?
A. Nothing, sir. Unless 'twas the chest and papers.
Q. what papers are these?
A. The younger gentleman, sir, in a chest he had carried up. Some was spread upon the
table there, where that gentleman writes, when us brought him more light. The older
gentle man did ask for it to go up when he came down to Mr. Beckford.
Q. He was reading?
A. Yes, sir. He wished more light.
Q. What manner of papers?
A. I could not tell, sir. I has no alphabet.
Q. You would say letters? Had these papers superscription - address?
A. Us can't read, sir.
Q. Yes, yes. But you have seen letters - saw you seal, or folds, or close writing?
A. No, sir. 'Twas more like counting papers.
Q. What are they?
A. As Master writes in his bills of lodging, sir, for those who want such.
Q. You mean there were numbers written thereon?
A. Yes, sir. Numbers and signs that were no alphabet letters, for I knows their look.
Q. And fell these numbers in lines and columns, as upon a bill or accompt?
A. No, sir. Among figures.
Q. What figures?
A. Us saw one, 'twas a great circle, and another with three sides and marks like the
moon.
Q. How, like the moon?
A. Like a cheese-rind, sir, or the black in the old moon.
Q. Upon a curve?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. With counting numbers beside?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Upon that table you saw how many papers such as bore figures and numbers?
A. Many, sir. A dozen or more, like enough.
Q. And the size of each paper?
A. As the gentleman writes on now. And one twice as large.
Q. Put folio and demi-folio. They were written in ink, by hand? ';
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Not as letters are printed in a book - they were not pages taken from a book?
A. No, sir.
Q. Did the gentleman write?
A. No, sir. Not that us saw.
Q. Saw you the means - an inkstand, pen or quill?
A. No, sir.
Q. And the chest was full of other such papers?
A. Some, sir. And books, and among them a great clock of brass, without its case.
Q. A clock - you are sure?
A. 'Twas so big, sir, like unto the workings of mistress Puddicombe's mantel-clock, when
'tis seen through its back-gate.
Q. Saw you a dial, hands to mark the hour?
A. No, sir, for it lay the face down. But us saw a mizmaze of wheels, as in our clock.
Q. And these books - where were they?
A. The chest was by the door, sir, with his lid thrown back. 'Twas in shadow, but us
peeped in as us went.
Q. You saw books therein?
A. Yes, sir. They say now 'twas all gold, 'tis why they were murthered.
Q. But you know that was not true?
A. Yes, sir. But they will not believe I.
Q. No matter. I believe thee, Dorcas. Now I come to Louise, the maid. I would hear what
prattle passed between you.
A. Us spoke a little when I took her to her room, sir. But that was all.
Q. Of what?
A. Of how far they had rid, sir. Of where they went. Such things.
Q. And nothing of herself?
A. Yes, sir, for I asked. And she said she was brought for maid to a lady to Bideford
town, the gentlemens' relation. And as how her old mistress to London was gone abroad,
and would not take her. Then she asked if us knew Bideford and I said us
had been there but once with my father, which is truth, and it is a large town enough, and
fine market.
Q, Did she give her past mistress's name?
A. She said a name, sir, but us don't mind it now.
Q. An English name?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. A lady of title?
A. No, sir, plain mistress. Us be forgot.
Q. Did you not ask this Louise whence she came, where she was born?
A. She said of Bristow city, sir, by her birth. But she had been long in London, maid all
her grown life, for her parents were dead. Could sew and dress hair, and how there were
good wages for such as she there.
Q. She asked you nothing of yourself?
A. Yes, sir. If I liked my mistress, and whether us was happy at work.
Q. What else?
A. Us did not talk long, sir. I was called for. And she said she knew us was busy, and
would be no burden. That she was very weary, and would sup alone, but us need not care,
for he called Dick should bring it above.
Q. She said nothing of the two gentlemen?
A. That she had not set eyes on them till ten days before, but her past mistress had spake
well of the older.
Q. What said she of the two menservants?
A. She said nothing of Farthing, sir. And of the other, Dick, who was deaf and dumb, that
he meant no harm and us was not to be afear'd of his looks and ways.
Q. I would have thee search thy mind, my child. Seemed she truly a lady's maid, as she
would have the world believe, or one for some purpose but feigning to be so?
A. She had London ways, sir. She was well-spoken, and very comely, such eyes a man
might die for.
Q. More like a lady than a maid? Too fair for her station?
A. I cannot say, sir. But she did say her words somewhat as they do from Bristow.
Q. You would say, without the airs and manners of a lady? y
A. Yes, sir. And she did not go to bed after she supped, as she said. For when I came to
my own bed an hour or more later, us passed by the younger gentleman's chamber.
And she was within.
Q. You heard her voice?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Did you stop and listen?
A. Yes, sir, begging your pardon. A moment or two, for us was a-wonder to hear her
there, when us thought her asleep.
Q. Could you hear what was said?
A. The door is thick and they spake low, sir.
Q. Who spoke most?
A. The gentleman, sir.
Q. What made you of this?
A. That he gave her instructions to please her new mistress, sir.
Q. You heard such? Thou must tell me what passed.
A. On my oath, sir. Us tried, but us couldn't.
Q. Why should he give such instructions at such an hour?
A. I don't know, sir.
Q. I ask again. Did you not think: this is no lady's maid?
A. Us thought it strange they should speak so long, sir.
Q. How do you know it was long - did you not say you tarried but a moment or two?
A. So us did, sir. But her chamber was next to I's and Betty's, sir. And we heard her creep
in and close the latch before us slept, which was half an hour or more after.
Q. Did you not think her service might be more to the young gentleman's pleasure than
her new mistress at Bideford?
A. I dursn't say, sir.
Q. Come, Dorcas, thou art seventeen, brisk and pretty. I'll wager thou hast ten sweethearts
already.
A. yes, sir. I have one, that I shall marry.
Q. Then spare me thy blushes. Saw you no evidence the next morning that the
conversation had been carnal?
A. I don't know carnal, sir.
Q. That they had lain between the sheets.
A. No, sir. For the bed was not slept in.
Q. Not slept in - you are sure?
A. Yes, sir. It had been laid upon, but the clothes not taken back, nor nothing.
Q. And heard you no other person enter this young woman's chamber next to yours?
A. No, sir.
Q. Nor her leave in the night?
A. No, sir.
Q. Nor voice nor sound there?
A. No, sir. Us sleep deep, and Betty the same.
Q. Seemed she one of ill virtue, a trollop, a harlot?
A. No, sir.
Q. Did she not perchance tell you that with handsome looks like yours she could find you
a far better place and richer vails in London?
A. No, sir.
Q. Or perchance a tale of woe, of being crossed in love?
A. Nor that neither, sir.
Q. Seemed she sad or happy with her lot?
A. I don't know, sir. 'Twas like she had better stayed where she was than come so far
among strangers.
Q. She said as much?
A. 'Twas her look that said, sir.
Q. She smiled not?
A. But once or twice, sir. Then she seemed else.
Q. How else? You would say, more skittish and gay?
A. No, sir. Us don't know how to say.
Q. Come, girl. I shan't eat thee.
A. When they had gone, us found a flowered kerchief upon her pillow, like 'twas there for
I to find, to please I.
Q. Where is this cloth now?
A. My mother made us burn it, sir. When the murthers were known, and the violet man.
For she said 'twould bring us ill luck.
Q. It was of costly stuff?
A. Yes, sir. Indian cotton, the like, close-worked with blooms and strange small fowl.
Q. More than a maid might buy?
A. 'Twas such the Tiverton higgler showed last fairtide, that he said new made in London
town, and wouldn't sell ever below three shilling; and said good as the Indian, tho' not,
nor against the king's law to wear.
Q. The next morning did you not ask her what she had been about in the younger
gentleman's chamber so long?
A. No, sir, for us spoke only to say goodbye. 'Twas May Day, and much to do, work for
three.
Q. I am told the man Farthing took liberties with thee, Dorcas.
A. He would, but I would not 'bide 'em, not I.
Q. He took you aside?
A. He came after where I had need to go in the still-room, sir, when us had supped, and
tried to embrace I. But when us would not suffer it, he said us should come later where he
slept above the stable, and promised I a shilling if I would, and suchlike.
Q. And you would have none of him?
A. No, sir. He was much in drink, and I did not care for the mommet, and knew he be
liar.
Q. How so?
A. That he did speak evil of the other man, called Dick, at supper, that he was half beast
and would have his wicked way with us if he had his chance. When he was as bad, or
worse. And when us would not take his shilling, he then would come to where us sleep,
he said to protect I, but I believed him not.
Q. And he came not, in the night?
A. No, sir. Tho' I wish he mought, and had our Betty kiss his head with her cudgel
Q. Did he tell you he should leave early, before dawn, as I hear?
A. No, sir, not a word.
Q. I see thou art an honest maid, Dorcas.. Thou art constant at church?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Be always so. And here's the shilling for thee, that thy honesty lost.

Jurat die et anno supradicto coram

Henry Ayscough
 The Examination and Deposition of
Mr Sampson Beckford
the which doth attest upon his sworn
oath, this one and thirtieth day
of July in the tenth year of the
reign of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.

MY NAME IS Sampson Beckford. I am clerk, of Wadham College, Oxon., and curate of

this parish since Michaelmas two years past. My age is twenty-seven years, I am not
married.

Q. I thank you for attending me, sir. I shall take little of your time.
A. Take all you will, sir. I am at your service.
Q. I thank you, Mr Beckford. I take it you had never set eyes on Mr Brown or Mr
Bartholomew before this 30th of April last?
A. Most unequivocally not, sir.
Q. Nor had any expectation, forewarning by letter, I know not what, of their coming
here?
A. Nor that, sir. My calling was inspired by civility. I chanced to see them ride up, I took
them for persons of education. Rarissimae aves, Mr Ayscough, in this unhappy town.
Q. You have my sympathies, sir.
A. I thought to assure them that they had not arrived in wildest Muscovy, as I doubt not
they might well have supposed at the appearance of the place - to show we are not quite
without politesse, for all our exile from speakable society.
Q. You did not meet the younger gentleman?
A. I did not, sir. His uncle, Mr Brown, told me he was much fatigued, and made his
excuses.
Q. And this uncle - he told you the purpose of their journey was to visit his sister at
Bideford?
A. His allusions were veiled, but I understood him to intimate that his nephew had
hitherto foolishly neglected certain expectations of property, since the lady had no
descent of her own.
Q. Did he particularize the nephew's foolishness - of what nature was it?
A. I can't say that he did, sir. I meant to say that such neglect is always foolish. He made
some hint of a life too much given to pleasure, of living above one's means. I recall he
used that very phrase.
Q. That the nephew had outrun his means?
A. Just so.
Q. He was reproving of his nephew?
A. How shall I put it to you, sir? I saw as I thought an uncle and guardian who has led a
sober, industrious and Christian life and finds himself obliged to look upon the tares of
folly in his own close kin. Though I noted he blamed London in part, and its temptations.
I recall he spoke particularly against the licence of the theatres and coffee-houses, and
would have had them all closed down.
Q. He spake of himself?
A. That he was a London merchant. I presumed of some wealth, since he adverted in
passing to one of his ships. And at another time to a friend, alderman of the City.
Q. But named neither?
A. Not that I recall.
Q. Did he declare himself likewise City alderman?
A. No, sir.
Q. Now did you not find it strange, Mr Beckford, that this London merchant - I know
them well, sir, they are a close breed - should tell you of delicate family business, upon so
short an acquaintance?
A. He ventured no detail, sir. I took it as a compliment to my cloth. That he owed me as a
gentleman some small explanation of their presence here.
Q. But he was gentleman by wealth rather than breeding?
A. Exactly so, sir. My own impression. A worthy man, but not of true refinement. He
asked me of my cure here, which was civil. But when, by way of modestly alluding to my
sense that my merits are somewhat wasted in this place, I ventured an apt line or two of
the poet Ovid, I think he was taken somewhat at a loss.
Q. He knew more of counting-houses than of classical tongues?
A. I deemed it so.
Q. But what think you now, Mr Beckford? You know search was lately made for this
lady his sister, and none found?
A. I do, and am entirely at a loss. Why a man of such seeming substance and honesty
should go to such prevaricating lengths to mislead me - suffice it to say I have thought
much on it. His real purpose was evidently not one that could be told strangers. I fear me,
because it was evil.
Q. Others here marked that on occasion it was the feigned repentant nephew who gave
instructions and took precedence, while the uncle stood by. What say you to that?
A. I have heard it since, sir. And I must tell you that when I first watched them from my
window as they came to this inn, and speculated as to their business here, I confess but
idly, yet be that as it may - I did not then suppose them by their manner uncle and
nephew.
Q. But what?
A. I could not say, sir. I put no clear name to it. I thought rather a young gentleman and
an older one of your own honourable profession, it may be on some affair of legal aspect.
Perhaps a tutor. I truly could not say, save that the conjecture of a blood relationship did
not enter my mind. I fancy I was somewhat surprised to learn it when I waited upon
them.
Q. What manner of speaking had Mr Brown?
A. A grave, plain manner, without flowers or figures. Well enough.
Q. You had no suspicion that something illicit or unseemly was afoot?
A. I confess not, sir. I took him at his word. The circumstances were not such as to
provoke my incredulity. The case is common enough.
Q. Spake you both, in this conversation, more of his affairs or of your own?
A. Your question is well asked, sir. I have thought on that, also. I believe he may have led
me to speak more of myself than either my natural inclination wished or strict politeness;
allows.
Q. If I may put it thus bluntly, you were somewhat his gull it this?
A. He would know of my hopes and disappointments, then of the state of religion in this
godless place. I have the misfortune to be a youngest son, Mr Ayscough. We are afflicted
with schism here, to a most wicked degree, and it is much on m) mind. I confess that if
invited by a sympathetic listener, I dc not stint the expression of my loyal abhorrences. I
fear it was so that evening.
Q. He sympathized with your views - would hear more of them?
A. He did, sir, and even did me the honour of wishing there were more who held them as
strongly. And regretted he could not stay to hear a sermon I was to preach that coming
Sunday, in which I do myself the justice to say that I handsomely refuted the pernicious
arguments of those who would deprive us of our tithes. You would perhaps care to peruse
a copy of it I chance to have retained?
Q. I should esteem that honour, sir.
A. I will have my man bring it, as soon as I return home.
Q. I thank you. But now, Mr Beckford, I must sow a seed of doubt in your mind. Do you
not know that the City is Whig to a man? That most would never embrace what I
understand to be your worthy sentiments upon religion? That respect of ancient principle,
save that of their own secular right, holds little place among them? That many have room
for only one god in their world, that is Mammon, to wit, their own profit; and will flout
all that doth threaten to hobble or trammel it. Did you not find it strange that this
merchant should show such sympathy for your own views?
A. I must confess myself his dupe, sir. Alas, I know indeed of these matters, and how
such would tolerate our nonconformists and schismatics to a most reprehensible degree;
but here I believed I had stumbled upon a happy exception to this general rule.
Q, Might not this merchant uncle have been in truth a man of law - since we have some
skill in directing a train of discourse? I pray you, think, sir. Does this bear root in your
recollection?
A. He had not your manner, sir. With respect.
Q. But allowing for the circumstance that he was or might have been, for some reason
unknown, obliged to conceal his ordinary manner and that you were shown but a
plausible screen, not what truly lay behind?
A, By such hypothesis it is possible, sir. Yes, it is possible he but played a part. I can say
no more.
Q. Id est, he was one trained to deceive, and even a gentleman so perspicuous and
educated as yourself, sir? He spake, would you say, in a natural fashion - not as one who
has affairs to hide, in a low voice, or such?
A. As I say, sir. With some gravity, yet I thought openly. As one accustomed to speak his
mind on public matters in public places.
Q. I would have you describe him to me.
A. Of middling height, somewhat stout in the belly. A fair complexion for his age, though
somewhat pale. The gaze penetrating, as if he were a fair judge of men. Heavy brows.
Q. Now, sir, if you would be so kind as to guess upon his age.
A. Forty five years are certain. I would guess a lustrum more.
Q. No other distinguishing characters?
A. I marked a wart to one side of his nose. Here.
Q. Put the right nostril. No rings?
A. A wedding band.
Q. Gold?
A. Yes. And plain, if memory serves.
Q. His dress?
A. Of good cloth, but I noticed somewhat worn, as it might be his travelling suit. The wig
somewhat in the old style.
Q. The linen clean?
A. Indeed, sir. All as one might expect in a person of such a kind.
Q. I felicitate you on your memory, sit. Now no other peculiarities, no manners you
marked especially?
A. He took snuff, sir, and too frequently to my taste. I found it little elegant.
Q. Mr Beckford, you have heard nothing subsequent to the events that is pertinent to
them - I should add, beyond what is common knowledge?
A. I have heard idle gossip, it is everywhere. The benighted clowns hereabouts are much
given to it.
Q. But nothing from other gentlemen or their families in this neighbourhood?
A. In this parish there is alas only Mr Henry Devereux to whom I may grant the
appellation. He was not then here.
Q. He is here now?
A. He is returned a fortnight since to Bath.
Q. But you spoke to him of the matter?
A. I did my best to satisfy his curiosity, sir.
Q. And he seemed as ignorant as one might expect?
A. Quite so.
Q. Gentlemen of your own cloth?
A. I live in a desart, sir, though it pains me to say it. No person of refinement would
happily inhabit such a region as this, were he not, as I, forced to it by circumstance. I
regret to say that my fellow in the cloth on one side is far more a professor of the hunting
of the fox and the like than of his faith. He would sooner have his bells rung for a good
main than for divine service. On the other, at Daccombe, is a gentleman who devotes his
life to his garden and his glebe and allows his church to look after itself.
Q. Mr Devereux is your patron?
A. No, sir. That is Canon Bullock of Exeter. He holds the prebend, and is my vicar in
title.
Q. Of the Chapter?
A. Just so. He visits but once a year, for the tithes. He is old, near seventy years now.
Q. This is a family borough, is it not? Mr Fane and Colonel Mitchell are the members?
A. They are, sir. But they have not honoured us since the last election.
Q. Since two years ago, in short? They were entered unopposed?
A. Indeed, sir.
Q. And they have made no enquiries, concerning the events in question?
A. Neither to me nor to any, that I have knowledge of.
Q. Very well. Enough of that. You had no communication with the three servants?
A. None whatsoever.
Q. Have you knowledge of other travellers in these parts being robbed or murdered -
either since or previous to your coming hither?
A. Not in this parish or its neighbours. I have heard tales of a gang of footpads near
Minehead some five years past. But I understand all are long since caught and hanged.
They came not this far afield.
Q. No highwaymen?
A. There is not rich enough custom for them here. There are scoundrels and pickpockets
enough at Bideford, who prey upon the quays. And travelling Irish that are little better.
But we are strict on such here who have no passes. They are soon whipped out of the
parish.
Q. Have you formed any opinion as to what happened on the first of May?
A. Only that divine retribution was exacted upon gross deceit.
Q. You would say, they were all murdered?
A. I have heard it proposed that the two servants were in league and did murder their
masters, then fell out over the booty and the maid, whom the victor took, and then
escaped by taking devious ways.
Q. But why should they have waited thus far from London to do the deed? And why
should your victor, if he was so cunning as to conceal the first two bodies beyond finding,
not conceal the third the same?
A. I cannot tell, sir. Unless it were in the awful haste of his guilt.
Q. You mistake your comprehensive rogue, Mr Beckford. I have had dealings with too
many of that brotherhood not to know they are far more concerned for their mortal skins
than their eternal souls. A man who should have waited thus long to premeditate his
crime ... no hothead, sir. He would not have acted thus.
A. I must bow to your greater experience. I can advance no further possibility.
Q. Never mind, sir. You have assisted me more than you may know. As I informed you
in our preliminaries, I am not at liberty to reveal the name of the person at whose behest I
prosecute these enquiries. But I will tell you, in the confidence that I may rely on your
utmost discretion, that it is the fate of he who called himself Mr Bartholomew that is my
concern.
A. I am most sensible of your trust, sir. If I do not violate delicacy, may I ask if the
younger gentleman were not of noble family?
Q. I can say no more, Mr Beckford. I act upon the strictest instructions. So far as the
world is concerned the person in question is engaged upon a voyage in France and Italy.
Such indeed was his declared intention before his departure from London.
A. I must beg leave to admire that you know so little of his companion.
Q. Because with one exception, sir, videlicet the dead man, those who came with him
here were not those he had engaged for his supposed voyage. Where he found these, we
do not know. Since he was secret in all and hid his own true name, we must suppose he
also had them to hide theirs. It is to this that you owe the tedious imposition of my
questions. You perceive my task is no small one.
A. I do indeed, Mr Ayscough.
Q. I leave tomorrow to pursue my quarry elsewhere. But I shall greatly esteem it, should
you chance to hear of any further information in the affair, that you will at once
communicate it to me at Lincoln's Inn. Rest assured that I will see to it that your good
offices do not go unnoticed.
A. There is nothing, sir, I would not do to oblige a deceived parent, and especially were
he of noble birth.
Q. I shall find the bottom to this, Mr Beckford. I work slow, but I sift small. What heresy
is to gentlemen of your cloth, subterfuge and deceit are to those of mine. I will not suffer
them in my parish, sir. I'll not rest till all's laid bare.
A. Amen to that, sir. May Heaven concur in granting us both our prayers.

Jurat die tricesimo et uno Jul.

anno supradicto coram me

Henry Ayscough
Barnstaple, the 4th Augt.

Your Grace,

Would that it were not my unhappy duty to inform Your Grace that my journey west has
met with success in the least, but defeat in the greatest matter. Non est inventus. But since
it was Yr Grace's most express command that he should be spared nothing of what I
might find, I must obey.
The testimonies I enclose for Your Grace's perusal will I doubt not lead him to
conclude that of the true person of Mr Bartholomew there can be no room for mistake;
and most particularly when it is grounded not solely (which Yr Grace may consider
sufficient in itself) upon the portrait entrusted to me, but the particular circumstance of a
servant without speech or hearing, moreover according in all other report of appearance
and manner. I have not troubled Yr Grace with some several further testimonies I have
sought and undertaken, since they but largely repeat what is here sent. Dr Pettigrew, the
Coroner, has affirmed all within his cognizance and recollection; and I have spoke also
with his clerk, who rode out upon the first report, the doctor (who is aged) being
indisposed when it fell.
I must beseech Your Grace (and his august consort, to whom I beg leave to
present my humblest compliments) not to take the discovery of Thurlow's end at prima
facie seeming, that is, as certain proof of some far greater tragedy. Those who would
place such burden upon it are ignorant, fearful people, more apt (omne ignotum pro
magnifico est) for the most part to see the Devil's hand in all than to weigh with reason.
Their hypothesis requires a body, and here we have none; neither the noble person of
such interest to Yr Graces, nor those of his three unknown companions on his journey.
More to the purpose I have had searched by two dozen sharpeyed fellows, well-
versed in loco and under promise of good reward, all that place where the chest was
found. Not a bush, not an inch, was not searched again, and over a much wider extent;
idem, where Thurlow was found, and all about, and as closely, may assure Yr Grace that
auspicium melioris aevi a blank covert was drawn in every quarter. In all of this Yr Grace
may likewise be assured that the discretion he enjoined has been most scrupulously
observed. When need hath driven, I have declared myself Mercury to Jupiter, steward to
one who reaches far; and given no clew whatsoever as to his most eminent rank. To Dr
Pettigrew alone I have told near truth, that this is no common case of disappearance; he is
a worthy gentleman, of strictest principle, and may be trusted.
Yr Grace once did me the honour of saying he placed as great trust upon my nose
as upon that of his favourite hound; if he will still credit that oracular appendage, it tells
me that he whom search both lives and breathes, and shall be found; tho' I cannot deny
the purpose of his presence in this county is most difficult I unfold, and I have yet,
lacking all scent to it, no opinion thereon. The pretext given, 'tis clear, was ad captandum
vulgum, powder I blind other eyes; yet neither can I conceive what might have drawn his
Lordship, so contrary to all his tastes and proclivities, into this dull and barbarous western
land. There where his footsteps were last seen is not unlike some of Yr Grace's ruder an
more bosky dales, tho' less elevated in their heights, and more tree'd than bemoored (save
where 'tis pasture for sheep), an unless it be upon a great filthy barren hill named Ex-moo
whence the river Exe takes its source, that lies some few miles t the north. All here is at
this present the more displeasing for this last month's continued rains, that is said out of
living memory, and hath done much damage to hay and growing corn alike, and buildings
beside. ('Tis said in sad jest that it matters not so many mills be ruined, for there will be
no corn for grindstones, smut and the mildew being in league to take all first.)
The common people are more secret than ours, their language most obscure and
uncouth. They know not the pronominal nor its conjugation, speaking of he and she
indifferently as her (aitchum non amant), of we as us, all f’s grow v’s: 'tis a most foul-
ravelled Boeotian, the which my clerk hath endeavoured to spare Yr Grace the expression
of, for his quicker comprehension. Nor is there person of education at the miserable place
where last his Lordship lodged, beyond Mr Beckford. I doubt not, that gentleman would
be as high a Tory as ever Sacheverell was, were not all bishops Whigs. He'd turn
Mahometan tomorrow, to gain a better living.
I trust Yr Grace will accept my belief that little remains to be discovered in these
parts. My further inquisitions both at Bideford and in this town whence I have the honour
to address Yr Grace have met no more success than those of Dr Pettigrew. Yet must I
now deem it certain his Lordship was here, upon ends unknown. There is none of his
Lordship's acquaintance that I inquired upon before proceeding here to account for the
pretended uncle and his man. Nor, as Yr Grace will recall, did I then discover suspicion
or noise of any clandestine and illicit attachment on his Lordship's part, that might
explain the maid. Even were it so, and her outward seeming mask upon a lady, I cannot
suppose that the scandal of such an elopement would not by now have been cried about;
nor, non obstante such being the case, understand why their flight should not have been
straight to Dover or some place more contiguous for France, rather than to these most
disconvenient (for the purpose) parts.
In truth I remain at a loss to suggest to Yr Grace what need his Lordship had for
these three superadded persons in his train. It is to be presumed that to travel alone with
his man had best suited the secrecy of his intent. I can but surmise that he deemed a party
of five, in which he played a subordinate part to the supposed uncle, more favourable to
throw off pursuit, if such for some reason were feared. 'Tis possible this coming to Devon
is no more than a hare's double, if Yr Grace will pardon the expression. Both Bideford
and Barnstaple have frequent trade with Wales and Ireland, some also with France,
Portugal and Cadiz, this last grown greater since the new peace. I have inquired and no
French-bound ship sailed (though several for Newfoundland and New England, for this is
the favoured season) from either place in the first two weeks of May. Yet must I count
such round-about to refuge little probable.
Your Grace knows better than I the attachment between his Lordship and
Thurlow. I have considered much on this, that is, on the great improbability of such a
fond master provoking the ghastly deed; or at the least, it once done, not making enquiry
upon the loss. I can account for it but by supposing his Lordship obliged for some reason
to turn Thurlow off and to continue his travels alone, and that (it may be) the man in his
natural deficiencies imperfectly understood his Lordship's reasons, and so took his life in
despair, after his Lordship had departed from him. But I will weary Yr Grace no further
with such conjecture.
Your Grace will doubtless mark the testimony of the serving-girl. 'Tis evident that
his Lordship brought papers and an instrument of his favoured study upon his journey, an
encumbrance little consonant with an elopement or sentimental assignation. I thought
therefore also to inquire whether any curiosi of the mathematick or astronomick sciences
resided in this neighbourhood. Through Dr Pettigrew's good offices I attended on one
such at Barnstaple, Mr Samuel Day, a gentleman of private fortune, and amateur of the
natural sciences, concerning which he has communicated with the Royal Society and Sir
H. Sloane, among others. But to my particular inquiries he could answer nothing of
import; nor could think of any study only to be satisfied by observation in this
neighbourhood; nor knew, closer than Bristol, of any other such as he that a London
virtuoso might wish to seek out. I fear that there too Yr Grace's servant found himself left
in tenebris. Even should such a matter be the primum mobile of his Lordship's journey, I
own I cannot conceive why it should, with so harmless a purpose, have been thus
conducted.
I did also, likewise upon advice of Dr Pettigrew, call but yesterday upon one Mr
Robert Luck, that is master of the grammar school here and accounted a learned scholar,
and good gossip besides. 'Twas he who taught the late Mr Gay his letters, of which
he remains inordinate proud, and inordinate blind to all that is seditious in this his ancient
pupil's work. He did press upon me a copy of Gay's eclogues, that were imprinted these
twenty years past under the title of the Shepherd's Week, and that Mr L. doth maintain to
be a most truthful portrait of this northern part of Devon; and likewise was pressed upon
me by this rhyming pedagogue a copy of some verses by himself, that is new published
by Cave and he says has been noticed in his magazine; both which volumes I dispatch
with this for Yr Grace's eyes, should he deign to bend them to such paltry stuff. As to my
inquiry, Mr Luck proved ill luck; like in all else, he could say nothing to the point.
Tomorrow I shall for Taunton, and there take coach without delay for London, to
prosecute a suspicion I have gained. Yr Grace will, I trust, forgive me for not here and
now expatiating upon it, since I am in haste not to delay the expedition of this packet,
which I might wish a veritable winged Mercury to bear to Yr Grace's hands, for I know
with what expectation it is attended; nor would my respect for Yr Grace dare risk raising
hopes upon too small a ground. Should such ground prove larger, it shall at once be
communicated. Yr Grace knows me well enough, I trust, to believe that quo fata trahunt,
sequamur, and with that every diligence which Yr Grace's past favours have lain as a
hallowed duty upon ever his most humble and obedient servant,

Henry Ayscough

Post-scriptum. Mr Luck did impart to me news fresh arrived from London of the most
disgraceful verdict at Edinburgh against Captain Porteous, and the riotings of the mob but
a week since at Shoreditch, the both which I know will alarm Yr Grace. 'Tis thought here
the mobility is consequent upon the Gin Act, that all resent. H.A.
THE MAN IN the dove-grey suit and discreetly flowered waistcoat stretched over an
incipient belly, with the heavy brows, the wart on the side of his nose, the rather too
studiedly imposing carriage, stands with his walking-cane in the doorway of the wood-
panelled chamber in Lincoln's Inn. One wall of it is mostly taken up with cased tomes of
precedent, rolls and parchments; before the cases stands a tall writing-desk and stool, a
sheaf of paper and writing materials neatly laid ready upon it. Opposite gleams a marble
mantelpiece on which sits a bust of Cicero. This is flanked by silver candlesticks, not in
present use; nor is the fire-grate below. A morning sunlight shafts the room's warm peace
from its south-facing windows ... which give, at a little distance, upon a wall of still green
leaves. From somewhere outside, since an upper sash is down, there sounds the faint yet
melodious voice of a woman crying first pearmains (for it is their season); but in the
room, silence.
The very small, frail and bewigged man in black, who reads behind a round table
in a far corner of the room does not look up from whatever he reads. The man in the
doorway glances round; but whoever conducted him to this point has mysteriously dis-
appeared. He therefore clears his throat, in the practised manner of one who has no
phlegm to lose, but a laggard attention to draw. At last the figure at the table looks up. He
is evidently a few years his visitor's senior, although physically his marked inferior, of
the puny build of a Pope or a Voltaire. The man in the door raises his hat with a hint of a
polite flourish, and slightly inclines.
`I have the honour to address Mr Ayscough? Mr Francis Lacy at your command,
sir.'
Most strangely the little lawyer does not offer any courtesy in exchange, but
merely lays down his papers and leans back a little in his armed and highbacked chair,
which almost dwarfs him, and folds his arms; then slightly tilts his head, like a robin alert
to prey. There is a quizzical, almost glistening fixity in the gaze of his grey eyes. Mr
Francis Lacy shows himself somewhat at a loss at this reception. He assumes a
forgetfulness in the man of law, a temporary inability to place, and speaks again.
`The Thespian, sir. I attend to meet your client, as requested.'
At last the lawyer speaks. `Be seated.'
`Sir.'
And the actor advances towards a chair on the opposite side of the table, with
regained aplomb. Before he reaches and can sit on it, the sound of the door behind being
firmly closed makes him turn. A tall and silent clerk, also in black, like a heron turned
crow, stands with his back to the door, a leatherbound quarto book in one hand. His stare
is as intent as his master's, though markedly more sardonic. Lacy looks back down at the
diminutive lawyer, who repeats his previous phrase.
`Be seated.'
Lacy parts his coat-tails and sits. There is a silence, and still the lawyer will not
leave the actor with his eyes. Ill at ease, the latter feels in his waistcoat pocket and
produces a silver snuffbox. He opens, then extends it.
`Do you partake, sir? It is best Devizes.' Ayscough shakes his head. `Then by your
leave.'
 Lacy places two pinches on the snuff cushion of his left hand and sniffs them in;
then snaps close and replaces the box in his pocket; at the same time extracting a lace
handkerchief, with which he dabs his nostrils.
`Your client has a dramatic effusion upon which he seeks my advice?'
`He does.'
`He has chosen well, sir, though I say it with modesty. Few can rival my
experience, even my critics do me the honour of granting that.' He waits for some polite
agreement, but the cue is not taken. `May I ask if his muse is laughing Thalia, or rather
grave Melpomene?'
`His muse is Terpsichore.'
‘Sir?'
`Is she not the muse of dance?'
`I am no dancing-master, sir. I fear you mistake. For the pantomime you must
seek my friend, Mr Rich.'
`No mistake.'
Lacy draws himself up a little. `I am an actor, sir. My talents are familiar to all the
cognoscenti of this city.'
The lawyer, who has not unfolded his arms, shows a humourless smile.
`And shall soon be as familiar to the cognoscenti of Tyburn. My client has written
a piece for you, my friend. It is called The Steps and the String, or Twang-dang-dillo-dee.
In which you shall jig upon the scaffold, at the end of Jack Ketch's rope.'
There is a moment's shock on Lacy's face, then he sits bolt upright, his cane held
to one side.
`Is this an impertinent jest, sir?'
The little lawyer stands, his hands on the table, and leans a fraction towards his
victim.
`No jest ... Mr Brown. By Heavens, no jest, you impudent rogue.'
The actor stares back at the fierce eyes, as if he cannot credit their sudden
sternness, or his own ears.
`My name is -'
`Four months since in the county of Devon you passed as Brown. Do you dare to
deny it?'
The actor looks abruptly away.
`You extravagate, sir. I take my leave.'
He stands and turns to march towards the door. The clerk, who still waits there,
and no longer has any smile, does not shift. He simply lifts the book he holds in front of
him, against his breast, holding it there with both hands, and exhibiting the cross stamped
on its leather cover. The lawyer's voice speaks sharply.
`You are smoked out, sirrah!' Lacy glances back, and draws himself up. `And do
not try your hollow airs upon me. It is not so long since that your kind were publicly
flogged for their pains. I advise you to put your buskins by. This is a chamber of the law.
No playhouse, where you can strut in a tawdry crown and awe a crowd of gaping dolts
with your rodomontadoes. Do I make myself plain?'
Once again the actor looks away from those eyes, through the nearest window and
at the green leaves, as if he wished himself among them. There is a small silence. At last
his eyes turn back.
 `I would have your authority to address me thus.'
The lawyer extends a small hand and, not leaving the actor's eyes, begins counting
his authority on his fingers.
`Item, I have inquired and you were not in London at the time in question. Item, I
have been where you were, I have marched in your mendacious footsteps. Item, I have
sworn affidavits as to your exact appearance, down to that very growth I perceive upon
your right nostril. Item, my clerk behind you has spoken with one who called on some
matter at your lodging at the said time and was told you was upon private business in the
West Country. And by whom, pray? None other than your wife, forsooth. Would you
have her so great a liar as yourself?'
`I will not deny I chanced to be in Exeter.'
`You lie.'
`It may be proven no lie. Ask at the Ship, beside the Cathedral, where I lay.'
`On what business?'
`Upon promise of an engagement ... which came to nothing.'
`I'll not discuss with you, Lacy. I have not done with other items. For servant you
had one Farthing, a Welsh fellow not worth his name. You also carried with you one who
passed as a maidservant, one Louise. Well may you cast your eyes down, sir. For there is
worse yet. You had one other with you, a servant both deaf and dumb, to your supposed
nephew, Mr Bartholomew. That servant is not disappeared, sir. But found dead, under
great suspicion of further foul murder done by persons hitherto unknown - but now
known, sir, and here before me!'
At the word `dead' the actor has looked up, and for the first time without
semblance of artifice.
`How ... dead?'
The lawyer slowly sits back down in his chair. He is silent a moment, sizing his
man. Then he poises his fingertips together and speaks in a less peremptory voice.
`Well, sir. And what's that to you? Were you not in Exeter at the time - upon
promise of an engagement?' The actor stands silent. `Did you not play a main part in an
impudent new satire, this last March and April, until the non-week? A piece called
Pasquin by an arrant rogue, one Fielding, at the Haymarket little theatre?'
`It is well known. All London saw it.'
`You were Fustian, were you not - a large part?'
`Yes.'
`A great success, I am told, like everything else in these sacrilegious times that
has the effrontery to mock the constitution. How long had it run, when the Easter week
came - April 17th, was it not, that you stopped?'
`Some thirty performances. I forget.'
`No, sir. Thirty-five. The longest run since its equal in impertinence, The Beggar's
Opera, was it not?'
`It is possible.'
`What, you don't know? Were you not also in that piece, these seven or eight
years past?'
`I took a small part, to please Mr Gay. We were friends, I had that honour.'
`Honour, indeed! Is that honour, to take a part that made a footpad and felon of
the most eminent commoner in this nation, its chief minister besides? Were you not that
most wicked and scurrilous travesty of Sir Robert Walpole, named Robin of Bagshot?
And your wife no better - was she not in that same piece Dolly Trull, a shameless trollop,
that I doubt she found it trouble to impersonate?'
`Sir, I most indignantly protest your last aspersion. My wife -'
`A fig for your wife. I know you, sir, and far better than you suppose. As I know
what happened when they return to resume with Pasquin on the 26th of April last. You
are mysteriously not there, sir, your fine part is played by someone else, one Topham, is
it not so? And I know the lying excuse you gave, sir, I have witnesses to it, for breaking
your engagement. Am I to believe that you forsook the triumph of the season, in which
you had a handsome share, to go to Exeter upon promise of an engagement? You were
bought away, Lacy, and I know by whom.'
The actor has stood at an oblique angle, listening to this, his head slightly down.
Now he looks back at the lawyer, a simpler man, without pretence.
`I have committed no crime, I know nothing of ... what you tell me. I will swear to
that.'
`You will not deny you were bought to accompany a person called Mr
Bartholomew on his journey west, in the last week of this April past?'
`I have a right to know what bears upon my answer to that.'
The little lawyer is silent for a moment. `I will tell you your right. Deny me still
and I will have you straight from this room to Newgate, then in chains to Devon, for the
next assize. Admit you are who I say, tell all under oath, and we may see. He for whom I
proceed shall decide.' He raises a stern finger. `But I warn you, I'll have all - not one tittle
omitted. Or he and I will have you broken into as many shards as a china pot. He has but
to nod, and you are dust. You shall curse the day that you were born.'
The actor returns to his chair and sits heavily. He shakes his head, and looks to the
floor.
`Well, sir?'
`I was deceived, sir, grossly deceived. I believed it a harmless subterfuge in
pursuit of a worthy and pitiable end.' He looks up. `You will not credit me, but you see an
honest man before you. That I was guilty of credulity, foolishness in what happened, alas
I cannot deny. But not of evil intent or action. I must pray you to believe that.'
`Plea me no pleas, sir. I give no credit, except upon facts.'
`To the estimable Mrs Lacy you are unjust. She had no part whatsoever in this.'
`I shall determine that.'
`You may ask of me, sir. I am well known in my profession. I knew Mr Gay well,
his friend the Duchess of Queensberry too, and her most august husband. I had the
honour of General Charles Churchill's friendship, I met him most often at Grosvenor
Street, before Mrs Oldfield died. I know Mr Rich of Goodman's Fields. Mr Cibber the
poet laureate, Mr Quin, the virtuous Mrs Bracegirdle. All will speak for me, that I am no
Thomas Walker, no shame to my profession.' The lawyer says nothing, watching him. `I
have offended some great person?' Still the lawyer says nothing, his gaze intent. `I feared
it might be so. If I had known at the beginning what I came to know finally .. .' Again he
is not answered. `What am I to do?'
`Make oath and tell, without omission. And from the beginning.'
 The Examination and Deposition of
Francis Lacy
the which doth attest upon his sworn
oath, this three and twentieth day ,
of August in the tenth year of the
reign of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.

MY NAME is Francis Lacy. I dwell at Hart Street near the Garden, two houses above the
Flying Angel. I am fifty-one years of age. I was born in London, in the parish of St Giles.
I am an actor, grandson to John Lacy, whom King Charles favoured.

Q. Before all else you shall answer me this. Knew you Mr Bartholomew was under false
name?
A. I did.
Q. Knew you who he truly was?
A. I did not, and do not, to this day.
Q. On what occasion did you last see him?
A. The first of May last.
Q. Do you know where he is now?
A. I do not.
Q. You are upon oath.
A. So do I speak, sir.
Q. You swear that since that first day of May you have neither seen, nor held
communication with him, nor had news whatsoever of him through any other party?
A. I most solemnly swear. Would to God that I did know.
Q. Now I ask the same of your other two companions – your man and the maid. What of
them?
A. I know no more of them, since that same day. I beg you to believe, sir, the
circumstances are so embroiled, if I might explain -
Q. You shall explain. But in good time. For now, you also swear you do not know where
these two may be found?
A. I do, and also that until this day I knew nothing of the death of the servant. May I ask -
Q. You may not. And Heaven help you if you lie.
A. May Heaven strike me down upon the instant, sir, when I shall.
Q. Very well. But I remind you that ignorance of consequence is no plea in court. You
remain accessary to the crime. Now I will hear all, and from the beginning.
A. It is a strange tale, sir. I must seem foolish in it. In my own defence I must tell as I
took matters at the time. Not as I later learnt them to be.
Q. On that we may agree. Commence.
A. It was in the middle of April last. As you know, I played Fustian in young Mr
Fielding's Pasquin, a part in which I flatter myself -
Q. Never mind your flattery. To the point.
A. I deem it to the point, sir, that the piece was most favourably received and my playing
noticed. A day or two before it was to close for Easter, the man Dick came one forenoon
to my house in Hart Street, with a letter for me from his master, who signed himself not
by name, but as Philocomoedia. There was a packet within, containing five guineas. The
letter asked me to accept them as a token of esteem for my performance, on which the
writer paid me some more particular compliments.
Q, You have this epistle still?
A. At my house. I remember its terms. It is little germane.
Q. Continue.
A. The writer claimed he had seen the piece three times, solely for the pleasure of
studying my talents, such as they are. Then that he would be greatly favoured if I would
meet him, as he had a matter of mutual benefit to broach. A time and place were
proposed, tho' he held himself ready to suit my convenience.
Q. What time and place?
A. Trevelyan's Coffee-house, the morrow morning.
Q. And you said yes?
A. I did, sir. I won't deny I found the present handsome.
Q. And smelt more guineas to come.
A. Honest guineas, sir. My profession is less richly rewarded than yours.
Q. Were you not surprised? Are not the females in your calling the more customary
recipients of such golden requests for assignations?
A. I was not, sir. Not all have your poor opinion of the stage. Many gentlemen take
pleasure in conversing upon the dramatic and histrionic arts, and by no means spurn our
company. Others aspire themselves to the bays, and are not above seeking our advice and
support in seeing their effusions mounted. I ventured to presume that this was one such. It
would not have been the first I have had such commerce with, I may assure you. I have
myself Englished from the French, and with success. My The Cit Grown Beau from
Moliere was -
Q. Yes, yes. Roscius sallied out to earn his fee. What next?
A. His man, this mute fellow Dick, was at the door of Trevelyan's in wait for me. I was
conducted to a private room. There I met Mr Bartholomew.
Q. Under this name?
A. Yes. He so presented himself.
Q. Alone?
A. Alone, sir. We sat, he renewed the compliments of his letter, he asked me of my self
and other parts I had played.
Q. Seemed he one of your cognoscenti?
A. He made no pretence there, sir. Confessed himself a stranger in London and to the
theatre till recently, and hitherto taken up with other interests.
Q. Arrived from where?
A. From the North, sir. He was not: more precise, but from his voice 1 judged him from
the North-east. So do they speak from Yorkshire north.
Q. And these other interests?
A. The natural sciences. He claimed had much neglected the arts since leaving university.
Q. And of his supposed family?
A. I come to that. I made a polite inquiry there, having spoken overlong of my own
history. Thereupon he said, with I thought a somewhat embarrassed face, that he was
younger son of a baronet, but wished to disclose no more, for we now touched upon the
more serious matter of our meeting. I must tell you that all that followed was proven
false.
Q. Tell as you were told.
A. I would not waste your -
Q. I will judge of my time. Tell.
A. He began in hypothetick vein, sir. Which I came to discern was a frequent thing in all
his conversation, as you shall hear. He asked me what I should say, were I suitably
rewarded, to playing a part for him alone. I requested to know what kind of part. He
replied, One I should give you. I thought we had come then to the nub of it, that he had
written some piece he would hear me declaim for him, so said I was sure I should be
pleased to serve him in such a thing. Very well, he says, but say it should not be here and
now, Mr Lacy, neither for one performing, but for several days, perchance more; and I
must ask it for this end of month, for I am desperate pressed; yet that may be to your
advantage, for I know you are engaged at the Little Theatre, and I must make it worth
your while to leave. So said he. I confess I was somewhat taken aback, and the more
when he went on to ask how much I took for my part at the Haymarket. I explained our
way of dividing receipts and put it at a mean for my share of five guineas the week. Very
well, he says, let me put my part at five guineas the day, whatever the receipts, should
you consider that worthy of your powers? I was the so dumbfounded at such prodigious
handsomeness, I might hardly credit my ears, and thought him at first to jest. But he was
not, very far from it. For as I hesitated, he further declared that since I must travel to play
the part, and suffer other inconvenience, that might take a fortnight in all, he would
happily offer another thirty guineas for my acceptance, thus making a round hundred for
my service to him. Mr Ayscough, I am not so well circumstanced that I could lightly turn
up my nose at such an untoward offer. Here was I offered to gain in a fortnight what
I should not despise for a six-month of endeavour. I must tell you further I knew Pasquin
was very nigh played out, as we say, for our receipt was falling, and the season likewise
near its end. My friend Mr Topham had taken my part for two days earlier when I was
indisposed, and not without some plaudit, though -
Q Enough. Very well, sir, you were tempted. To the point.
A. I thought in addition that I conceived what he would be at - some surprise, some
entertainment he intended to gratify his neighbours and family with in his native
province. I was soon undeceived, however. I prayed him to be more particular. I
remember his reply verbatim, sir. I have need of one, Mr Lacy, he said, to go with me on
a journey. A grave and creditable person, he said, as I perceive it would take you no
trouble to act, since you are thus by nature. I thanked him for the compliment, but
declared myself at a loss to guess why he should need such a companion. Once again lie
appeared confused and would not answer. He stood and went to a window, as if cast deep
in thought. There at last he turned upon me, as one obliged to take a new course, and
asked me to forgive him, he was driven to subterfuge against his nature, and unused to
not dealing frankly with all he met. Then he said, I have someone I must see, my life
depends on it, and there are those who would prevent me, therefore I must make my
journey under some colour of false circumstance. To which he added most vehemently
that there was nothing of discredit or dishonour in what he wished. He said, I am a victim
of unjust and unkind fate, which I would try to remedy. I give it you word by word, sir.
Q. And next?
A. I was somewhat astonished, as you may suppose. I said I presumed we spoke of a
lady, of a sentimental attachment. He smiled sadly at that. No mere attachment, Lacy, he
said. I am in love, and half dead of it. He told me then of a stern and obstinate father and
of an alliance designed for him, upon which his father had set his heart, for the lady was
rich and had lands settled on her that his father coveted, they lay adjacent to his own
estate. However, she was ten years older than Mr Bartholomew. In his very own words,
the ugliest old maid for fifty miles about. Thereupon he informed me that even had she
been the most beautiful, he still could not have obeyed his parent, for in London, that
previous October, he had formed an ardent interest in a young lady then in town with her
uncle and guardian, and his family.
Q. Her name?
A. None was ever mentioned. Her plight was this. The young lady was orphan, and had
estate in title, upon majority. Alas, her uncle and guardian had a marriageable son; you
perceive the case.
Q. I do.
A. Mr Bartholomew informed me that his interest had been discovered, and what was far
worse, the otherwise happy circumstance that his attentions had been warmly recipro-
cated. Upon which the young lady was promptly removed to Cornwall, where her
guardian's estate lies.
Q. And placed in bond?
A. Precisely so. However, they had been able to maintain a surreptitious correspondence
by means of a maid, and confidante of the young lady's feelings. Absence makes the heart
grow fonder, their common ardours were increased. Eventually in despair Mr
Bartholomew revealed the matter to his own parent, to solicit his assistance and approval.
Sentiment proved no match for paternal ambition. It came to high words, his father not
being one to brook denial. I put it to you as it was put to me, Mr Ayscough, though I omit
some colour and minor circumstance.
Q. Proceed.
A. In short, then, Mr Bartholomew, still refusing the other alliance, was commanded out
of paternal house and home, and told not to return until he had cooled his temper and
learnt his filial duty. With the further threat that should he pursue the course he was on,
all his future prospects would be forfeit. He then came to London and fired by both love
and a sense of injustice, since the lady of his heart, though not so rich as she of his
father's choice, was neither without sufficient wealth nor breeding, and infinitely
surpassed her in other charms, he attempted to force the matter by going to the West.
Q. When was this?
A. But a month before. He confessed he did it without forethought, almost without
knowing why he went beyond his most violent need to see his loved one again and assure
her of his abomination of this other proposed marriage, that she should never be
expunged from his heart and -
Q. Spare me the tender protestations.
A. Sir. He arrived to find he had been forestalled. He knew not how, perhaps some letter
had been intercepted. He admitted he had foolishly spoken on the matter in London with
friends, and perhaps some noise of it had reached ears hostile to his interests. Then too he
had travelled under his own name, and the greater part by public coach, and now sus-
pected advice of his coming may have travelled ahead. However it may be, when he
arrived the house was empty, nor would any there tell him where the family had gone,
except that they had left in great haste the day previous. He waited a week in vain. All his
inquiries were to no avail, for it seems the uncle rules all in those parts. He thus retreated
back to London. There, sir, a letter awaited him, in which the young lady stated very
plain that their removal had been against her every desire, that her uncle was in a great
fury with her and daily using all means in his power to impel the marriage to his son, her
cousin. That her one present hope lay in this cousin, who though he loved her well
enough, would not force the issue as his father wanted. Yet she feared he could not hold
out much longer in this small mercy, since both his own natural affection and his father's
wishes inclined to the same end. To which was added that the maid who had served in
their previous correspondence had been dismissed, that she (her mistress) was now
without friend or confidante, and in despair.
Q. I see the pretext. Now come to the business.
A. Mr Bartholomew declared that he knew they were now gone back to the estate, and
was determined to return there. This time he would conceal his coming. For that reason
he had pretended to the same intimates as before that he had given up all hope of the
young lady and was now reconciled to obeying his father. Yet he greatly feared some
rumour of this supposed change of heart would come to the uncle and thence to the young
lady, who might take it as truth. Therefore he must act with celerity, and travel under a
false name, not alone and - in brief, as you seemingly know, sir. As if for some other
purpose. That is the kernel of it.
Q. Facile credimus quad volumus. You swallowed this cock-and-bull whole, it seems?
A. I confess I was flattered by his confidences. They conveyed to my ears the accent of
truth. If he had seemed to me some young deceiver, some practised rake ... I assure you
he did not, sit.
Q. Very well. Go on.
A. I told Mr Bartholomew he had my sympathy, but not all the treasure in Spain would
induce me to stoop to a criminal undertaking. And that I foresaw very unpleasant
consequences, should he be successful in his enterprise.
Q. What said he to that?
A. For his father, that he felt sure he could be brought to forgiveness in time, since their
relations had been affectionate enough before this rupture. For the uncle, that his cruelties
to his niece, and his intentions, were too gross to have escaped notice, and he must know
what public disclosure might show of his own conduct and selfish aim. That he might
huff and puff if his niece fled his roof, but would not dare prosecute the matter.
Q. He won you to his cause?
A. I still had scruples, Mr Ayscough. He assured me he wished no future blame
attributable to any save himself. He had thought on the matter, and proposed that my part
should extend no further than to within a day's ride of his destination. He would then
proceed alone with his man. Upon his most solemn word he would not ask me to take any
direct part in an elopement. I was merely, as he put it, to safe conduct him to the
threshold. What passed thereafter was not my affair.
Q. Had he some plan of elopement?
A. He intended to ride out the storm in France, then to return, his wife's majority once
attained, and to throw himself with his bride at his father's feet.
Q. What next?
A. I requested a night to reflect on his proposal, sir. I wished to discuss it with Mrs Lacy,
as is my habit in all that appertains to my life. I have learnt to value her opinion. If she
considers an engagement below me, I will not take it. Mrs Lacy's parents no more
approved my profession than you do, Mr Ayscough. When Mr Bartholomew spoke of his
troubles, I thought of my own greener years. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mrs Lacy
and I also did not wait upon parental blessing. It may be a sin by the book, but its fruits
have been a Christian and most happy marriage. I say this not in excuse, sir. I cannot
deny my heart and ancient memory somewhat blinded my eyes.
Q. She approved?
A. After she had helped me examine my sentiments concerning Mr Bartholomew - I
would say, of his sincerity in his cause.
Q. Let us hear these sentiments.
A. That he was a serious young man, even somewhat grave for his years. I cannot say he
spake in general with much outward feeling of his attachment, yet I formed the
impression that it was deep and virtuous in intent. I say this, though I know now I was
being duped and gulled. And even when the veil was lifted from my eyes ... well, sir, I
found another and even darker veil remained. I will come to that.
Q. You met on the morrow?
A. At Trevelyan's again, in the same room, by which time I had spoken with Mr Topham
also, concerning the playing my part. I put on some semblance of uncertainty at first.
Q. To raise the fee, no doubt?
A. You persist in misjudging me, sir.
Q. Then do you not persist in suggesting you were not a hired instrument in a criminal
offence. Cupid is one thing, Lacy, a duly appointed guardian is another. To say nothing
of a father's right to bestow his son's hand where he pleases. Enough. Proceed.
A. I wished to know more of Mr Bartholomew and his circumstances. He politely refused
this, maintaining that it was not only for his own protection, but mine. That the less I
knew, the less harm might come of it, if the matter became public. That I might claim
ignorance of his real purpose, et coetera.
Q. Did you not ask his true name?
A. I forgot to say, sir, that he had early confessed the one given me was false, for the
reason just stated. I took it favourably that he did not attempt to impose on me in this.
Q. Did you never find his manner disconsonant with that of a mere country gentleman?
A. Am I to guess that -
Q. You are to guess nothing. Answer my question.
A. Then, sir, not at this time. He seemed little used to London ways, as he claimed.
Q. You were of different opinion later?
A. I had doubts, sir. He could not hide a certain assurance, and an impatience with his
part. I knew him more than a country squire's son, even though I could not guess what he
was, behind what he would seem.
Q. Very well. To your story.
A. I requested his repeated assurance that my obligations to him would cease at the point
he proposed. That furthermore, whatever his plans might be beyond this point, violence
formed no part of them.
Q. Which assurance he gave?
A. Most earnestly. He offered to swear it upon the Bible, should I wish.
Q. Come to the practice.
A. He wished we should set out a week thence, that is, the Monday next, the twenty-sixth
of April, which you will doubtless recall was the day before his Highness the Prince of
Wales was to join hands with the Princess of Saxe-Gotha; and which Mr Bartholomew
did think would cause great stir, and make our leaving the less likely to be marked. My
guise would be that of a London merchant, his of my nephew, under the same name of
Mr Bartholomew, our ostensible purpose the visiting of -
Q. I know of that. The supposed aunt at Bideford?
A. Just so.
Q. Now, did he lead you to believe that he was watched, that there were spies set upon
him?
A. He gave no evidence, yet implied as much: that there were those who would spare no
pains to thwart his attachment and his intention therein.
Q. You did understand, those of his own family, or those of the young lady's, her
guardian?
A. I conjectured the former, sir. For he did speak once of an elder brother, that did think
as their father in all, and with whom Mr Bartholomew said he was scarce on speaking
terms, so estranged had they become.
Q. They had become estranged for the reason that this elder brother dutifully obeyed his
father's wishes?
A. That like his father he placed the acquiring of a fortune and handsome estate above the
satisfaction of natural affection.
Q. You have said nothing of the man Farthing or the maid.
A. There was question of a servant for me. Mr Bartholomew asked if I knew of a person I
could trust, someone of quick wits, able to play a part and also be of service on the roads,
to guard us down against highwaymen and the like. One such occurred to me.
Q. His name?
A. He is even more innocent than I am, at least in this.
Q. Why say you, at least in this?
A. I first knew him when he was doorkeeper at Drury Lane, but lie was dismissed that
post for negligence. His failing is strong drink, it is common in our profession, alas.
Q. He is an actor too?
A. He would have been so once, I believe. On occasion he has taken small clowning or
menial parts, lie has some skills at the droll. He is Welsh by origin, he played me the
porter in Shakespeare's Macbeth one day when we were in straits through sickness and
could find none better. He was passably received, we thought to employ him further. But
he never got his lines well enough, even when sober, for any but smallest parts.
Q. His name?
A. David Jones.
Q. And you say, you have not seen him since the first of May? A. I have not, sir. Not
since the day previous, if you would have me exact. For he ran away in the night, without
our knowledge.
Q. He did not go on, either with you or Mr Bartholomew?
A. H; did not.
Q. Let us come to that in place. You have not seen him since? Nor heard of or from him?
A. Upon my word. I met a man in the street but ten days since, who knows him well, and
I asked. And he too had not seen or heard news of him, these four months past.
Q. Know you where he lived?
A. Only a punch-house he frequented in Berwick Street, where I have also several times
inquired since I returned. He has not been seen.
Q. We talk of Farthing?
A. Yes. When he ran off, he said in a note to me that it was to see his mother in Wales. At
Swansea. He told me once she was keeper of a wretched alehouse, but I know not if this
is truth, nor if he be there. I can help you no more.
Q. You engaged him?
A. I brought him to meet Mr Bartholomew, who approved him. He is a well-built fellow,
can carry arms and look bold, is skilled with horses, and so was taken. He had played me
once also the part of a blustering braggart, a drunken sergeant in Mr Farquhar's The
Recruiting Officer, where he gained no small applause, though he did not merit it, for in
truth he was so drunk before we commenced he needed not to act his part; nor could have
done, had he even the powers. But it was decided he should play something of that part
again, to accomplish this our present design.
Q. At what fee?
A. Ten guineas for the whole, which I was to pay him at the end, save one for earnest, to
keep him sober. And his living.
Q. But you have never paid him?
A. I have not, sir. Or only a small part, as I will tell. And that is not the least mystery of
the affair, that he took to his heels when it was well-nigh earned.
Q. He was told all?
A. That our purpose was to effect a secret journey, under false names. That an affair of
the heart was involved.
Q. He made no objection?
A. None. He took my word that there was nothing heinous in the venture. He owed me
services.
Q. And what services had you done him?
A. I had employed him as I say. I obtained him a post when he was dismissed his office
at Drury Lane. I have lent him small sums of money on occasion. He is more shiftless
than rogue.
Q. What post?
A. Coachman to the late Mrs Oldfield, the actress. But she was obliged to give him his
wages, lie was too often drunk. Since then he has lived from hand to mouth. He was
scrivener's clerk for a time, window-polisher, more newly chairman, I know not what
else. His hat covers all his household.
Q. He sounds rogue enough to me.
A. He met the part, sir, as we say. He is a great boaster among his equals. A glib tongue
is second nature with him. Since Mr Bartholomew's man was mute, we thought a fellow
like Jones might allay suspicion where we lodged. For he knows how to keep a close
mouth, whatever his appearance and even in his cups. He is no fool at heart, nor more
dishonest than the next.
Q. Very well. Now what of the maid?
A. I forgot to tell, Mr Bartholomew had advised me of her coming with us. But I saw her
not, till we came to Staines. He informed me she was that very maid he had spoke of, the
young lady's confidante, who had been dismissed for her pains. Upon which he had had
her brought to London and placed under his protection, and now carried to rejoin her
mistress. I took little notice of her at the first meeting. She seemed like enough to be a
lady's maid.
Q. Her name was given as Louise? You never heard her called other?
A. It was, sir. And I did not.
Q. You did not find her over-delicate and haughty her station?
A. Not in the least, sir. Silent and demure in her outward.
Q. But a handsome wench?
A. Fine eyes, sir, and her face did not want elsewhere. Well enough spoken withal, when
she did venture. I might call her modest beauty, had she not been to my taste too slight
and thin of figure. Yet I must tell you also there is a great mystery concerning her part;
and that of his man likewise.
Q. What of that last?
A. Why, sir, beside his natural deficincies, he was like no manservant else I have ever
seen. He had not worn a blue livery waistcoat when first he came to my door, I doubt I
should have recognized him as such. He had the eyes of an idiot, nor any of the
accustomed manners of his station; as he had never been in polite society, nor knew to
respect those above him. Nor wore he livery at all when we travelled, but looked like
some simple country fellow, more Irish vagrant than gentleman's servant, and surly to all
but his master and the maid. This is not the half of it, sir, there is stranger still.
Q. In proper time. Let us come to your journey. Mr B. was manager in all?
A. As to our itinerarium, yes. He said he feared the Bristol road, since it is much
frequented, and he thought it likely the uncle had a man posted to watch it, at
Marlborough or Bristol itself, so he might have warning. Therefore we took that to the
south, as if for Exeter, upon the pretext we had business there before my visit to the
supposed sister in Bideford.
Q. He had told you so much before you started - that Bideford was where he tended?
A. Yes. But requested us to advise him in the subterfuge, saying it was the first time in
his life he had put on such a pretence, and we must know better how to carry off such
matters. So we advised him, as I say.
Q. Where met you first?
A. It was decided Jones and I should proceed alone by coach to Hounslow the day
previous, and lodge at the Bull there.
Q. This is the 25th of April?
A. Yes. And there we should find horses waiting for us, and then set out at first sunrise
that next morning, upon the Staines road, where we should meet him and his man, and
the maid. And so it passed. We came upon them a mile before Staines.
Q. Where had they come from?
A. I don't know, sir. 'Twas not said. Unless they had lodged at Staines, and rid back. Yet
we passed that place without stopping when we came to it.
Q. Nothing passed at this meeting?
A. No, sir. I confess we set out not without some spirit of expectation, as upon a happy
venture of sorts.
Q. Was payment made to you before you started?
A. An advance upon my agreed fee, and likewise that of Jones, though the latter was paid
to me. I had some outlay to make on necessaries.
Q. How much?
A. Ten guineas to me, one to Jones. In gold.
Q. And the remainder?
A. Was given me when we parted, that last morning, upon a bill. I have encashed it.
Q. Drawn upon whom?
A. Mr Barrow of Lombard Street.
Q. The Russia merchant?
A. Yes.
Q. Let us set off. Spare me the petty circumstance. I wish all that pertains to your
discovery that Mr Bartholomew was other than he claimed.
A. Suspicion did not tarry, sir, I may tell you that. We had ridden but an hour when my
trust was first shaken. I had fallen a little behind with Jones, who led the pack-horse,
whereupon he said he must tell me something, but if he spoke out of place, I was to bid
him hold his tongue. I said he should speak. At that he looked ahead to where the maid
rode, sat sideways behind Dick, and said, Mr Lacy, I believe I have seen that young
woman before, and she is no lady's maid, far from it. He then said he had seen her some
two or three months since entering a bagnio behind St James, Mother Claiborne's, as it is
vulgarly called. The acquaintance he was with told him that she was -if you will forgive
the expression - one of the choicest pieces who worked there. I was shocked as you may
think, sir, and pressed him to say he was sure. Thereupon he admitted he had but seen her
briefly, and by linklight, and could not swear, yet found the resemblance striking close, if
he were mistaken. I confess I was left at a loss, Mr Ayscough. I know what such creatures
and their mistresses may earn by their trade, and though I have heard that such as
Claiborne will furnish flesh out for a night to the favoured libertine, I could not believe
she would do it for such a journey as ours. Nor saw I reason why. I was loth to
believe Mr B. had so grossly deceived me, nor could I conceive that a notorious whore, if
such she were, should let herself be hired out as a maid. In short, sir, I told Jones he must
certainly be mistaken; but that if he had opportune chance, he should speak to the wench,
to see if he could discover more.
Q. Could Jones put no name upon her of the bagnio?
A. No proper nor Christian name, sir. But that she was known by those who frequented
the house as the Quaker Maid.
Q. What is that to mean?
A. That she would play modesty, the better to whet the appetite of the debauched.
Q. She would dress as such?
A. I fear so.
Q. And did he speak with her, as you counselled him?
A. He did, sir, later that day. He told me she would say little. Only that she was Bristol
born, and looked forward to seeing her young mistress again.
Q. Then she appeared privy to the false pretext?
A. Yes, but would say nothing when Jones would lead her to gossip. For she said Mr B.
had commanded her to silence. He said she seemed more timid than aught else. Spoke
very soft, and answered most often with a yes or no or mere nod. Jones was less certain
now, he confessed as much himself, thinking such as he first credited her could not be so
modest and he must be wrong. In brief, sir, our suspicion was lulled and abated for then.
Q. Did you speak of this to Mr B.?
A. I did not, sir. Not to the end, as I will tell.
Q. Did he speak apart to the girl - give any sign of covert collusion?
A. Not then, sir, nor indeed ever in my own sight and hearing. As we travelled he seemed
the rather indifferent to her, as if she were no more than box and baggage. I must tell you
he rode most often alone during our journey. He asked me more than once to forgive him,
it was little courteous in him to play the sour hermit, as he put it, but I should understand
his thoughts lay all ahead, and not in the dull present. I thought it ' of no account then,
indeed natural in a hopeful lover.
Q. It was to spare himself the pains of pretence?
A. I now so believe.
Q. Then in general you had little converse with him?
A. Some, for he would ride with me on occasion. I think none of moment on that first
day. We but spoke of what we passed, our horses and the road, such matters. Not of what
we were engaged upon. He asked me more of my life and seemed ready to hear such tales
as I told him, of myself and of my grandfather and the king, though I deemed it more
politeness than true interest. In general, the more westward, the more silent he grew.
Beside, in manner direct, I was prevented by our agreement. I gained a little of him, by
chance. It is true, Mr Ayscough, that the part I played in The Beggar's Opera did mock
Sir Robert Walpole, but I beg you to believe we actors must always be two persons, one
upon the boards and another off them. Why, that very first day we must pass those heaths
of Bagshot and Camberley, and I was no Robin there, I may assure you, for I rode most
alarmed that a real such as I had played should appear - which he did not, I thank the
Lord.
Q. Yes, yes, Lacy, this is nothing to the point.
A. I must contradict, sir, with respect. What I tell you, I told Mr B.; and went on to speak
well of this present government's policy of quieta non movere, at which he did give me a
look, so to say that he did not agree. And when I did press him to declare his views, he
said that as to Sir Robert he must concede he was good manager and man of business for
the nation's affairs - that he who could contrive to please both the country squire and the
city merchant must be no fool; but that yet he believed that the great founding principle
of his administration of which I had spoken must be wrong. For how might a better world
come, he said, if this one may not change? And asked me if I did not think that of the
Creator's divine purposes this at least was most clear: that His giving us freedom to move
and choose, as a ship upon the vast ocean of time, could not mean that we had always
best stay moored in that port where we were first built and launched. Then that merchants
and their interest should soon rule this world, that already we saw it in statesmen, for he
said, A statesman may be honest for a fortnight, but it will not do for a month; and such is
mercantile philosophy, from the most wretched niggler and tradesman up. Then did he
give me a sad smile, and added, Though I durst not tell my father such things. To that I
replied that I feared fathers would ever have their sons in their own close image. To
which he answered, And nothing change to the end of time - alas, I know it, Lacy. If in
this a son doth not bow to every paternal Test and Corporation Act, he is damned, he hath
no being.
Q. He said nothing else of his father?
A. Not that I recall, sir. Beyond what was said at the first, that he was too strict; and on
one other occasion, when he said he was an old fool, and his elder brother the same. On
this aforesaid occasion he did end by confessing that he was in general indifferent to
politics; and did cite me the view of one Saunderson, that professes mathematicks at the
university of Cambridge, and that it seems did teach him while he was there; whom he
had heard once say, upon a similar question being put to him, that all politics was as
clouds before the sun; that is, more necessary nuisance than truth.
Q. And with which he concurred?
A. So I took him to mean. For on another occasion I remember he said, We should be
well quit of three parts of this world; so to intimate, it was superfluous, or he judged it so.
But now he spake more of the learned gentleman, that is blind, yet hath by his
intelligence largely conquered that deficiency; and it seems is much loved and revered by
his pupils.
Q. Spake Mr B. of religion, of the Church?
A. But once, sir, upon a later occasion. We met a reverend gentleman upon the road, or
rather sitting beside it, for he was too drunk to ride his horse, which his man held beside
him till lie was fit enough to mount again. At which Mr B, showed some disgust and said
it was too common a case and that it was little wonder the flock strayed, with such
shepherds. In our further conversation he declared himself a hater of hypocrisy. That God
placed most worthy and necessary veils upon His mystery, but His ministers too often
used them to blindfold their charges and lead them into ignorance and baseless prejudice.
That he believed a man was finally judged, and his soul saved, by his deeds, not his
outward show of beliefs; that no established church would ever give ground to such plain
reason, for thereby it would deny its own inheritance and all its earthly powers.
Q. Those are free-thinking tenets. Did you not hold them reprehensible?
A. No, sir. I held them good sense.
Q. To scorn the established church?
A. To scorn the hypocrite, Mr Ayscough. We who tread the boards are not the only
players of parts in this world. Such is my view, sir, with respect.
Q. Your view leads to sedition, Lacy. Spurn the holder, spurn the office. But enough of
this, it is idle. Where stayed you that night?
A. At the Angel, Basingstoke. Thence early to Andover and Amesbury, in which place
we lodged the next.
Q. You went in no great haste, then?
A. No, and even less that second day, for as we carne to Amesbury he said he would view
the famous heathen temple nearby, at Stonehenge. And we should rest at Amesbury,
though we might have gone further, and I had expected to.
Q. Were you not surprised? ,
A. I was, Sir.
Q. We will stop now. My clerk shall take you to dine, and we shall resume at three of the
clock prompt.
A. Mrs Lacy expects me to dine at home, sir.
Q. Then she must wait in vain.
A. May I not send to say I am detained?
Q; You may not.

The same further deposeth upon oath, die annoque praedicto.

Q. Did nothing pass the previous night at Basingstoke, before you came to Amesbury?
A. No, sir, all passed as was intended. Mr B. played my nephew, would have me take the
best chamber at the Angel, and showed me all deference in public. We supped in my
chamber, for he would not go into the public rooms, wherever we lodged. Nor would he
linger, sir, the eating once done, but retire to his own chamber, and leave me to my own
devices, which he called no discourtesy, but a favour to me, since he was such a dullard. I
saw him not again.
Q. You do not know how he occupied himself?
A. No, sir. Unless it was with his book s. For he brought a small chest with him, that he
did call his bibliotheca viatica, as I saw opened two or three times. The one inn, it was at
Taunton, we had no choice but to share the one room. And there he read papers from his
chest when he had eaten.
Q. This chest held books or papers?
A. Both. He told me all were mathematick, his travelling library, as I said, and that such
study diverted his mind from more troubling thoughts.
Q. Was he ever more particular, as to their nature?
A. No, sir.
Q. Did you not enquire?
A. No, sir. I am not formed to judge of such matters.
Q. Saw you ever a title to any of the books?
A. I remarked a work by Sir Isaac Newton, that was in Latin, I do not recall the title. Mr
B. spoke of him with a greater respect than I heard him use of any other, that he said he
had first gained of his tutor at Cambridge, the gentleman I named earlier, Mr Saunderson.
He did essay one day as we rode to explain sir Isaac's doctrine of fluxions and fluents.
There, sir, I must confess myself lost; and had politely to inform lain that he wasted his
breath. Again, it was when we did come to Taunton Deanne, he talked of a learned monk
of many centuries ago, who did hit upon a way of multiplying numbers. That in itself I
might understand, ‘twas simple, but the adding of each last two figures to make the next,
to wit one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, one-and-twenty, thus forward as you may will.
Mr B. averred that he himself did believe these numbers appeared, though secretly, in
many places in nature, as it were a divine cipher that all living things must copy, for that
the ratio between its successive numbers was that also of a secret of the Greeks, who did
discover a perfect proportion, I believe he said it to be of one to one and six tenths. He
pointed to all that chanced about us, and said that these numbers might be read therein;
and cited other examples, that I forget now except that many accorded with the order of
petals and leaves in trees and herbs, I know not what.
Q. He made much of this matter of ciphering?
A. No, sir. As one, might speak of a curiosity.
Q. He would claim to have penetrated some secret of nature, is it not so?
A. I would not say that, Mr Ayscough; rather that he had glimpsed such a secret, yet had
not fully explored it.
Q. Did you not think it odd that he should follow these pursuits, and bring this travelling
library, if the journey was for the purpose alleged?
A. A trifle, sir. The more we travelled, the more I perceived he was not as ordinary men,
let alone as ordinary lovers. I supposed him more serious in his scientific pursuits than he
cared openly to allow, and intended not to deprive himself of them in the exile
consequent on an elopement
Q. I have one last question here. Did you see in this chest an instrument, that had
appearance as of a clock, with many wheels, and was made of brass?
A. No, sir.
Q. Yet you saw this chest open, you say?
A. Always full, and with loose papers scattered on top. I was never enabled to see all it
held.
Q. Nor saw such an instrument being used?
A. No, sir.
Q. Let us come to Amesbury.
A. I should remark something else first, that passed at Basingstoke.
Q. Very well.
A. It concerned the maid Louise. Jones told me that she too would have a chamber of her
own, and not sleep with the inn maids, as is the custom. Nor would she dine at their table,
like the rest, she must have her victuals taken upstairs to her by the mute. Furthermore,
that he saw the man was deep smitten by her, which he found strange. We discussed upon
it, yet could come to no conclusion then.
Q. Seemed she smitten in return?
A. That he could not determine, sir, except that she did riot openly rebuff him. There is
more to tell on this. I but mention it as it came.
Q. Did she always thus - sleep and eat apart?
A. She did, sir, where such a chamber was to be found. For in one, it was Wincanton.
there was some dispute upon such an unaccustomed demand, such as that Mr B.'s
authority was sought, and he said she should have as she demanded. I saw this not, Jones
told me of it after.
Q. To Amesbury.
A. As I told before we came there Mr B. said we should stay there, though we might have
ridden further. That he wished to see the temple and after we had dined I might if I
wished ride out with him over the downs to view it. The day was fine, the distance small,
I had some curiosity to see the place, though I confess I found it less imposing and ruder
than I had imagined. You have visited it, sir?
Q. I have seen it graved. Your servants came with you?
A. Only Dick. Mr B. and I dismounted and walked among the stones. To my surprise he
seemed familiar with the place, though he had said he had no more seen it before than I.
Q. How is that?
A. Why, sir, he began to expatiate upon what it was conjectured its barbarous religion
had been, the purpose of its entabled pillars, how it would have appeared were it not half
ruined. I know not what else. I asked him with some astonishment how he had come to
this knowledge, whereat he smiled and said, Not by the black arts, I assure you, Lacy.
And he said he had met the Reverend Mr Stukeley of Stamford, the antiquary, and seen
his drawings and chorographies, and discussed with him. He spoke of other books and
discourses upon the monument that he had read, yet that he found Mr Stukeley's notions
more just and worthy of attention.
Q. He found his tongue there then?
A. Indeed, sir. He did speak like a true virtuoso. I confess I was the more struck by his
learning than by the place itself. He asked me, as it were in passing, if I gave credit to the
belief of the ancients in auspicious days. I said I had not thought on the matter. Very well,
he said, then by contrary: should you happily open a new piece upon a Friday that was
also thirteenth of the month? I confessed I should rather not, though I hold such things
superstition. And he said, As do most men, but it may be they are wrong. He then took
me a step or two aside and pointed to a great stone some fifty paces off, and informed me
that upon Midsummer's Day the sun would rise upon that stone, from the temple's centre
where we stood. Some other learned writer, whose name I do not recall, had found it so;
that the temple was so set upon its ground that it must always match this one day, which
could not be by chance. Then lie said, I will tell you this, Lacy, these ancients knew a
secret I should give all I possess to secure. They knew their life's meridian, and I still
search mine. In all else the} lived in darkness, he said, yet this great light they had; while
: live in light, and stumble after phantoms. I remarked that apprehended the charming
object of our journey, from what he had vouchsafed, was no phantom. At which he
seemed somewhat set back, sir, but then smiled and said, You an right, I am wandered
into dark pastures. We walked some paces in silence, then he resumed. Yet is it not
strange, hi said, that these rude savages may have entered a place when we still fear to
tread, and have known what we can bare begin to comprehend? Why, to which even that
great philosopher Sir Isaac Newton, was but a helpless child? I said I did no understand
what arcane knowledge this might be, Mr Ays cough. To which his answer was: why,
that God is eternal motion, Lacy. This is his first orrery. Know you the true name for this
pile? Chorum Giganteum, the dance of th, Gogs and Magogs. The country people say it
will not dance again until the Day of Judgement. But it spins and dance now, Lacy, if we
had only eyes to see it.
Q. What made you of this?
A 'Twas said lightly, sir, as if he mocked me for my ignorance. Which, albeit in the same
light spirit, I taxed him with. He assured me not, he meant no railing, there was truth in
what he said. For we mortals are locked as at Newgate, he said within the chains and bars
of our senses and our brief allotted span, and as such are blind; that for God all time is as
one eternally now, whereas we must see it as past, present, future as in a history. Then he
gestured about us, at the stones, and said, Do you not admire that, perhaps before Rome,
before Christ Himself, these savages who set these stones knew something even our
Newtons and Leibnizes cannot reach Then he likened mankind to an audience in a
playhouse, who knew not of actors, and had no notion that they acted to fixed and written
lines, and even less that behind the actors lay an author and a manager,. To which I
demurred, sir, for I said we most certainly knew there was an Author behind all, and
likewise His sacred text. At which he smiled again and said he did not deny the existence
of such an Author, yet must beg leave to doubt our present notions of him; for he said it
Would be juster to say we were like the personages in a tale or novel, that had no
knowledge they were such; and thought ourselves most real, not seeing we were made of
imperfect words and ideas, and to serve other ends, far different from what we supposed.
We might imagine this great Author of all as such and such, in our own image,
sometimes cruel, sometimes merciful, as we do our kings. Notwithstanding in truth we
knew no more of him and his ends than of what lay in the moon, or the next world. Well,
Mr Ayscough, I would argue upon this, for it seemed he spoke in contempt of established
religion now. Then of a sudden, as if he would talk on such matters no more, he beckoned
to his servant who waited nearby; and told me he must make some measurements, upon
Mr Stukeley's request. That they would be tedious, and he would not presume upon my
patience to wait while they were taken.
Q. You were given your conge?
A. So I took it to be, sir. As a man might say to himself, I talk overmuch, it is better I find
an excuse to be silent now.
Q. What took you him to mean by this great secret we cannot reach?
A. I must leap ahead, sir, to answer that.
Q. Then leap.
A. I must tell you I saw not Mr B. further that day. The morrow I seized my opportunity
as we rode past the monument on our way west and would have him speak further of his
views concerning the ancients and in what their secret lay; to which he answered, They
knew they knew nothing. Then he said, I answer you in riddles, is it not so? To which I
agreed, sir, to make him expatiate the further. And he said, We moderns are corrupted by
our past, our learning, our historians; and the more we know of what happened, the less
we know of what will happen; for as I say, we are like the personages of a tale,
fixed it must seem by another intention, to be good or evil, happy or unhappy, as it falls.
Yet they who set and dressed those stones lived before the tale began, Lacy, in a present
that had no past, such as we may hardly imagine to ourselves. And next he spake of Mr
Stukeley's belief, that it was they called the Druids who had built this monument and that
they came hence first from the Holy Land, bearing within them the first seed of
Christianity; that for himself, however, he believed they had pierced some part of the
mystery of time. For the Roman historians, tho' their enemies, had said as much, that is
that they could see into the future by reading the flight of birds and the form of livers, yet
he believed them far more subtle than that, as their monument showed, if one could
contrive to read it right, in mathematick terms. Which is why he took his measurements.
And he said, I believe they knew the book and story of this world, to the very last page,
as you may know your Milton- for I carried his great work in my pocket, Mr Ayscough,
and Mr B. had inquired of what I read.
Q. What said you to that?
A. I did admire, if they could read the future, that they had been conquered by the
Romans, and disappeared from this world. To which he said, They were a nation of seers
and innocent philosophers, no match for the Romans in war; and then he said, Was Christ
Himself not crucified?
Q. Did he not say earlier to you that man is able to choose and so change his course - now
the very opposite, that his history is predestined, if it may be read in days to come, and
we are no more free than the fixed characters of a play or book already written?
A. Mr Ayscough, your observation occurred to me also, and I remarked upon it. To
which he answered, that we may choose in many small things as I may choose how I play
a part, how dress for it, how gesture, and the rest; but yet must at the end, in greater
matters, obey that part and portray its greater fate, as its author creates. And he said
although he might believe in a general providence, he might not in a particular one, that
God was in each; for he would not believe that God was in the most vicious and depraved
as He was in the good and worthy, nor that He would allow those He inspired, who were
innocent, to suffer the pain and misery that they most often did, such as we must see all
around us.
Q. All this is most dangerous doctrine.
A. I must agree, sir. I tell you as it was put to me.
Q. Very well. We left you riding back to Amesbury.
A. I there came upon Jones, who was fishing for roach in the stream, and sat with him an
hour or more, the evening being fine. When we returned to where we lodged, I found a
note from Mr B. in my room, to ask me to excuse his presence at supper, as he felt greatly
fatigued, and would straight to bed.
Q. What made you of that?
A. Nothing at that time, sir. I have not finished. I was tired myself and was to bed early,
and slept deep. Which I should not have had I known Jones shall come to me early that
next morning, with a most strange tale. He had slept in the same place as Dick. Just
before midnight, for he said the bells sounded not a quarter after, he was awake and heard
Dick quit the chamber. He thought, to answer nature. But no, just as the bells strike, he
hears sounds below in the yard. Whereat he goes to the window, and makes out three
figures; there was no moon, yet light enough for this. One is Dick, who leads two horses
with stifled hooves upon the cobbles. Another is his master. The third, the maid. He was
sure, these only. I questioned him closely.
Q. They rode out?
A. They did, sir. He thought to rouse me, but saw they took no baggage, and resolved to
watch for their return. He was waking for an hour, then Morpheus conquered him. At
cockcrow he wakes, and finds Dick asleep, as if nothing had passed.
Q. Did he not dream it?
A. I think not, sir. In company he will boast and tell tales enough; I am certain not to me,
on such an occasion. Besides, he was alarmed for us both, for a suspicion had come upon
him. I must tell you, Mr Ayscough, that I had watched the maid more close during that
previous day, as we rode. Now I did not believe Jones's story of seeing her at the bagnio.
We perforce come to know such women only too well in the theatre. She had none of
their airs and impudence. Yet I found something knowing in her, for all her modesty of
manner. I perceived also Jones was right concerning Dick: there was that in his eyes
would have devoured her alive, had he dared. Now I found it strange she was not
offended, no, seemed even kind to this attention, would smile at him on occasion. It
seemed against nature to me, sir, as if she played a part, to mislead us.
Q. And Jones's suspicion?
A. Now supposing, Mr Lacy, he said, all is true about Mr Bartholomew and the young
lady except this: that she and her uncle are in the West. Supposing that until a day or two
ago she was indeed kept his prisoner, yet not where we think; but in London, where Mr
Bartholomew told you he first met her. And therefore - you take his drift, sir.
Q. You were assisting an elopement post facto?
A. I was shocked, Mr Ayscough. The more I reflected on what I had observed of her
myself, the more I saw colour in it-were it not for her kindness in Dick's regard, yet I saw
that might have been to deceive us. Jones proposed that the going out in the night had
been to solemnize a clandestine wedding; which did explain why we should have delayed
at Amesbury, upon so trifling an outward reason. The only good I could discern in it was
that had Mr Bartholomew accomplished such an end, he should not need our service
further; and that we must soon know. I will not repeat all we conjectured, sir. I had
almost feared to find Mr Bartholomew already decamped with his bride when I came
down.
Q. But he was not?
A. He was not, sir; nor indeed seemed changed in any way. So we must set out, and
myself to feel gravely at a loss to know how to broach the matter with him. However,
before with Jones I agreed he should find opportunity to speak aside with the girl, to hint
playfully he had wind of her night adventure; in short to see what might be teased out of
her.
Q. Did he succeed?
A. No, sir, though he found an opportunity to charge her. He said she seemed at first in
some confusion, when he pressed his hints; would not admit them and grew angry when
he persisted, till she would not answer at all.
Q. She denied she had left the inn?
A. She did, sir.
Q. Tell me this now. Subsequent to that day were you informed what purpose this
nocturnal adventure had?
A. No, sir, I was not. It is a mystery, like so much else, alas.
Q. Very well. I can no more today, Lacy, I have other business. You will attend here
tomorrow morning, eight o'clock prompt. Is it understood? Without fail, sir. You are not
clear yet.
A. My own conscience shall bring me, Mr Ayscough. You need not fear.
 The Examination and Deposition of
Hannah Claiborne
the which doth attest upon her sworn
oath, this four and twentieth day
of August in the tenth year of the
reign of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.

MY NAME is Hannah Claiborne. I am forty-eight years of age, and widow. I am keeper

of the St James house, that is in German
Street.

Q. Now, woman, we will not beat about the bush. You know him I search after.
A. To my cost.
Q. And even more to your cost, if you do not speak truth.
A. I know which side the butter lies.
Q. I would hear first of this creature of yours. Know you her true name?
A. Rebecca Hocknell. But we called her Fanny.
Q. You never heard her called by a French name, to wit Louise?
A. No.
Q. And whence hailed she?
A. Bristol, or so she said.
Q. Has she family there?
A. For all I know.
Q. Meaning you do not?
A. She never spake of them.
Q. When came she first to your house?
A. Three years past.
Q. How old was she then?
A. Near twenty.
Q. How came she in your claws?
A. By one I know.
Q. Claiborne, thou art one of this town's most notorious whoremongers. None of thy
laconic insolence with me.
A. By a woman I sent out.
Q. To spy out the innocent and corrupt 'em?
A. She was already corrupted.
Q. Already a whore?
A. She lost her honour where she was maid, to a son of the house, at Bristol where she
came from. And was dismissed. Or so she said.
Q. She was by child?
A. No, she is barren naturally.
Q. Unnaturally. Now, was she sought after at your stews?
A. More for her tricks than her flesh.
Q. What tricks?
A. That she knew to tame men to her fancy. She had as well been actress as whore.
Q. How encompassed she this taming?
A. That she was no ordinary piece of flesh, but pure as Hampstead water, and must be
treated so. 'Twas miracle her custom stood for it, and came back for more.
Q. She played the lady?
A. She played innocence, when she was not one jot, as cold wanton a trollop as ever I
knew.
Q. What innocence?
A. Prude, modest sister, Miss Fresh-from-the-country, Miss Timid Don't-tempt-me, Miss
Simple - would you have more? A novel of her tricks would make a book. She was
innocent as a nest of vipers, the cunning hussy. None better at whipping, when she
wanted. Old Mr Justice P……n, doubtless you know him well, sir, that cannot spend till
first he be well thrashed and striped. With him she'd be disdainful as an infanta and cruel
as a tartar, all in the same bout. Which he craved, beside. But no matter.
Q. Where learnt she these powers of simulation?
A. Not from me, from the Devil. 'Twas born in her nature.
Q. Was she not famed for her lewd skill in one part?
A. What is that?
Q. I would have thee look at this printed paper, Claiborne. I am told it went out at thy
expense.
A. I deny it.
Q. Have you seen it?
A. I may -have seen it.
Q. I will read you a choice passage. For an amorous Encounter with the Quaker Maid,
Reader, thou had'st best count thy Gold first. This is no silver Quean, despite her modest
Appellation, nor no modest One, neither, despite her first Appearance. Thou must know
nothing pleases your true Debauchee better than to be obliged to force, and such is this
cunning Nymph's Device - to blush, to flee, to cry for Shame, until at last she's brought to
Bay. But thereafter 'tis a most curious and commodious Hind, who neither fights for Life
nor swoons of Fear; but sweetly bares her pretty Heart to the fortunate Huntsman's
Dagger; though 'tis whispered she requires such Stabbing there as more often leaves Sir
Nimrod dead than she.' Well, madam?
A. Well, sir?
Q. Is it she?
A. Yes, I suppose. What if it is? I did not write nor publish it.
Q. That shall bring thee no mercy on Judgement Day. He whose name I forbid you to
utter, when came he first into this?
A. At the beginning of April last.
Q. You had seen him before?
A. No, and would I had not seen him then. He came with a gentleman I know well, my
lord B-, who presented him to me and said he would meet Fanny, whom his Lordship had
commended. But of this I knew before.
Q. How?
A. Lord B….. had already taken her, by note of hand, a four days before; though he said
not for who it was, 'cept one of his friends.
Q. This is frequent, that your wenches are taken, ahead of their vile employment?
A. If they are prize pieces.
Q. And this one was one such?
A. Yes, curse her.
Q. Lord B….. introduced his friend under his true name?
A. No name was said. But Lord B…… told me in private afterward.
Q. And what passed?
A. He went with Fanny. And two or three times more, in the week that followed.
Q. Seemed he to know houses like yours?
A. A gosling.
Q. What are they?
A. That are over-lavish in their gifts, that will have one wench or one pleasure and no
other, that would hide their names and be secret in their coming and going. They are our
goslings.
Q. And your geese the hardened rakes?
A. Yes.
Q. And he we speak of was in down?
A. He would have none but Fanny, and hid his name, or would hide it from me. He made
presents above what was due.
Q. To you or the girl?
A. To both.
Q. Presents of money?
A. Yes.
Q. And what led to her going from you?
A. He came to me one day and said he had matter to discuss that he hoped would be to
both our advantages.
Q. When was this?
A. Toward the middle of the month. He said he was invited to a party of pleasure in
Oxfordshire, at a friend's estate, where there was to be other rakes, and a prize given him
who had brought the finest whore, when all had tasted all. That with that and other
entertainments, 'twas to be a fortnight's folly. Which with the travelling there and back,
must mean three weeks. In the end that he would hire Fanny from me for this time, if I
would allow and name a price for my discommodation by loss of her.
Q. He said where this estate was?
A. He would not. They would cause no scandal, all was secret.
Q. How answered you?
A. I said I had never done such a thing. He said he had been told I did. I said I might now
and then send out upon terms to gentlemen I well knew, to suppers and the like in town.
That I did not know him well, not even his true name.
Q. There was a false one he bore?
A. He called himself Mr Smith. Tho' now he said me his true one that I knew already of
Lord B . Then that he had spoken of the diversion with Fanny, who was on her mettle and
willing to the sport; howsoever she told him all lay with me. I said I would think on it, I
could not decide on such a proposal at so short notice.
Q. How took he that?
A. He said that I knew now he lacked neither rank nor wealth, and I must give that
consideration. On which he went away.
Q. You came not to mention of terms?
A. Not then. He came again to Fanny a day or two later, and after to me, by which time I
had spoke to Lord B- and asked if he knew of this party of pleasure. Which he said he
did, he was himself invited to it, tho' prevented by other business he could not put off.
That he was surprised I had no wind of it. That I should be foolish to offend someone so
great as a duke's son. That there was butter in it for me, for I might name what price I
liked for the favour. And other matters.
Q. What other matters, woman?
A. That once done, gossip would spread news of the folly, and fame attach to all who had
a part in it. That Mistress Wishbourne had promised two of her girls to it, and should
steal a march upon me.
Q. Who is Wishbourne?
A. An upstart keeper of the new Covent Garden house.
Q. You were persuaded?
A. I was his fool. The more fool me.
Q. Did you speak with the girl?
A. She said she was passing indifferent, she would do as I pleased. But the cunning slut
lied.
Q. How lied?
A. She was privy to all. She was practised in the meek face, I was deceived by it. She was
already bought to it.
Q. You have proof?
A. She has never come back, that's proof enough for me. I have suffered great loss by her.
Q. Small loss to decency. I desire to know what the flesh-rent was.
A. I put it upon three weeks' loss of her employment in my house.
Q. How much?
A. Three hundred guineas.
Q. Did he baulk?
A. Why should he? He pays me that, and steals ten thousand.
Q. Watch thy impudent tongue, woman!
A. It is true. For all her faults she was a delicate good whore, barren, only three years'
use.
Q. I say enough. What part of this was hers?
A. I dress, feed, find linen, all. And pay the 'pothecary, when they have the Barnwell
ague.
Q. A fig for thy economy. I will know her share.
A. One fifth, beside what presents she might gain for her self.
Q. Sixty guineas?
A. More than she deserved.
Q. Which you gave her?
A. I gave her nothing, till she returned.
Q. To oblige her to return?
A. Yes.
Q. And you hold it still for her?
A. I hold more than that for her.
Q. You have had no word from her since she left?
A. No, not one, and I wish her in hell fire.
Q. Where you shall both meet. And when she did not return as she should?
A. I spoke to my lord B……. and complained. And he said he would inquire, so came to
me a two days later and said there was some mystery afoot, it was rumoured the person
was now gone to France, not to the party of pleasure at all, for he had spoken with one
that was there, who had sworn neither the person nor Fanny was present. That I must be
patient, there was to be no scandal let abroad about it, or I should know the cost and lose
far more than what I did by her going-off.
Q. Did you believe him?
A. I did not, and I forgive him not, for I found in the meantime that none had left
Wishbourne's, and likewise none knew of this folly. 'Twas all lies, to blind me.
Q. Did you charge him with this?
A. I know which side my bread is buttered. He brings many to my house. What I must
bear, I bear. Tho' I wish him -
Q. We'll hear no more of that.
A. And pay him in kind for it, as all London knows.
Q. Enough. Now I would know what the girl said of he I enquire upon to you or your
other strumpets.
A. That he was green, but promised well, was quick set to the task, then spent fast; which
is the easier work for 'em.
Q. Seemed he especially taken with her?
A. Yes, for he would not try any other, though they offered and would woo him away.
Q. Or she with him?
A. She would not say, even if she was. She knew well enough what rules I make, on that
score. I allow no secret attachments, nor unpaid favours.
Q. She had been obedient to your rules, till this occasion?
A. Yes. 'Twas her plan.
Q. What plan?
A. Why, to cozen me. She was no fool, for all her country-maid airs. She knew it served
her best with me, as it did with most her men.
Q. How with men?
A. Why, when she played the innocent at heart, that has never known a man before, and
must be treated gently and won not taken at the gallop. Which many who went with her
liked, for they found her prudish guiles more lickorish than the usual kind, and thought
they had made a conquest when she let them cockadillo between her legs. She would not
have culls except by the night, which I allowed her, seeing we gained as much so as by
shorter hire. I could have sold the slut six times over a same night, more than once. Most
often she was full taken a week ahead.
Q. How many such women do you keep?
A. Some ten, that is regular.
Q. She was your choicest flesh on offer, your most costly?
A. Choicest is freshest. That was no virgin, for all her airs. More fools men, if they pay
more for well-trodden goods.
Q. Your other jades were surprised, when she came not back?
A. Yes:
Q. And what have you told them?
A. She is gone, and good riddance.
Q. And that you and your ruffians have seen to it that she'll whore no more, is it not so?
A. I will not answer that. It is a lie. I have a right to recover what is mine.
Q. And what have you done to that purpose?
A. What should I do, now she's gone abroad?
Q. Have your rogues and spies watch for her coming back, which I doubt not is done.
Now I warn thee solemnly, Claiborne. That wench is mine, now. If one of your vile
instruments should find out where she is, and you come not upon the instant to tell me,
you'll never again drive geese and goslings. By Heaven you shan't, I'll end your traffick
once and for all. Do I make myself plain?
A. As one of my ruffians, sir.
Q. I won't be provoked by such as thee. I repeat, dost understand me plain?
A. Yes.
Q, So be it. Now take thy putrid painted cheeks out of my sight, madam.

Jurat die quarto et vicesimo Aug. anno domini 1736

coram me

Henry Ayscough
 The further examination and deposition
of Mr Francis Lacy, upon oath renewed,
the four and twentieth day of August,
anno praedicto.

Q. Now, sir, I would go back in one or two particulars upon yesterday. When Mr
Bartholomew spoke of his interests; or in what he said at your viewing of the Amesbury
temple, as you report, or on any other occasion, seemed it to you that here was a man
who mentioned these things out of no more than politeness to you, to pass the time? Or
seemed it out of some closer interest - I would say preponderant interest, rather? Did you
not begin to think, here is a strange lover - more eager and eloquent before a heap of
stones than before the prospect of the lady he purports to adore? Content to delay and
pursue his studies when most young men would resent each wasted hour upon the road?
Are they not strange companions - a headstrong passion and a box of learned tomes?
A. Certainly I thought that. As to whether it were a crotchet of Mr Bartholomew's
character so to occupy himself, or a greater interest, I could not then have said.
Q. You could say now?
A. I could say Mr Bartholomew told me at the last that there was no young lady in
Cornwall. It was all pretext. The true purpose of our journey, I still do not know, sir. As
you will discover.
Q. What took you him to mean by finding his life's meridian?
A. Why, sir, no more than is conveyed by any such obscure and fanciful metaphor. It may
be, some certainty of belief or faith. I fear he found little consolation in religion as we see
it practised in this land.
Q. You have said nothing further of his servant- what made you of him upon the road?
A. At first, little, beyond what I stated yesterday. Later, I saw more in him I liked not.
How shall I say, Mr Ayscough - why, suspicion he was as much hired as Jones and I, no
servant in reality. I mean not in what he did, for in that he did, if not with grace, with due
attention. Yet something in his manner, I cannot say an insolence - I am hard put to
describe it, sir. I saw looks he gave his master, behind his back, as if he were himself the
master, knew as much as he. I detected a secret resentment, I might even put it at a
jealousy, such as I have known in my profession between a famed actor and another
inferior, despite their smiling faces and compliments in public. Why, says the lesser to
himself, I'm as good as you, you applauded rogue, and one day I'll show the world I'm a
great deal better.
Q. Spoke you of this to Mr Bartholomew?
A. Not directly, sir. Though one day as we supped, 'twas at Wincanton, I asked of Dick in
a sidelong manner, that I found it strange he should choose to employ such a lacking
man. Whereon he told me they had far longer acquaintance than I might suppose. How
Dick was born on his father's estates, his mother was his own - I would say Mr
Bartholomew's - nurse, they were suckled at the same breast, therefore foster-brothers.
He said, Indeed by some strange humour of the stars we first breathed on the very same
hour of the very same autumn day. Then how Dick was the constant companion of his
childhood, his servant from the time he was given one. He said to me, All he knows I
have taught him - his speech by signs, his duties, his scantling manners, his everything.
Without me he would be a wild creature, no better than a beast, the butt of the village
clowns - if they had not long before now stoned him to death. Well, sir, I did then venture
to say that I liked not looks I had seen him give, as I said before.
Q. And how answered Mr Bartholomew?
A. He laughed, sir - or as near as he ever came to laughing, as if to say I mistook. Then
went on to say, I know those looks of his, I've seen them all my life. They come from
anger against the fate that has made him what he is. Where they light is the chance of the
moment. It might as well be you as I, or the nearest passer-by. A tree, a house, a chair. It
makes no odds. He is not like us, Lacy. He cannot dissemble what he feels, he is like a
musket. Wherever he points, when he curses fate, he must seem to discharge. Then he
said that he and Dick were one mind, one will, one appetite. What suits my taste suits his,
what I covet he covets, what I do he would do also. If I should see Venus in a lady's face,
why so will he. If I dressed like a Hottentot, so would he. If I declared the most nauseous
offal fit for the gods, he would greedily devour it. He told me I judged Dick as I judged
other men, with all their faculties. He said he had several times tried to instil some sense
of the Divine Being in the man, had shown him Christ's effigy, God enthroned in heaven.
In vain, he said, for I know whose effigy he persists in seeing as the only true divinity in
his life. I could stab him to death and he would not raise an arm to defend himself. Flay
him alive, what you will, and he would submit. I am his animating principle, Lacy,
without me he's no more than a root, a stone. If I die, he dies the next instant. He knows
this as well as I. I do not say by reason. It is in his every vein and every bone, as a horse
knows its true master from other riders.
Q. What thought you to all this?
A. I must take him at his word, sir. For he said finally, albeit Dick was ignorant in so
many things, he had in recompense a kind of wisdom, and for which Mr Bartholomew
had respect, and even a kind of envy in return. That he had the senses of an animal, and
could see things we cannot, thus he could brush aside the specious veils of speech, of
manners and dress and the like, to the reality of a man; and had found him more than
once right in his judgement of a person, where he himself was wrong. And he remarked,
when I showed some surprise at that, that Dick was his lodestone, such was his very
word, in more matters than I might suppose, that he put great value on this his unthinking
power of judgement.
Q. Now, Lacy, I must venture on delicate ground. I would ask this. Saw you in any
occurrence or at any point upon your journey, in it may be no more than a covert look, a
gesture, an exchange of signs, evidence that this attachment between Mr Bartholomew
and his man had roots in an affection that was not natural?
A. I ignore what you would be at, sir.
Q. That there was evidence, however small, of a most abhorrent and unspeakable vice,
anciently practised in the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah? Why answer you not?
A. I am shocked, sir. No thought of such a thing had crossed my mind.
Q. And now that it has?
A. I cannot believe it. I received not the slightest suspicion of such. Besides that it was
clear the servant's interest was bound fast to the maid.
Q. Might that not have been but a trick, to throw off suspicion?
A. It was no trick, sir. I have not told all there yet.
Q. Very well. Let us return to the journey. Where passed you that following night?
A. At Wincanton. Nothing of particular import happened there, that I marked myself. But
as we rode on the next morning, Jones told me that Dick had left the bed they shared and
gone to a room adjoining, where by chance that night the maid Louise lay, and he saw
him not till that next morning.
Q. What thought you to this?
A. That she must indeed be what she maintained, and our previous suspicions false.
Q. She could be neither notorious whore nor a lady in disguise?
A. That is so.
Q. You said nothing to Mr Bartholomew?
A. No. I confess I thought it best to keep my own advice, since I knew our journey must
be near done.
Q. You said the more westward, the more silent he became?
A. Yes. Not only we spoke less as we rode, as if he had indeed only one object in mind,
but when we supped together I found myself obliged to do most of the talking, and finally
as little as he. I fancied there was some fresh doubt or melancholy in his mind. He made
some effort to conceal it from me, yet I took that impression.
Q. Doubt of his enterprise?
A. I so supposed.
Q you did not try to rally him?
A. I had learnt my lesson by then, Mr Ayscough. I must presume you know Mr
Bartholomew far better than I. There is that in his manner that is not easily turned from
what preoccupies him. That can make the most innocent intentions of sympathy and
interest seem to risk impertinence.
Q. And neither you nor Jones learnt more? Nothing else passed at Taunton?
A. No, sir, beyond our being obliged to share the one chamber, as I said. When Mr B.
craved my pardon, he would read his papers, once we had supped. I He read still, when I
retired to rest. I was not used to such travelling.
Q. This road from Taunton was your last together?
A. It was, sir.
Q. And nothing pertinent, that day?
A. Unless it be that towards the end on two separate occasions Mr Bartholomew rode
aside with Dick and the maid, as if to view the prospect ahead.
Q. This had not been done before?
A. No, sir. On both occasions they rode apart with him to an eminence, where it chanced
our road passed. I saw the man Dick point, as if to some distant hill or place.
Q. Did Mr Bartholomew make no remark upon it to you?
A. Yes, he said they searched the most favourable road. And I asked if we were near our
destination. To which he replied, we are on the threshold I spoke of, Lacy; and then, Your
kind service is near done. Which was as Jones and I had already surmised, by this
stopping to look ahead.
Q. Were you not near where Mr Bartholomew and his man had been but six weeks
earlier? And where the maid had lived? Why should they need to search their road?
A. We admired ourselves, sir. But not being privy to their plans and intentions, supposed
they sought the most secret way, since they neared where they must be most in danger.
Q. And this was your first advice of this parting on the morrow?
A. Yes, sir. Tho' 'twas plain we must be close, with Bideford scarce a day's ride forward.
I cannot call myself surprised.
Q. Now I would know all that passed at the Black Hart.
A. Much as before, sir, until we had supped. Were it not that he requested me for once to
yield him the best chamber, where before, when we had choice, I had always taken it. He
doubted he would sleep that night, and would have a room he might pace about, as he
said. The second-best was small.
Q. Saw you no other purpose?
A. Except that it looked out upon the square, and where I slept but upon the garden and
back parts. Beside its greater largeness I saw no advantage.
Q. Proceed. What was said when you had supped?
A. He began by thanking me for bearing with him, and what he called his vacua, his
silences, and said he feared he had been tedious company, to one such as I. That never the
less I had played my part well, and he was grateful. To which I returned that I might have
played it better, had I known better how all was to end. Once more he made some
obscure allusions, which I took to signify that he was by no means confident of success in
his venture. I did rally him a little then. I said that even if he failed once more on this
occasion, he might surely try again. He answered, One cannot cross the Rubicon twice, it
is this time or never, or some such words. I told him he took too despondent a view. And
now he struck out upon one of his fancies, Mr Ayscough, and in a manner that alarmed
me. For I had said he was not in some fixed story, as it were in a tragedy, where all is
antecedently doomed. To which he replied that perhaps his story had neither Romeo and
Juliet, and asked what I should do before one that had pierced the secrets of the future.
Q. How is this - how pierced them?
A. He did not say, sir. He put it as a parable, so as to say this hypothetick person truly
knew what was to happen in time to come, and not by superstitious or magical means, but
by learning and study. And how, if I granted him that, it were better such knowledge
were not told. Which I took to be his way of saying, it is better I do not tell you of my
real purpose. I confess I did not take it kindly, sir. For now I thought he had as good as
admitted he deceived me, and broken his word. I said as much. Whereupon he most
earnestly begged me to believe that what he hid from me was for my own good. That I
had his word that it was not criminal. He then added what he had told me was true
inasmuch as he wished to meet someone, and as much as any man might his mistress - or
his Muse, I recall he put it so - and yet had been hitherto prevented.
Q. In what manner prevented?
A. He did not say.
Q. Who was this person?
A. Mr Ayscough, I cannot tell you. He would not be pressed. I asked if it were not some
affair of honour. He smiled sadly at that, and said he would hardly ride so far to do what
might be as well done in Hyde Park, or without a friend to second him. Things had gone
thus far when I was unfortunately called away. A Mr Beckford, who is curate there -
Q. I know of him, I have spoken with him. You knew him not before that day?
A. I did not. .
Q. Then no more of him. You spoke with Mr Bartholomew again, when he had gone?
A. Yes, but found him changed. As if he had reflected in my absence, and found he had
said too much in our first conversation. I will not say he was discourteous. Yet he was
more impatient with my doubts. He had papers from his box spread on a table before him
when I returned. I saw they were mostly figures and with what I took to be geometrick or
astronomick, I know not what, other signs. He handed me one to look at, and asked if I
did not think they might not be seditious writings in cipher to James Stuart.
Q. By way of sarcasm, you would say?
A. Yes. Likewise that he had perhaps come to practise the black arts with some local
witch. By which he meant also to mock my fears. Thereafter he grew more serious, and
spoke again of this person he would meet; that before him he stood, in respect of powers
of understanding and wisdom, as the poor mute Dick before himself. Then that what he
was about might be a foolish dream, yet it did not put his soul in danger. You take his
drift, Mr Ayscough. He confounded all in riddles, I assure you. He might seem to inform
me, yet told me nothing.
Q. Some scholar, some learned recluse?
A. I must presume. By chance I had asked Mr Beckford if such there were, at least
persons of taste and learning, in the neighbourhood, and he replied, there are none, that
he dwelt in a desert. His very words.
Q. Mr B. gave no indication of how close this person lay or lived?
A. No, sir. Though one must suppose, within that next day's ride, and towards Bideford,
where I left him on the morrow.
Q. It is implied, is it not, that this person now lives there or near there; that he knows Mr
B. seeks this meeting, which he eschews, or is indifferent to; nay, that he will flee if he
has fore-knowledge of his coming in his own person and has his agents, spies, I know not
what, posted to prevent him ... whence all the elaborate subterfuge of which you were
part? Is that not the case? I do not believe it, Lacy. I can sooner swallow the heiress. Did
you not think, why does he mar a plausible tale, albeit a false one, with a far less credible
account?
A. I did, sir. I saw no reason why I should be so newly misled, at this very last stage of
our adventure. If I give you a reason for it, that came to me later, I fear you will call me a
fool.
Q. Never mind, sir. I'll take you now for an honest fool, at least. A. Then I flatter myself
Mr B. had gained some respect for me, even were it no more than you have just
suggested. When I look back, I apprehend he wished to suggest a greater and more
serious purpose than he had led me to believe. He wished me to know he sought
something beyond the seeming of our parts till then. As if to say, I have deceived you, but
it is in a great and worthy cause, tho' beyond what I can reveal.
Q Can you not be more exact as to what was written on the papers?
A. I know little of the learned sciences, sir. There were many numbers on the sheet he
passed to me, in columns. With some two or three parts scratched loosely out, as if they
had been found in error. And another on the table showed a geometrick figure, a circle
cut by many lines that passed the circle's centre, against which were writ, at the lines'
ends, further words of Greek, tho' abbreviate. If I do not mistake, rather as astrologers
make their casts. I could not discern more closely.
Q. Did Mr B. never speak of such - of astrology, or belief or interest in it?
A. Unless at that observation at the temple, concerning his searching his life's meridian,
no.
Q. In sum, he gave you to understand, though obscurely, that what had brought him there
was not what he had hitherto given you to believe?
A. Yes, of that I am sure.
Q. And you presume, from this conversation, and those others that preceded it, that his
true design was in some way pertinent to these his hints and allusions as to a piercing of
the secrets of time to come?
A. Sir, to this day I know not what to presume. I sometimes think I must believe as he
hinted; and at others, that all is riddle, that he would in all play the jack with me and
never discoursed of these matters but to deceive; yet again, as I say, that though he must
perforce deceive me, he did regret it sincerely.
Q. You had no more converse that night?
A. Upon one matter only, Mr Ayscough. For his admitting that he was here upon other
business than had been pretended did raise a further enigma: why we had brought the
maid: I confess I was piqued, sir, that I had been hitherto trusted so little; and so I did tell
him of what Jones had believed her to be.
Q. What said he to that?
A. Whether I did believe it so; and I replied, easily I could not, yet that we suspected his
man was privy to her bed. At which he did put a last confusion upon me, for he said, May
a man not sleep with his wife, Lacy?
Q. What was your answer?
A. None, sir. I was the too discomfited. Jones and I had aired much in our speculations,
but never that.
Q. Why should they have hidden that they were married?
A. It is beyond my conceiving. Nor why a comely, well-spoken young woman such as
she should join her fate to such a deficient creature as Dick, without hope or prospect.
Q. This concluded your dealing on that evening?
A. Beyond that he did assure me of his esteem for me.
Q. Your agreed reward, how was that settled?
A. I forget, he said it should be done the next morning. As it was indeed. When he gave
me the bill in settlement, and also begged me to keep or sell the horse, as I wished.
Which I thought handsome of him.
Q. And it is sold?
A. Yes, when I came to Exeter.
Q. Now let us come to Jones, and his going off.
A. I was not a party to it, Mr Ayscough. He gave me no warning, not the least.
Q. Spake you to him, after you came to the Black Hart?
A. Unless some few words upon trivial matters.
Q. You had told him your task was near ended?
A. Yes, to be sure. As I said, we had divined it should be so before we came to the Black
Hart; and when I retired, after being informed by Mr B. of our instructions, as to proceed
ing forthwith to Exeter, I did call Jones up from the kitchen and told him what had
befallen.
Q. Seemed he set aback?
A. Not in the least, sir. He said he would be glad to be done with it.
Q. You did not discuss further?
A. Why, he might have done so, sir, for he was a little in his cups. But I sought my bed,
and forbade it. I believe I said we should have time enough after to think upon all that
had happened.
Q. When did you discover he had gone?
A. Not till I woke, that next morning, when as I dressed I remarked a note lying inside the
door, as if pushed there. I have brought it, I fear it is poorly written.
Q. Read it, if you please.
A. Worthy Mr Lacy, I hope you shall not take it too ill thanks for your past kindness that
I will be gone when you read this, I would not have it so, but as you well know I have an
aged parent at my place of birth in Wales, as well a brother and sister I have not seen
these seven years past. Sir, it has been much on my mind in this coming west that I have
sore neglected my duty as a son and being here so close, I asked our landlord of passage
across the channel to Wales, and he said there was weekly ships in culm and coals to
Bideford and Barnstaple and I found on asking there was one such sails by chance on the
flood this coming day as I write, I mean from Barnstaple, which I must take, tho' rest
assured I will tell any who ask I ride ahead for you to Bideford to warn of your coming,
and for the horse I will leave it at the Crown Inn, which is on Barnstaple Quay, for you or
Mr B. to take up when and where you please, the blunderbush I leave beneath the bed, I
would steal nothing. Pray believe it is my mother, sir, who I know is ailing, it is respect
of her and if I should not take this chance when that I am come so close, but forty miles'
sail, and our own journey done. Please assure Mr B. I shall keep my mouth closed tight as
a - I can't read it, sir - and I beg with all my heart nor he nor you will think me failing on
my side of the bargain other than by this one small day and if he is so kind as to forgive
your humble servant and friend I beg you hold safe my part owed unto my return to
London, which shall not be long hence, I trust, and now begging once more your sincere
pardon, I must end, for time presses. That is all, Mr Ayscough.
Q. He put his name to it?
A. His initials.
Q. You had no suspicion or forewarning of this whatsoever?
A. Not a particle, sir. It may be if I had had my wits more about me - I confess there was
a circumstance at Taunton. Jones came to me there, and told some tale of having used
most of his earnest money to settle a debt in London, so that he now found himself too
little provided, and asked me to advance a sum upon the rest of his wages for the journey.
Which I did, and noted in a pocket-book I keep for such purposes.
Q. How much?
A. A guinea.
Q. You were not surprised he should need such a sum?
A. I know him too well, sir. Where he can't impose by his braggarting, he will impose by
treating.
Q. Now, Mr Lacy, what credence do you put upon this letter?
A. I was angry, most angry that he should betray me so. Yet I thought it true, sir, at that
time. I knew he came from Swansea or thereabout, and had heard him speak of a mother
still living there.
Q. Who kept an alehouse?
A. Yes, so I believe he once told me.
Q. You say at that time - why not now?
A. Because he has not come for the rest of his money.
Q. Might he not have found work at Swansea?
A. Then he would have written. I know the man.
Q. Enquired you at the inn as to this - that there was truly a ship for Swansea that day?
That Jones had asked after such?
A. I did not, sir, upon Mr Bartholomew's instructions. For I had hardly read it when the
man Dick came to bring me to Mr B., who knew Jones had gone, Dick having told him.
And thought it might be by my instruction. To which I was obliged to tell him not, and
the truth of the matter.
Q. You showed him the note?
A. At once.
Q. It alarmed him?
A Less than I feared. He was kind to my embarrassment, though he had hired Jones upon
my recommendations.. He questioned me a little, as to what belief we might give the
letter. I replied as to you and that I was sure he need have no alarm for his own purposes,
since Jones knew even less of them than I. That if he had had some evil intent, he would
not have written his note, nor left it so late to act upon it.
Q. Jones knew you were commanded to return by Exeter, you say?
A. Yes. I had told him that.
Q. What instructions did Mr Bartholomew give as to this new turn of events?
A. That we must show no sign that what Jones had done was without our knowledge, but
pretend it was at our instruction. That is, leave together, then go our separate ways and
proceed as before. I confess I did not relish the prospect of riding alone in such a wild
and sparse-peopled country, but I held my tongue. I felt myself most to blame for the loss
of my intended companion, such as he was.
Q. Have you thought on what might prevent the fellow from claiming his due of you?
A. I have, and have no answer. It is most unlike.
Q. It would not be his guilt at leaving you in the lurch?
A. No. He's too poor to be tender on that point; or not to try.
Q. He was not married?
A. He never spoke of a wife. I did not know him as I might a friend, Mr Ayscough. I have
seen him put on a pretence of fine manners, but not such as would pass him for a
gentleman, however humble, or that I should impose upon Mrs Lacy. He came once or
twice to my house, but never past the door. There were a dozen others such as he that I
truly know no worse or better, and might have recommended to Mr Bartholomew. It so
fell I had met Jones a day or two previous in the street and spoken with him, and knew he
had no work.
Q. Very well. We come to your parting with Mr Bartholomew.
A. I could not tell you the name of the place. In two miles or a little more we came to a
fork, where there stood a gallows, Mr Bartholomew stopped and said it was the place,
that in some few miles my road should come to the highway from Barnstaple to Exeter
and I had but to follow that, and should with any luck find other travellers to journey
with. That I might sleep at Crediton or straight to Exeter, as I chose.
Q. Said he no more?
A. Yes, we must wait a minute or two while the fellow Dick took my baggage from the
pack-horse and tied it to the beast I rode. And I forget, Mr Bartholomew had insisted
most solicitously that I take Jones's blunderbuss with me, though 1 doubt I should have
brought myself to discharge it, except under most desperate need; but fortune was with
me, none arose. As to our parting, Mr B. and I dismounted and walked a few steps away.
Once again he thanked me and begged my excuses for the doubts he had occasioned in
me, and prayed I would ride on with no shadow in my soul, as he assured me I should, or
would, had he been able to divulge the entire truth.
Q. Still he gave no more precise indication of where he went, or whom he hoped to meet?
A. No, sir.
Q. Seemed he more confident in his demeanour?
A. I would rather say resigned, as if the die were cast. I remarked that the sun at least
smiled on his enterprise, since the day was a true old May Day, not a cloud to be seen.
And he said, Yes, I try to find that good augury, Lacy. When I then hoped he
would encompass this interview he so desired, he merely bowed and said, I shall soon
know. He added nothing else.
Q. The maid and the man - they seemed not surprised that you left their company?
A. No doubt they had been told that here my part ended, as indeed it did. I shook hands
with Mr Bartholomew, we mounted, they went their way and I went mine. Sir, I have told
you all that I know. I am sorry to disappoint where you would most have me say more. I
think I did warn you it must come to this.
Q. Now I would put a case to you. Supposing Jones had known himself right in his first
suspicion, that the maid was no maid, but a whore; that he had more forcefully charged
her with it than he led you to believe, and demanded money for his silence, and received
it, either from her or Mr B. himself. That is, say he was suborned from your interest, and
well paid to remove himself for fear that he might tell you what he knew, once you had
parted as planned from Mr B. Is this not more likely, and why he hath foregone his
agreed wages? May he not already have received them there in Devon, and no doubt
more than was bargained in the beginning?
A. I cannot credit he would trick me so.
Q. I may tell you his suspicion was right, Lacy. Your modest maid was neither modest
nor maid, but hired fresh out of Claiborne's stews.
A. I am dumbfounded, sir.
Q. You were too fond, my friend. I know Jones's kind. Their honesty is ever where their
interest lies. A lifetime's trust is nothing to a few guineas' profit.
A. But why was such a creature as she brought with us?
Q. There, I have still to determine. One would presume, for Mr B.'s pleasure. You assure
me there was no sign of that?
A. None that I saw.
Q. And for the fellow Dick being taken to her bed, you have none but Jones's word?
A. And their manner together, Mr Ayscough. In him it was naked he lusted after her. She
was more discreet, yet I smelt a closeness there.
Q. Let us return to your parting. You rode thence as directed, to Exeter?
A. I soon fell in upon the high-road with a pack-horse train, and two stout fellows to
guard it, and did not bid them farewell until we were inside the city gate at Exeter; where
I stayed two days to repose myself, and sold my horse; then took
coach to London, on the third.
Q. And to the enquiries of your fellow travellers?
A. I dare say the most disagreeable old crab they have ever coached with. They gained
nothing.
Q. You have told Mrs Lacy of your adventures?
A. I have, sir. She is discretion itself, I assure you. Not all ladies in my profession are as
that shameless hoyden, Mrs Charke, that has brought such distress through her malicious
conduct and ill-repute upon her worthy father, Mr Cibber; far from it, sir. She is the
exception, not the rule. No one who knew Mrs Lacy could impute to her loose morals or
the least indiscretion in private matters.
Q. Then you have a rare pearl in her sex. None the less, Lacy, I trust you will, having
presented my compliments, request her to continue in that most estimable quality.
A. You may be confident, Mr Ayscough. Now we are done, I feel my conscience much
relieved. Would that my apprehensions were in the same case. May I venture now to ask,
what you informed me of Mr B's servant - I cannot forget that?
Q. He was found hanged, Lacy, not three miles from where you saw him last. Whether by
his own hand, as it seemed, or by some other evil person, and made to appear as self-
murder, is as undetermined as so much else.
A. And of his master there is no news?
Q. Not one whit, nor of the whore. You may think yourself lucky that you took the Exeter
road.
A. I now know it, sir. I would I had taken no part.
Q. No doubt he would have found another to aid him. Your part was small matter. He
was set upon something such as this, long before he sent his servant to your door.
A. Upon disobedience?
Q. What would you say of a young man in your own calling, who having shown talents
and powers far beyond the ordinary, having in addition as rich expectations in his private
life as upon the public stage, sets his face, upon principles he does not deign to declare,
against all that Providence most plainly designs for him? To say nothing of spurning all
the reasonable hopes and counsels of his family and friends? That is not disobedience
alone, Lacy. The common people of the county of my birth have a proverb of a child
grown to a troublesome man. They say the Devil rocked his cradle. By which they would
say, he is not so much to blame for his perversity as some malign accident of nature. Mr
B. was given all, except contentment with his seeming most fortunate lot. He you knew
was no hobbledehoy son of a gentleman nobody, that much you will have divined, I
doubt not. But enough, I begin to say too much, Lacy, I thank you for your evidence, and
hope we part on better terms than we began. You will allow we must both be actors on
occasion, though it is for different ends.

Jurat die annoque praedicto coram me

Henry Ayscough
Lincoln's Inn, the 27th August

Your Grace,

What Yr Grace will here read attached speaks for itself, and I proceed now as Yr
Grace may guess. My men are already upon the road to Wales. If the rogue Jones be in
his native place, they shall find him more soon than late, I doubt not. My nose tells me
Lacy is no liar, and may be credited, tho' he credited far too much himself. He is a child
at heart, behind his airs, like all his kind, and would be seen better bred and more
important than he is; Yr Grace may judge him a fool, but not a perjuring villain. The
bawd Claiborne should have her back flogged to the bone, were there justice in this
world, and spend the rest of her shameless life in the colonies. Plain hanging is too sweet
for such as her.
I waited upon Lord B. this forenoon and showed him Yr Grace's letter and my
authority, and then laid such facts as was needful before him. He declared he was
innocent of all knowledge of them until this day; had supposed his Lordship abroad; con-
fessed he was a party to the matter at the bagnio, and thought the wench gone likewise
abroad for his Lordship's pleasure. I asked Lord B. if he had at any time suspected that
his Lordship's intentions were not what he publicly pretended. He replied that his
Lordship had talked much of his tour of Europe and he had believed him.
Upon my further questions Lord B. vouchsafed that tho' he had seen his Lordship
but infrequently since their Cambridge days, he counted him an honoured friend and was
always pleased to renew their old intimacy, when he was in town; that he found himself
somewhat surprised, on this last occasion, when his Lordship pressed to be introduced to
Claiborne's bagnio, since he had always supposed his Lordship insusceptible to the
temptations of the flesh and indeed seeming indifferent to womankind in general, since
he had never yet married; but that his Lordship now appeared determined (ipsissima
verba) to make up for lost time.
(I spare Yr Grace some more particular expressions of this determination that Lord B.
described, since I believe them but said to add colour to a supposed debauchery and cloak
his Lord, ship's true purpose.)
Lord B. further said that he himself had first proposed that his Lordship should
seek the favours of the woman in question; that he himself had been their recipient and
had vouched for her shills and charms. Lord B. then used a blasphemous figure I dare not
repeat to your Grace, but so as to say there was no better at her lewd traffick in London. I
requested to know in what these charms consisted, beyond the carnal. Lord B. replied that
it was part in a seeming modesty, the more striking for being found in a world of brass;
that it lay not in any particular faculty of wit or speech, since she spoke little, and then
simply; that he knew of more than one who had gone in boldly to her, not believing
report, yet had come out tamed; that since to the accustomed rake the most prized flesh is
the newest, some now counted her stale meat, but he knew of none better for such as his
Lordship, who took their first step in the Cyprian rites, which is why he proposed her to
him; that in some licentious imitation of Tacitus he had lately read she was described
meretricum regina initiarum lenis, which he deemed just.
 I asked then if subsequent upon this first visit his Lordship had spoken to Lord B.
of her, and in what terms. He said that he had, and that very next day, and seemed much
pleased; and to Lord B.'s recollection said that were he seeking a wench for his private
use and satisfaction, yet with whom he need form no closer attachment, then this was
such a one; that on some further occasion Lord B. had of speaking with his Lordship, to
his best memory some six or seven days later, his Lordship now broached the matter of
bribing the woman away from Claiborne's to amuse him during his stay in Paris, and how
it might be managed, and at what cost, et coetera; that he (Lord B.) had declared he
thought it could be done, but his Lordship must not delay his departure for France, as
Claiborne might cry scandal and make trouble if she knew her whore still in London.
Furthermore that (it might be three or four days later still) his Lordship had called
on Lord B. and told him a difficulty lay with the whore, who was not unwilling to suit,
but greatly feared her mistress's anger if she were discovered, which fear neither the
money his Lordship offered to procure her running away nor assurances of his protection
would stifle; that Claiborne kept too close a watch and was notorious cruel on any that
dared quit her service in such manner, and in fine that if his Lordship could hire her
away, openly with Claiborne, upon a pretext (some other than to accompany him to
France, which she would never allow), she would come, but otherwise feared it was more
than her life was worth to accede to his Lordship's wishes.
Lord B. said he thereupon advised his Lordship, if his mind was set on having her,
to proceed as the girl advised, though it might seem the more expensive way; because
that there lay some justice behind her fear for herself, since it is common knowledge no
pandaress may afford to let one of her whores escape unpunished, lest the others should
follow her example; and that the arrangement had this to be said for it that if, the time
elapsed, his Lordship had grown tired of the wench, then he had but to send her back, and
no one the wiser as to what was first intended.
Upon my closer questioning Lord B. admitted that he had helped devise the
pretext his lordship employed to deceive Claiborne, and had done as the creature accuses
as to the substantiation of it, when called upon; but considered it no sin to practise upon
such as she, who live by evil practice.
I am confident Your Grace knows sufficient of Lord B.'s character to know what
worth to set upon his unsworn evidence, but will permit me to add that I took no
suspicion in our interview of matters being hid, tho' it is sadly plain the noble lord played
no noble part in all that transpired.
I thought finally to ask Lord B. whether his Lordship had declared his private feelings to
him, as regards the severity, eminently just and merited though it was, that he had
provoked in his most noble father. I pray Yr Grace will remember, in what 1 repeat of
what Lord B. replied, that it was his command that 1 should attempt to ascertain this.
Lord B. said that though he had heard, before they met anew, that his Lordship was most
angry with his parent, he was at first surprised to find him seemingly the rather resigned
to his fate than determined not to submit to it. Yet that on a later and more intimate
occasion his Lordship stated that he did not believe himself Yr Grace's son, for he could
not countenance such a person as his father; and did say he would rather lose the
strawberry leaves than believe Yr Grace was so. Lord B. said he then made use of other
most opprobrious epithets, the more so for being uttered not when he was inebriated or in
a rage, but in his apparent senses, and most icy cold in manner, as if Yr Grace were some
Turkish bashaw or other Oriental despot into whose cruel hands he had fallen. Lord B.
said further that he did conclude his Lordship's new will to play the rake might be placed
upon this malevolent resentment in him for so sacred a figure as a father should be; but
added in some small extenuation of his Lordship that these things were said to him alone
(on an occasion when they strolled apart together in the Mall) and he never heard his
Lordship to express himself thus in more public company; and in extenuation of himself
that he had suggested to his Lordship (as Yr Grace will know, Lord B. was on ill terms
with his own father, before that noble gentleman's late decease) that in his experience it
was best to stifle one's resentments and to leave time as arbiter, that must in the nature of
things be upon a son's side; and that after all, Heaven agreeing, his Lordship and he
should one day themselves be fathers also. To that his Lordship appeared to acquiesce,
and no more was said on the matter.
I am asked to convey to Yr Grace Lord B.'s profoundest regrets that matters have
taken this unforeseen turn and his assurances that he remains as ignorant as Yr Grace's
self as to his Lordship's real intentions and present whereabouts; and respectfully to sug-
gest to Yr Grace that bearing in mind the notorious risk of infection from French whores
and seeing that his Lordship's mind seemed fixed on its course of pleasure, he could not
advise against what he was led (falsely) to believe were his plans, but on the contrary saw
good reasons for seconding them; that he had given his Lordship his word that he would
keep the matter entirely secret and also that he would find means to silence Claiborne's
resentment if need arose, which he has done and will continue to do; and finally begs to
insist that if he can be of any further assistance to Yr Grace in the affair, Your Grace will
not hesitate to call upon him.

Yr Grace's ever most humble and obedient servant,

Henry Ayscough

Lincoln's Inn, The 8th of September

Your Grace

I write late and in great haste, so as not to delay the news my clerk Tudor has this
minute brought. Jones is found, with an ease I had scarce hoped, and brought to London.
They arrived but two hours since, and he is safe lodged. I shall begin upon the rogue
tomorrow morning.
He was found by the greatest fortune at Cardiff, as they passed for Swansea; for my man
says Jones was drinking in the very inn where they chanced to lodge; and that they might
most easily not have remarked him, had not another spake his name, that they heard; and
then watched close and listened, and so knew their good fortune. At first he would deny,
but my clerk soon had him well sifted; then would run off, but to no avail; then cried he
was false arrested, but changed his tune most swiftly when he was offered by my clerk to
be brought before the justices of Cardiff to plead his innocence. They have since kept
silence with him, nor let him speak as he would, and my man says he is much dejected
and alarmed-in his words, well hung for the roasting, the which Yr Grace will believe me
he shall have.
Yr Grace will, I pray, permit me at this present not to re, mark upon the justly
outraged paternal sentiments he deigned to vouchsafe in his last letter. I am persuaded he
knows that they are most respectfully shared. Like Yr Grace, I am confounded in all my
understandings and expectations, as regards his L'dship. Quantum mutatus ab itlo!
Nothing shall be undone that may cast light upon this most unhappy affair.

Yr Grace's most humble and diligent servant,

Henry Ayscough

I adjoin a copy of the letter that I have received of Mr Saunderson of Cambridge,

that Yr Grace may see how his younger son's talents was esteemed by academy. Of Mr
Whiston Yr Grace knows, d doubt not; he is quarrelsome dissenter and dangerous-
mouthed, ter-veneficus that did lose him the position at Cambridge that Mr Saunderson
now fills, these twenty-five years past; and is grown more poisonous violent and
turbulent since, for I hear now he waits upon that gentleman's decease, that he may once
more put forward and take again the place he so deservedly was ejected from. H.A.

the 8 of her, Christ's College, Cambridge.

Sir,

I am in sad receipt of your letter of the 27 August, to which I hasten to reply,

albeit deficiency doth oblige me to dictate to an amanuensis. I fear, sir, I can be of no
assistance in the most pressing of what you request. I have not had the pleasure of
meeting his Lordship in these two years past; I had last that pleasure at the time of the
election, that is, in the April Of '34. His Lordship then did me the honour of visiting me
here, when he was in this town. Some letters we have exchanged since that meeting; all
have been confined to matters mathematick and algebraical. The last such I received was
of the 24th March last, that wished me well of the coming year, and did announce that his
Lordship intended soon to be in town, and designed a summer tour to France and Italy;
yet hoped before he left, when the weather was more clement, that he might make an
excursion to Cambridge to call upon me, for he sought my advice on whom he might visit
during his tour. Alas, since then I have had no further letter nor other news of him, and
had presumed him gone. I am as perplexed as I am dismayed by this news of a
disappearance. The letter of March contained naught, beyond the above-mentioned, of
more personal import.
Of his Lordship I may most sincerely state that I have had few pupils to equal
him, and none to surpass. You may know, sir, that I am fourth Lucasian professor at this
university, and have been so since the year 1711; and thus in commending him so highly
I lack not grounds for comparison. Did not his rank preclude him, I consider his talents
such as would have most usefully adorned this University; I cannot say the like of many
others, far his inferior, that have been elected fellows this last twenty years.
 I am alas the more accustomed, with young gentlemen of his rank, to find that
whatever interest and assiduity in study they may show when here is swift to disappear
when they go out upon the world. It has not been so with his Lordship; he has most
pertinaciously continued his studies in the mathematick science and in all to which it
pertains. I have found him always well read, and a most excellent practiser. For this it is
not only I who vouch; this has been also the opinion of my eminent predecessor, Mr
Whiston, whose religious views one may deplore, but not his mathematick ability, and of
a far greater still, my most illuminate ante-predecessor in cathedra Lucasiana, Sir Isaac
Newton. To the attention of both have I-more than once brought propositions or solutions
advanced by his Lordship; and though they did, before Sir Isaac's lamented death, fall out
with each other, in this they concurred: that here was a young philosopher worthy their
attention.
I would not bore you, sir, yet I may add that I have myself these several years
been engaged upon a method by board for the easier computation of great numbers; that
in this design I have several times discussed with his Lordship the problems of method
that I have encountered; and that I have found him by no means the least skilled in
assisting me to surmount them. His talents here are not common ones; for the common
mind in such matters will attempt to solve by small refinement and improvement of the
proposed method; whereas his Lordship did proceed by the most close examination of the
principles of the method; and more than once he hath hit upon a better and more
advantageous one. I count myself fortunate to have had such a noble coadjutor.
If I am to find fault in him, it is that he was sometimes seized by beliefs or
theories of this physical world that I must term more phantasies than probable or
experimental truths. The one that you require me to explain is such; in my view. The
series of numbers to which you allude appears first in the Liber Abaci of one Leonardo da
Pisa, a learned Italian. He did devise it, but, upon his own admission, for no more than to
calculate the multiplication of conies in a warren. Yet his Lordship would find this rate of
proportion (which doth stay the same however superfetatiously its parts be increased)
everywhere in nature besides, indeed even discernible in the motions of the planets and
the arrangement of stars in the heavens; and saw it likewise in all plants, in the
disposition of their leaves, for which ordering he would make a name, that is, from the
Greek, phyllotaxis. And he did believe also that this same most elementary sequence
might be traced in the history of this world, both past and to come; and thus that were it
fully understood, the chronology of the future might be mathematically prophesied as
well that of the past explained.
There, sir, I believe he put far too much upon some trifling coincidences in the base
phenomena of physical nature; and must believe also that in this he did suffer, though
through no fault of his own, from his aristocratic place in society, viz., that he lacked the
daily commerce of a world of common learning and discussion upon it; and thus suffered
from what may be called a dementia in exsilio, if you will forgive me. Or as it is said
here, In delitescentia non est scientia, those who lie hidden, or live far, from knowledge,
may never fully have it.
Now, sir, in matters of my science I am accustomed to speak my mind; and when
his Lordship did first put his notions on this matter before me, I was somewhat strict
upon them, and found them ill-grounded. This happened some five years ago, and did at
the first occasion a coldness between his Lordship and myself, that I did venture to
criticize many of the too extravagant deductions he would make upon his premisses. Yet
am I happy to say we have made truce since then, upon terms proposed by his Lordship
himself: that he valued his relation with me far too highly to lose it for a dispute over a
matter that he conceded he could not prove (this was in allusion to his chimerical notion
that a chronology of the future might be established from the aforesaid sequence). He
proposed then that we should, as amici amicitiae (so he put it), ban this bone of
contention from our conversation. And so since has it been, sir; and I had believed it no
longer his study, for he has been good to his word in all our subsequent meetings and in
all correspondence.
As I say, sir, I am perplexed as to where his Lordship now might be, and cannot
advise you; and must pray one I have the honour to count as a most worthy, talented,
amiable and noble friend shall soon be found.

Your obedient servant,

Nicholas Saunderson A. M.
Regalis Societatis Socius

Written by me, Anne Saunderson, daughter.

 The Examination and Deposition of
David Jones
the which doth attest upon his sworn
oath, this ninth day of September in
the tenth year of the reign
of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of
Great Britain and of England, &c.

MY NAME IS David Jones. I am Swansea born, as old as the century, thirty-six years. I
am not married. I am at this present ship-chandler's clerk at Cardiff.

Q. Jones, I have been at great cost to find you.

A. I know it, sir, and am most sorry.
Q. You have read this summary of Mr Francis Lacy's deposition?
A. I have, sir.
Q. You do not deny you are he Mr Lacy speaks of?
A. No, sir. I cannot.
Q. But you denied it to him I sent to fetch you hither?
A. I knew him not, sir. He said at first nothing of Mr Lacy, and I consider myself with
respect that worthy gentleman's friend, and bound in honour to protect him if I could. For
I knew him as innocent as Jones, sir, in what passed last April. One must look for one's
friends, as the saying goes.
Q. My man says you still denied, when he spoke of Mr Lacy; that you swore on your oath
you knew no such person.
A. It was but to prove him, sir, to see if he knew as much as he claimed. And when I was
satisfied he did, I lied no more.
Q. And shall lie no more, Jones.
A. I shall not, sir. Indeed I shan't.
Q. Be it so. We will come to what happened subsequent to your setting forth from
London. I first desire to know whether there are any matters in Mr Lacy's deposition, or
such of it as you have read, that you know are false.
A. Not one, sir.
Q. Or inexact?
A. No, sir. 'Twas all as he says, that I know.
Q. Or deficient in any substantial way - were there matters of import you discovered that
you did not tell him?
A. No, sir. 'Twas my duty to tell him all I saw and marked. And so I did.
Q. There is nothing you can add?
A. Upon my oath, there is not, sir.
Q. Do you deny that you ran away, as Mr Lacy tells, without his permission?
A. No, sir. 'Twas as I did write him, sir. I would see my old mother, God rest her soul,
and I knew but the Bristol Channel between us, and thought I should not have better
opportunity. Near is my petticoat, but nearer's my smock, as the saying goes. I was
wrong, sir, I know it. But I have been a bad son, see you, and wished to mend.
Q. Was not your employment with Mr Bartholomew at an end, that very next day? Why
should you not ask Mr Lacy if you might go then?
A. I judged he would say no, sir.
Q. Why?
A. Because he's a fearful gentleman, sir, and I knew would not want to ride alone in those
parts.
Q. Had he not been a good friend to you - on this as well as past occasions? Found
employment for you?
A. Well, sir, I won't deny it, and so was I deep ashamed to treat him, yet see you my
conscience as a son and Christian said I ought, and must. So I did.
Q. And hoped you would find his forgiveness when you returned to London?
A. I hoped, sir. He is soft of heart too, God bless him. And Christian likewise.
Q. I would have you tell me what you made of Mr Bartholomew's servant Dick.
A. I made nothing of him, sir. Jones knew him no better at the end than at the beginning.
Q. You found nothing strange in him?
A. What was plain to any, sir. That 'twas beyond an Irishman's belief, a gentleman
thinking to employ him for what he was. He was strong enough, well set, for a good
lackey, but naught else, see you.
Q Not a gentleman's servant, you would say?
A. He did what he was bid, sir, well enough. And I'll allow his master's secrets was safe
enough with him. And his belongings. He would not even let me touch the little chest we
had upon the pack-horse, that weighed so heavy. Our first day out I would help him carry
it up, he pushed me off; and so for the rest. He was more jealous cur than serving-man in
that.
Q. Marked you nothing else peculiar in him?
A. That he would not laugh, nor even smile, not even when the company was merry as
cup and can. There was a maid at Basingstoke one morning at the well, where Dick and I
and others was standing by, and would dowse the stableboy for some impertinence, and
ran after him with the bucket but fell, and dowsed herself, which a dead man would have
laughed to see how droll it was. But not he. He stood always at the coffin's side, as the
saying goes. Ever found sixpence, and lost a shilling.
Q. A melancholy fellow?
A. Simple, sir. As if he had dropped from the moon. He was more figure of wood than
human flesh. Except with the girl. I could tell your worship a tale there.
Q. Seemed he frightened of his master?
A. No, sir. Quick to his command, but no more than is natural. Attentive when they spoke
by their signs - which I learned to read a little, and tried to speak to Dick by what I could
make out of'em, but 'twas wasted time.
Q. Why?
A. I cannot say, sir. In simple things, such as help me tie that, give a hand to lift this, he
would understand. Tried I to ask something of him, of what he thought, no more than in
common friendship at an idle moment, he would not. I should as well have spoken my
mother's Welsh.
Q. So was he not less simple than he seemed?
A. It may be, sir. Some might say that.
Q. I have a deposition of Master Puddicombe, of the Black Hart Inn. He says you told
there of a lunatic fit one night upon the road.
A. I told tales wherever we went, sir. Mirrors for larks, as they say.
Q. It was false?
A. Sir, I did in that as I was bid by Mr Lacy and the gentleman.
Q. That you should spread word the fellow was moon-ridden?
A. Not in the particular, sir. Since Dick must seem so close, that I should play the loose-
tongued companion, free with his tittle-tattle, and so put off suspicion.
Q. And did you not say the maidservants should watch to their dealings with him?
A. I may have, sir. And if I did, 'twas nearer the mark.
Q. In what way?
A. That was no Italian eunuch, sir, no Faribelly. For all he lacked elsewhere.
Q. You speak of the maid Louise?
A. I do, sir.
Q. And of other females, upon your road?
A. He had eyes only for her, sir. The other was no more than spice. To tickle the young
women in Puddicombe's house.
Q. And did you not tickle one such in a grosser manner, Jones?
A. In play, sir. No more, upon my word. I tried for a buss.
Q. And her bed, sir?
A. Well, I am still young, sir. Begging your worship's respect I have my natural vigours,
like any man. I had had the goose's simpers at supper, see you. She was but a country
malkin.
Q. Very well. Let us pass to Louise. What think you now of what you first told Mr Lacy,
to wit, that you had seen her at Claiborne's house one day?
A. 'Twas night, sir, and by linklight, no more than a passing quick as she went in. I did
not swear to it. I don't doubt I was mistook. The eye's a shrew, it will look for the worst.
'Twas a resembling, not her.
Q. You tell me, you are now positive you was mistaken?
A. Yes, sir. Was I not?
Q. Why ask you?
A. That you should seem to doubt it, sir. 'Twas whist, whist, I smell a bird's nest. A fancy
I took, that was wrong.
Q. You are positive she was not what you thought?
A. I took Mr Bartholomew's word, sir. Or rather, Mr Lacy's taking of his word as to who
she was. 'Twas well for him, 'twas well for me.
Q. Did you speak much with her?
A. Little, sir. She made it plain at setting-out she was nice, would keep herself to herself.
Why, nice as a nun's hen, hoity-toity she cared not to look on me, if we sat at table or
had to pass; and had better things than to talk, when we were on the road. 'Twas fit her
name was French.
Q. Was this her niceness not excessive in a purported maid?
A. So in these times are most of her kind, sir. Odsocks, they'd all have you believe 'em
their mistresses.
Q. No vulgar oaths in this room.
A. I beg your worship's pardon.
Q. You did not know her by any other name?
A. No, sir, how should I?
Q. Know you the name of she you saw to enter Claiborne's?
A. No, sir, nor he I was with that pointed her out. Save that he knew she was a prize piece
in the house, that was called the Quaker Maid. And we thought the gentleman we had
brought might be come to go with her. That was the Marquis of I…….., sir.
Q. You were there as chairman, is it so?
A. Yes, sir, as I was by occasion, when I had no better for my bread.
Q. You went often as chairman to this house?
A. Sometimes, sir. As it fell.
Q. And had never learnt the names of its strumpets?
A. No, sir. Only that it was said to hold the best flesh in London, for that half the richest
culls - begging your pardon, sir, I would say the greatest gentlemen of London, did go
through its doors.
Q. And you are certain, she you travelled with was not this whore?
A. I am now, sir.
Q. Did you not ask this Louise whence she came, and such things?
A. I did, sir, and more times than once before we came to Amesbury. Such as how long
she had been in service, and where. 'Twas charity to a miser, she had a manner of saying
little to tell you nothing. That was no clack-patten tongue.
Q. And when you asked her of the going out in the night at Amesbury?
A. She denied it flat, sir, and grew angry, in a fluster, then sour as verjuice, and I knew
she lied, as to that.
Q. Now, before you knew Dick was privy to her bed, had you marked any understanding
between them?
A. 'Twas plain enough in him, sir, that he was besotted, to one who watched close if she
were by. He'd scarce take his eyes off her; and once he'd served his master, he'd serve
her.
Q. How so?
A. Why, carry her victuals, carry her bundle, what he could. 'Twas like the old rhyme: He
that loves glass without G, Take away L, and that is he.
Q. But she was more modest in showing affection?
A. More sly, sir. You would take him more her pet dog than her lover, by the outward of
it. But after Amesbury, when 'twas out, she hid less. She would sleep riding, I see her
now, sat forward there between his arms, head turned to rest against his breast, so a child
would or a wife.
Q. And this, despite she was so nice?
A. 'Tis as the proverb says, sir. Know Eve, know all.
Q. Rode she most often there, or behind?
A. Why to begin, behind, sir, as is most common, like to mackaw or cockatoon upon a
perch. Then took the third day to sitting forward between his arms, she did say it was
more soft, thereupon the withers; which she might the better have said it was softer
between the lusty fellow's legs, begging your worship's pardon.
Q Did you not ask her more of him, if they was not to marry?
A. I did not, sir. For Mr Lacy had told me privily not to pry further, fear it would seem I
was spying on Mr Bartholomew for him, which he would not have. So I held my tongue
and thought kinder of her, that perhaps at first she feared I might mock her for her fancy
for such a fellow as Dick, and had been short with me for my own good.
Q. How is that?
A. Why, sir, she was a handsome wench. Love will creep if it can't go. I daresay my eyes
soon told her as much.
Q. You played the gallant?
A. I might have, sir, if she'd let. But 'twas half to see if she knew what gallantry was. And
whether my thinking her one of Mother Claiborne's lambs was true.
Q. You can tell me nothing more of her?
A. No, sir.
Q. And you have seen or heard nothing of her, or of Dick, or of his master, since the last
day of April?
A. No, sir.
Q. Or read report, in newspaper or gazette?
A. No, sir, on my word.
Q. And your belief has been that Mr Bartholomew succeeded in his plan of elopement,
without any crime committed in which you are blameable?
A. Yes, sir, until this present. Where I might be alarmed, were I not innocent, and see
your worship's most just and merciful. I have no fear, my part was nothing, no more than
porter at the door, see you.
Q. Why have you stayed in Wales, and not returned to London for the money Mr Lacy
holds for you?
A. I wrote Mr Lacy my reasons, sir, this three months gone.
Q. He knows naught of this.
A. No, sir, and I will take your liberty to inform you why. First when I was landed where
I was born, I did have news that made me weep, your worship, weep as a child, for I
found my poor old mother, God rest her soul, was no more, but in her grave, and had
been the like these three years past; and a sister likewise, that I had loved, but six months
gone. And now I had no more than a brother left, that is poorer even than Jones, true
Welsh beside, which is brother most to his own misery. Well, sir, with him I did lodge
most wretched for a month and help as I might. Then says d, Jones, says I, 'tis time you
were returned to London. 'Tis a miserable small Welsh place, your Swansea, sir. While
money and Jones is like the clocks of London, sir, we are never long together. All I had
brought was run down Gutter Lane. So I set out to walk to London, being short of means
to a better way. And came to Cardiff, where I met a friend, who took me to his home and
made me welcome; and by chance another man was there, who when he heard that I
could write and cipher, and had been in the world, spoke of a place he knew where he
worked himself, which was Mr Williams's where your man found me, sir. For see you his
old clerk was but three days before struck sudden of an apoplexy, and given for dead,
which now he is, and Mr Williams had such press of business upon him -
Q. Yes, yes. Come to your letter.
A. Why, sir, it was to tell of this post I had found and that I was happy as a fairday fowl
in it, found apt and industrious by my new master, and so could not come to London.
That I was very sorry for what I had done and hoped he would now consider to forgive
me, which if he could, I should be grateful he might find some means to send me my
accompt with him.
Q. How sent you this letter?
A. By one who had cause to Gloucester, sir, and who said he would see it sent further
from there, for which I gave him a shilling. Which he assured me was done when he
returned. But I lost my expense and trouble, sir, I had no answer of it.
Q. Did you not write again?
A. I thought it not worth the trouble, sir. That Mr Lacy was angry, and serving me as I
served him, as I dare say he had right.
Q. Too trifling a sum to be worth your trouble?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. How much, by your account?
A. I had already taken some of Mr Lacy, before we parted.
Q. How much?
A. Several guineas' worth, sir.
Q. Be exact.
A A guinea the god's-penny before we left and else beside.
Q. How much else?
A. I asked some of Mr Lacy at Taunton, sir. I believe 'twas two or three guineas.
Q. Mr Lacy says one.
A. I have forgot, sir. I should have sworn it more.
Q. You are so mighty careless of money you confound one and three? (Non respondet)
You had taken two guineas, Jones. That left owed to you?
A. Eight, sir.
Q. How much does your present place pay per annum?
A. Ten pound a year, your worship, and I know what you would be at. But I thought it
lost money, so counted it little.
Q. Near a year's wages, it is little?
A. I knew not how to claim it.
Q. Do not ships bring coals from Wales to London, and often?
A. It may be, sir.
Q. What, you work at a chandler's and are not sure?
A. Yes, I am sure, sir.
Q. Thought you not to send a letter by one of them, or take passage yourself, to recover
your money?
A. Jones is no sailor, sir. I fear the sea, and the privateers.
Q. I say there is some other reason. You are lying.
A. No, sir.
Q. Yes, sir. You had found out something of this expedition into the West, that you saw
fit not to tell Mr Lacy and that you knew might bring you and all who were associated
with it into your present trouble. You would not run away and give up all your money,
were there not some greater cause.
A. I knew no more than we were told, sir. Upon my oath. Or found out for ourselves, that
Mr Lacy has already said.
Q. I have thee limed in thy own lime, man. Your first letter to Mr Lacy spoke of a ship to
Swansea out of Barnstaple, that first of May. I have written to enquire. There was none
such, nor for ten days after.
A. No, sir, I was wrongly informed, as I found when I came there. So I thought it, when I
wrote it down. At Barnstaple I was told I should do better at Bideford. Where I went, and
found a collier three days thence. That is truth, sir. You may inquire. Her name was the
Henrietta, Master James Parry of Porthcawl, an excellent captain and well known.
Q. How spent you those three days?
A. I lay in Barnstaple that first day, sir, and the next to Bideford, where I inquired on the
quay there and found Mr Parry and spoke with him for my passage. Which we took the
day following and had a safe crossing, I thank the Lord.
Q. Who told you wrongly of this ship at Barnstaple- who at the Black Hart?
A. Why, sir, I forget now. One who was there.
Q. You wrote Mr Lacy that it was Puddicombe.
A. Then it was he, sir.
Q. Jones, I warn thee. Thou reek'st of lies as thy country's breath doth stink of leeks.
A. No, sir. As God is my witness.
Q. I have thy letter here, which states plain that Master Puddicombe told thee. But he
swears he did not, and he's no liar.
A. Then I mistook, sir. It was writ in great haste.
Q. And in great botch, like the rest of thy story. For I have written to the Crown, Jones,
about the horse. Now, will you still say it was left there on the first of the month or at any
day subsequent indeed? Why do you not answer?
A. Sir, I am confused. I recollect now, I rode with it to Bideford and did leave it there, at
the sign of the Barbadoes where I lodged, with money to keep till 'twas fetched, but did
not forget to send message by a boy to the Crown in t'other place, for if any should
inquire and think me thief of it. I swear, sir, you must forgive I am out of wits. I said the
first day without thought, to be brief. I did not think it material.
Q. Then I will tell thee why, thou rogue, and how near the gallows thou art. Dick is dead,
upon strong suspicion of murder, his body found hanged not a day's ride from where
thou slept; his master's chest found robbed, the box vanished; and since that day, no word
of his master nor the maid. In which black mystery a strong presumption is that they lie
murdered also - and a stronger still, that it is by thee. (Here the deponent exclaimed in the
Welsh tongue.) What is this?
A. Not true, not true. (Here more words in the Welsh tongue.)
Q. What's not true?
A. The woman lives. I have seen her after.
Q. Well mayst thou hang thy head, Jones. Attempt me one more lie, and I'll have it
hanged where it best belongs, I promise thee that.
A. I have seen her after, I swear, your honour.
Q. After what?
A. There where they went that first of May.
Q. How know you where they went? Did you not go to Barnstaple?
A. No, sir. Oh dear God, would that I had. Dear God. (Again, Welsh words.)
Q. Do you know where the maid presently is?
A. On God's honour, no, sir. Unless it be at Bristol, as I will tell. And she was no maid.
Q. And Mr Bartholomew?
A. Dear God.
Q. Why do you not answer?
A. I know who he truly was. 'Twas thus I became entangled, curse the day, though I
meant well. Your worship, I could not help it, it was told me without the asking, by a
fellow that -
Q. Stop. Tell me the name you were told, no more and no less. Do not write his answer.
A. (Respondet.)
Q. Have you told or writ this name to any?
A. No, sir. Not one, on my mother's soul.
Q. You know then for whom I pursue, Jones? Why thou art here?
A. I may guess, sir. And most humbly crave his mercy, for I thought to act for him, sir,
when I knew.
Q. We will come to that. Now I repeat, what know you of his Lordship, subsequent to the
first of May? Have you spoken with him, had news of him, had any knowledge
whatsoever of him?
A. I know not where he is, I swear, sir, nor whether he lives, nor of Dick and his dying.
Your worship must believe me. Oh dear God, you must believe I hid all because I was so
sore afraid, nothing else.
Q. Hid what, thou sniveller? Get off thy knees.
A. Yes, sir. I mean I knew later Dick was dead, sir, God rest his soul. But no more, I
swear you by St David's grave.
Q. How came you by this?
A. By suspicion of it, sir, not certain information. When I had been two weeks or more in
Swansea, I fell in with a mariner in a tavern there late come from Barnstaple, who told of
a dead man found with violets stuffed in his mouth near that town. He gave no name, sir,
he mentioned it in passing, as a strange matter. Yet it gave me forebodings.
Q. And then?
A By one I met after I removed to Cardiff, sir, in my master Mr Williams's house, that is,
his place of business, who spoke of the same affair, for he landed that very morning from
Bideford, and talked of new discoveries, and that Bideford was full of it and said 'twas
now thought five travellers lay murdered two months past. He said no names neither, but
I guessed by the number, and other circumstance he spake of, and have lived in great fear
till this day and would have told you at once, sir, were it not for my poor mother and -
Q. Enough! When was this - the second report?
A. The last week of June, sir. To my best memory. Or worst, alas. I meant no harm.
Q. Why fear'st thou so much, if thou art innocent?
A. Sir, I have seen such things I'd not believe myself, were another to say them.
Q. Thou'lt say them to me, by Heaven, Jones. Or see thy own evil carcass hanged. I'll
have thee swung for horse-stealer, if not for murderer.
A. Yes, sir. (More in the Welsh tongue.)
Q. And enough of thy barbarous gibberish.
A. Yes, sir. 'Tis but a prayer.
Q. Prayers will not save thee. Nothing but the truth entire.
A. You shall have it, sir. On my word. Where would you have me begin?
Q. Where you first lied. If that were not the cradle.
A. I have told you no lies till where we stayed when we left Amesbury, sir, which was at
Wincanton. All passed as Mr Lacy told. Unless it be Louise.
Q. What of her?
A. I thought I was right in what I first told Mr Lacy, as to where I had seen her before.
Q. Entering Claiborne's - that she was whore?
A. Yes, sir. But he would not have it so. So I did not press it, yet believed what I
believed, as the saying goes.
Q. That Mr Lacy had been deceived by his Lordship?
A. Tho' I knew not why, sir.
Q. Did you charge her with it?
A. No, sir, or not in manner direct. Mr Lacy said I maunt. I spoke some light words with
her, by way of proving her, and half in sport. As I told, she would yield no ways, and
spoke as a lady's maid might, no better nor no worse.
Q. You were less certain?
A. Yes, sir, and less again when I found she lay with Dick. I knew not what to think,
unless they both laughed at their master behind his back. Yet still I thought her she I had
seen, as was proved right, sir, you shall hear what fell at the end.
Q. You are certain his Lordship showed her no special favours, nor met apart with her, or
the like?
A. Not that I saw, sir. He would bid her good day in the morning. He used once and again
to ask if she were tired or sore, upon our riding, tho' no more than a great gentleman
should, passing civility to his inferiors.
Q. She never to your knowledge went privily to his chamber, where you stayed?
A. No, sir. I cannot truly tell, seeing I was seldom upstairs except to Mr Lacy. 'Tis most
landlords' rule, no manservant shall lie where the maids lie, I mean in that same part of
the house.
Q. And wisely. So be it. Now let us come to what passed at Wincanton.
A. One in a greatcoat came up to me, there at the sign of the Greyhound, who had seen us
ride in and said, What's afoot? I said, Nothing's afoot, what mean you? Come, says he
with a wink, I know who your Mr Bartholomew truly is, I was coachman till two years
past to Sir Henry W-, and knew him there when he came to visit. I would know him and
that mute man of his in a thousand, he said. He is - who I said you just now, sir.
Q. He spoke the name?
A. Yes, and his noble parent's as well. I was at a stumble, sir, I knew not what to answer,
but thought it best to make no argument, so winked him back and said, Perhaps it may be,
but hold your tongue, he'd not be known. To which he said, Very well, have no fear, but
where goes he? I says, To hunt a young partridge in the West. Ah, he says, plump and
pretty, I don't doubt. Then that he had guessed as much.
Q. Who was this man?
A. Coachman to an admiral, sir, who went with his lady to the Bath. His name was
Taylor. A well enough fellow, he meant no harm beyond his curiosity, and was no trouble
to turn aside, once we were started. I said Mr Lacy to be his Lordship's tutor, and our
pretext that we made a tour, tho' it was truly to lay a siege, and the girl Louise at hand for
when the young lady was captured. Then Dick came by and Taylor would greet him, and
the fool near spoilt all by making out he knew him not, and going off. I said he was
frightened, Taylor was to take no offence, he must know Dick had only half his wits.
Then ten minutes later down comes Louise to fetch me. Farthing, she says, your master
calls. So I went with her, and outside the door she says, 'tis not Mr Brown, but Mr Barth-
olomew who wants you, I know not why. So I go to him, sir, and he says, Jones, I fear
my disguise is pierced. I say, Yes, my lord, I fear it is, and explained how it came about,
and what I had said to Taylor. Very well, he says, howsoever Mr Lacy knows nothing of
this, and 'tis best we continue so.
Q. Gave he a reason?
A. That he esteemed Mr Lacy, sir, and would not cause him concern. To which I said I
was his Lordship's to command. Then say nothing, he says, and give the fellow this to
drink my health and hold his tongue, and here's a half-guinea for you also. Which I took,
sir, and felt myself beholden.
Q. And never spoke of this to Mr Lacy?
A. No, sir. And later, when I drank with Taylor, he told me how he had heard his
Lordship's noble father was in a great rage that he had refused a party proposed to him. I
began then to be afraid, sir. Better a bed of nettles than a secret shared, as the saying
goes. I saw an angered parent, sir, and one such I ought not dare offend. And thought of
my Bible, and what is commanded in the fifth of Moses, honour thy father.
Q. Had you never thought that before? Did you not know the general case, what his
Lordship was about, before you left London?
A. I saw it in new light, sir.
Q. To wit?
A. 'Twas my duty, sir, to see if I might find out more of what his Lordship intended.
Q. In plain, that it might serve thy pocket best to serve his father?
A. That it was prudent, sir.
Q. You begin to cant, Jones, like all your nation. You saw a smart profit, did you not?
A. I hoped for some reward, sir. If the gracious gentleman saw fit.
Q. That I'll believe. From Wincanton on you were full resolved to spy upon his Lordship.
Was it not so?
A. If I might, sir. I knew not then that I would. Those two days still of travelling were not
in Gladherhat for Jones.
Q. In what?
A. 'Tis how we Welsh say of Somerset, sir, a merry place, all cider and fat cattle.
Q. Now thou'dst grant thyself scruples. I will not have it, thou art plain rogue. Why else
didst thou call upon Mr Lacy at Taunton to advance thee more of thy money - thou wert
resolved, and there's an end to it.
A. Yes, sir.
Q. And until you came to the Black Hart, you learnt no more what his Lordship
purposed?
A. No, sir.
Q. Tell me all, from the moment you waked on the first of May.
A. Rogue I may be, sir, but I spent a poor night of it. I knew not what it was best to do.
Yet in the end I rose and went quiet below and there found an end of candle and an
inkhorn and wrote what you know of to Mr Lacy.
Q. None of what I know of- pass to where they parted upon the Bideford road.
A. 'Twas two miles' riding, sir, a place where the road became two, a three-legged cross,
and there I waited hid upon a well-bushed hill, on purpose to command the place, seeing I
did not know which road they should take. 'Tis where the gibbet stands, you may know it
without trouble. And I waited a two hours or more, and was pleased a fine clear sunshine
day promised, fool that I was.
Q. Did none others pass?
A. A cart with some maids in, and young men beside it, who made a great laughing and
singing. They went to the maying. Then others who came on foot, soon after, for the
same.
Q. None came riding, as it might be messengers, upon pressing business?
A. No, sir. His Lordship's party alone came for Bideford, and stopped at the forking of
the road, where the gibbet stands.
Q. I know of this. You heard nothing of what was said?
A. Not a word, sir. 'Twas four hundred paces to where I lay.
Q. Proceed.
A. Well, sir, I was sorry to see Mr Lacy go by himself in such a place. Soon he fell out of
sight, for his road went down the perm, while theirs went rather up. I bided till they
reached the first brow, and then came I down from where I was hid to the road, and after
them; to get down from my horse at the brow, to see where they were and whether I
might forward or must wait. And so, sir, it may be two miles more, by which time we was
entered in great woods and the road with more close turns that a shipwright's awl, that I
feared me greatly to come straight upon them, I could nowhere see far ahead. And so it
fell, sir. For as I came round a bank, a great rock beside the road, I saw them not one
hundred and fifty paces ahead. To my fortune their backs was turned. They was stopped
at where a stream that fell from higher crosses the road, which happily made a rush, sir,
or their ears must tell them I was behind. Off I jump from my horse, and lead him back in
a trice and tie him out of sight, to come more cautious forward than before and peep. And
wist, they are gone, tho' not upon the road, for I see a glimpse of Louise's back behind
Dick, that climbs above it, upon the mountain.
Q. Know you the name of this place?
A. I do not, sir. I saw no farm nor house there, nor none near. You may tell it, 'tis not the
first crossing of water in the woods, yet larger, and set well back in the hill. While the
stream falls sharp on the left side of the road, with much noise.
Q. Next.
A. When I judged it safe I went to where they had stopped, beside the water, and saw
'twas a ford, mayhap some six paces across, not more, for it goes on a great flat bed of
stone, and the road runs on behind it. And now I saw where they had gone, for the ground
above was less steep than where I had been, and went uphill more in a cwm, as we call it,
among the trees. Well, sir, I could see at first no path, and must cast about, until at last I
came on where a way led up into the cwm, and could see where their horses had trod.
Q. A path often used, you would say?
A. Sir, I'll swear no other horses had been upon it that many a month. Further up, as I will
tell, I saw signs 'twas a shepherd path, to gain the summer grazing upon the mountain
above. Branches plashed yesteryear, their beasts' dry turds, the like.
Q. What supposed you they were at?
A. Upon some secret way to where the young lady lived, sir, or to some meeting-place
they had fixed apart. I could not say, see you I knew not where the great houses and fine
estates lay in that country. Misery for me I did not turn back. But Jones, I thought, hung
for the lamb, hung for the ewe, as the saying goes.
Q. Where led this path?
A. To a desert place, sir, narrow and steep and strewn with stones and great rocks among
the trees. It lay on a curve, as a new moon, so, and ever upwards to the mountain. 'Twas
melancholy, sir, despite the shining of the sun. I marked no birds that sang, as is their
nature at that time, as if all had forsook it, which made me afeared. When I was already
afeared enough for what I was at, and so twice in doubt of it.
Q. When came you up with them?
A. Not for near an hour, sir. 'Twas not so far, not beyond two miles, or hardly more. I
must move very slow, with many halts, to listen. I could see nothing for the thorn-trees
and bushes, and thought they must be in worse case than I, and slower still, their ears a-
cock for such as I, and nothing but the tumble of the linn to hide me.
Q. Come to where you saw them first.
A. It was thus, sir. I came where the cwm made a trifle more narrow, yet ran on more
straight, and where could I but find a vantage-point, I might see ahead. So I tied my
horse, sir, and climbed afoot a little to one side, where I could look better. At first I saw
nothing, though I saw the cwm's end. And thought, for all seemed bare up there, how
shall I come close. 'Tis bad today, 'twill be worse tomorrow, as the saying goes. And I
cursed myself then, sir, that I had thought such following was easy as pissing abed. Then
saw I a man that climbed the side, a half mile ahead, and knew it was Dick. I could not
see his Lordship nor the wench, and supposed them still below, with the horses, where
the stream ran. He stopped upon a shoulder and looked ahead, to beyond my sight, see
you the cwm's end was twain and forked like a serpent's tongue, and he sought into the
part that lay atwist to one side from t'other.
Q. Seemed he cautious in his manner?
A. Not that I could see, sir. He stood not long, and walked on, out of my watching.
Q. And then?
A. I thought they must be come near their journey's end, and I must ride no more, sir.
That if I did they might hear or see me from their better vantage. So I took me my horse
to a thicket and tied him, the best I could hide him in so buddled a place. Then made my
way on foot beside the stream, where they had passed. Where after some little while I spy
a white thing in the green, a hundred paces or more off, as of linen laid out to dry. So
stop, then creep aside to where I can watch better, and find it is Louise, dressed out.
Q. How mean you, man, what dressed out?
A. As I say, sir. As a May queen upon that day, all in white linen, cambric, ribbands, I
know not, as fine as fivepence.
Q. Jones, I will not be thy fool.
A. I swear it true, your worship. I lie not now.
Q. Saw you this dress earlier that day? Upon the road to this place?
A. No, sir, I am certain she wore it not, for at the gibbet she did go behind some bushes
for her needs, begging your pardon, and I saw her green and yellowy dress then, her quilt
Norwich petticoat, as always before.
Q. You maintain, she had changed garments at this waiting_ place, while you crept up on
them?
A. She must, sir, and not put back her cloak. There was no wind, and the day grew warm.
You must believe me, sir. If I told some tale, I should make it more pleasing to your
worship's will.
Q. And his Lordship?
A. Stood apart, sir, by the horses, which were tied higher, and watched up where Dick
had gone.
Q. And what the wench?
A. She sat upon her cloak, on a stone above the stream, sir, and made a chaplet of may on
her lap, paring the thorns with a pocket-knife Dick carried, that had brass ends, which I
made out. And how as I watched she pricked her fingers more than once, and sucked
upon them. And once looked back to where his Lordship stood, so to complain she must
suffer this for him.
Q. Against her will?
A. It might be, sir. I could not tell.
Q. Was this dress simple or rich? Such as a lady, or more as village maid might wear?
A. Rather the last, sir. Though there was rose ribbands at the hem and shoulder, and white
stockings. The chaplet I found less strange, for she'd pick her nosegay, wherever we stop-
ped. I rallied her once, I said I believed her no lady's maid, but crier of flowers about the
streets.
Q. What said she to that?
A. That there were worse ways to earn a penny.
Q. She did not speak with his Lordship?
A. No, sir. She made her maying crown, and looked as innocent there amidst the green as
a pail of milk. Faith, she'd have slain a blind man, as 'tis said. She was killing pretty
dressed so, spite of all. I had not before seen her so sweet and handsome, sir, begging
your pardon.
Q. As sweet as pitch. What next?
A, it stood so for a little while, sir. At the last I heard some stones tumble, and there was
Dick upon the far side of the stream, back down whence he came, across from where his
Lordship was, and made a sign, and one that boded ill, sir, for 'twas the Devil's horns.
Q. Show.
A. Like this, sir.
Q. Write, with little and fore finger cocked, and the two between bended back by the
thumb. You had never seen this sign made before?
A. They say 'tis how witches greet, sir. So we believed when I was a young lad. Though
we used it among ourselves in scorn and jest, to say, to the Devil with you. Dick made no
jest, as I must tell.
Q. Then?
A. His Lordship came to where Louise sat and she rose, and they spoke briefly, but I
could not hear. Next went she with him to where Dick stood, who leapt in the stream and
carried her in his arms across, that she wetted not her shoes. And his Lordship crossed
after, and they made their way up the hill, where Dick had already been.
Q. Seemed his Lordship pleased when Dick returned?
A. I could not see, sir. For his face was barred by a branch. He made no sign. But when
he came to fetch Louise, and spoke with her, I thought him more brisk.
Q. He showed some eagerness?
A. Yes, sir. The like he would hearten her to what was doing. And I marked, lifted her
cloak from the stone and would hold it for her to put on, tho' she would not have it,
whereat he carried it over his arm, as a servant might. Which I found strange. But so
'twas.
Q. Did she wear her May crown?
A. Not then, sir. But carried it in her hand.
Q. On.
A. Well, sir, once more I knew not what to do, for I knew they must return, since the
horses was left, and they could not be gone far, and my own horse below, and not well
enough hid, which they might see in passing back, and would know, and guess all.
Q. Yes, yes. You followed?
A. I did, sir. Two hundred paces it was steep and rude, more clitter than path, but then
smoother, though still rude.
Q. Too steep for a horse?
A. One of our Welsh ponies might, sir, not your full horse. Then came I to where I had
seen Dick stand before, though I stood not myself for fear of being seen, and found I
looked upon that other part of the cwm I spoke of, that lay to one side.
Q. In which direction?
A. Why, to west'd or north-west, sir. Left-ward as I went. And I saw there was now no
further of trees, be it not for some few poor twisted thorns, but sward and bracken above,
rough leaze, that ran to somewhat of a basin, as so, like a Billingsgate fish-basket, sir,
flat-bottomed to its sides, which were much of bare rock on the northern part, nigh to
clift.
Q. And those you followed?
A. Plain enough to see, sir, they were above, some three or four hundred paces off, near
upon this basin I speak of, so be it I could not see its bottom nor water from where I lay.
But there, sir, I have not told the most. I marked they were alone no more.
Q. How not alone?
A. Why, I thought at first they had met with she we knew of, that his Lordship was
covetous to marry. For a woman stood somewhat above them, that now they knelt before.
Q. Knelt, do you say?
A. Yes, sir, 'tis sure. They did kneel all, his Lordship foremost, hat in hand, and Dick and
Louise a pace or two behind, as before a queen.
Q. How appeared she, this woman?
A. Your worship, it was far and I could but peep, for she did look to where I lay, I cannot
be exact, save she was most strange dressed, as it seemed in silver, and more as man than
woman, for she wore breeches and a blouse, no more; no cloak, no coat nor mantee, nor
cap nor hat neither.
Q. Saw you no horse, no attendant?
A. No, sir. She alone.
Q. In what manner stood she?
A. As one who waits, sir.
Q. She did not speak?
A. Not that I spied.
Q. How far apart were they?
A. It might be thirty, forty paces, sir.
Q. Was she fair in appearance?
A. I could not tell, sir. 'Twas a good four hundred paces from where I watched. Of middle
height and figure, and a dark hair that hung loose, it seemed not dressed nor curled, above
a white face.
Q. Seemed it as an expectant mistress might greet her long awaited lover?
A. No, sir, not one smatch, and 'twas mightily strange they made no movement.
Q. Could you make out her expression? Did she smile, look joyous, I know not?
A. 'Twas too far, your worship.
Q. You are sure she was woman?
A. Yes, sir, and did then suppose her dressed as she was for some disguise of escape from
where she lived, and the more easy mayhap to ride a horse, though I could see none. Yet
as I say these clothes were not as a country clown or stable boy might wear, but shining
silver, as finest paduasoy or silk.
Q. I would know this. Shall you tell me more of this lady that you later discovered?
A. I shall, sir, and that she had best worn darkest night than what she did.
Q. Very well, in right time, as you did find upon that day. What next?
A. I could not go closer forward, sir. There was no covert. If any had turned, I must be
seen. I minded if I went back a little, I might find some way to the cwm's top, and there
come unseen to some place above where they stood by the basin. So that I did, sir, though
I tore my hands and clothes in the first part, and took longer than I wanted. 'Twas more
place for your squirrel, see you, than mortal being. But I came over it in the end, and
found it led out upon the open mountain, as I did hope. Where I began to run, with the
cwm below me, though out of their sight. And when I came to where I judged they were,
I first tore a piece of herbage to shield my face where I should watch. Then crouched and
crawled upon my belly, sir, and found a good place among the whortles upon the brink,
where I lay as in the gallery of Drury Lane, with all spread below me, like crow in gutter,
or mouse in malt-heap.
Q. Why do you stop?
A. To pray you will give credit, sir, to what I have now to tell. Well I might speak of a
theatre, nay, no piece was ever played more fantastickal, no, not half as much.
Q. No credit before warranty. Speak on.
A. I should have thought myself still abed dreaming, sir, had not the sun been hot on my
back and my breath expiring from my running.
Q. Devil take thy expiring. Get on with it, man.
A. Well, sir, I must do my best. Upon the far side of the basin, there was a scarp of stone,
as high as a house, that fell to the plain. While at its foot, which I could not see from my
first vantage, there was a black-mouthed cavern. I judged it used by shepherds, sir, for a
broken hurdle lay on the ground to one side and I saw a place where they had lit a great
fire before the entrance, the turf burnt dark. And closer to me there stood a little pool of
water, made of a tricklet scooped out and barred across with an earthen bank, by human
hand. Which at its brim had a tall stone, not so tall as they at Stonage, yet high as a man,
set on end, as if to mark the place.
Q. There were no sheep?
A. No, sir, I doubt not it is as in my homeland, such pasture not fit till May is done,
besides that they will not risk their flocks thus far till the lambs are strong.
Q. Saw you his Lordship?
A. I must, sir, and Dick as well. They stood beside the stone, with their backs to me, and
stared at the cavern, which stood a hundred paces off, so they thought to see someone
come forth.
Q. How far from where you spied?
A. Two hundred paces, sir. A good musket-shot.
Q. And the maid?
A. Knelt at the pool, sir, upon her cloak at the brink, and washed her face, then dried it
upon an edge of the cloak. So rested there upon her knees and stared mope-eyed into the
water, with her may-crown beside her.
Q. And this fourth particular, she that you saw from below, that was dressed as a man?
A. I saw her not, sir. She was gone. I supposed entered inside the cavern, to change her
costume, I knew not what. His Lordship turned and walked a few paces, and then did take
his watch from his fob and opened its case, and I thought, the powder has failed the
match. Something is amiss, he grows impatient. Yet he began pacing on, it seemed in
thought. The turf was close, sir, and flat enough there for a bowling-green. And so for
near another quarter-hour, with Dick still staring where the cavern was, and Louise sat
upon the grass, like three who had never met nor spoken before, and all with different
purposes.
Q. To the events.
A. At the end once more his Lordship looks to his fob-watch. Then 'tis as if the hour he
waited is come, for he goes to Dick and lays a hand on his shoulder, so to say, as I say,
the hour has come.
Q. Which was, by your computation?
A. Perhaps a half past ten of the clock, sir, I think not more. And now his Lordship goes
to Louise where she sits apart and speaks to her and she bows her head, so she would not
do what his Lordship wished. I could not hear, sir, or only their voices, not what was said,
they spake low. 'Twas plain she had no heart for what he wanted, for shortly he took her
arm, such as he had no patience with her hanging back, and made her walk to where Dick
stood. And she would take her cloak, yet he snatched it from her hand and threw it down
at the foot of the stone when they stood there; then found they had left the may-crown on
the grass and made a sign to Dick to fetch it, which he did, and set it on her head when he
came back. Whereupon Dick takes her hand, and makes her face the cavern, like as they
are man and bride before the church rails on their wedding day. And they begin to walk
across the turf to the cavern, sir, hand in hand, with his Lordship behind, such a strange
procession as you never saw, there in the sun, with no reason for it. Then from strange it
grew ill, sir. For all of a sudden she half falls, turns, and is on her knees looking up at his
Lordship, as if she beseeches his mercy. And I thought she wept, sir, 'twas too far, I
cannot be sure. But he would not hear, and quick as a trice draws his sword and points it
down at the poor girl's breast, so to say, your life is lost if you fail me now.
Q. You wretch, this is some cock-and-bull. You concoct it as you go.
A. God's honour 'twas so, sir. Would I venture what I know you would not believe?
Q. He drew his sword upon her, you assert that? A. On my oath.
Q. Did he speak?
A. Not that I heard, sir. Dick made her stand again, and they went on, with his Lordship
behind, still sword in hand, though he did drop the point; after a few paces, put it up
again, so he feared no more she would disobey. Then come they upon the threshold of the
cavern's mouth, and the strangest yet, sir. For just before they enter his Lordship raises
his hand and sets his hat down against his breast, so they entered some great person's
presence, before whom his Lordship must uncover. Sir, I am sorry, you would have me
tell all. And I must.
Q. You are sure, as if he would show reverence?
A. As sure as I see you now, sir.
Q. And then?
A. They passed inside, sir. I saw them no more. Until it might be the time to count
twenty, when I heard a stifled sound, a woman's scream, from within. 'Twas stifled, yet I
heard it.
Q. It was the wench?
A. Yes, sir. And it went to my marrow, for I thought murder was being done. Though I
know now it was not.
Q. How large was this cavern?
A. It ran low on one side. To the other, large. A great laden wain might have entered, sir,
and space withal.
Q. You could see within?
A. None, sir, beyond where the sunbeams smote. 'Twas black as midnight.
Q. You saw no one there, no figure or motion?
A. No, sir. You may be sure I looked hard. Nor in all the long hours I waited. All lay in
the silence, what I saw had never been. But yet knew I it had, for the cloak was there by
the stone.
Q. Did you not go down, to look closer?
A. I dared not, sir, I was too much frighted. I saw some wickedness in his Lordship, some
searching after evil knowledge, begging your pardon. For not a half-hour after they had
gone in there came two great black crows, that they call ravens, with their young, and sat
on the pentice slope above the cliff where the cavern lay, and made a great noise, as of
joy or mockery, I know not which. I know most they betide death, and naught else good
besides, and are wise beyond other birds. Or so it passes in my homeland, your worship.
Q. Never mind your nonage and its tales. Nor your long hours, for the nonce. Came his
Lordship out again?
A. I do not know, sir.
Q. You must!
A. No, sir. I waited all that day, and in the end first Dick, then she did come, but he not.
You must believe me, sir. The last time Jones's eyes saw his Lordship was when he went
in.
Q. Then the man and the wench, speak of them - when came they out?
A. Not till that evening, sir, an hour before the setting of the sun. All of which time I
waited, not knowing what to do, for the sun burnt me and I had no water to quench my
thirst, nor nothing to victual my camp, neither, my breakfast no more than a stale piece of
loaf, and I had not thought to bring what was left of that and the piece of cheese I kept in
my saddlebag. And my poor Welsh soul needed food the more, dear God, I should have
given my right arm for a piece of wormwood or the sweet angelick to protect me there.
Q. Omit thy pains, 'tis thy lying neck needs protection now. To their coming out.
A. I will, sir, I promise, but first must I say another strangeness I did not mark at once.
Which was that a small smoke rose from a place above where this cavern lay, out of the
green ground, as from a lime-kiln, tho' I could see no chimbly. Like to a fire inside,
which found its way out by some hole or crack within and so to the pentice above the
cliff, where the ravens had sat.
Q. You saw no flames?
A. No, sir, nor little smoke, and sometimes seeming none, but then issuing again. And I
must tell from time to time I smelt it too, and liked not its stench, even though I lay far
off and 'twas faint in my nostrils.
Q. It was not fire of wood?
A. I doubt not for part, sir, tho' with some foul substance mixed to it. I have smelt such in
a tanner's yard, like of strange salts or oils. And I will add you more, sir. From time to
time there came also a sound that crept to my ears from the cavern's mouth, which was
much like to a swarm of bees, now seeming close, now so faint it might be gone. Yet I
saw not a honey-bee where I lay, none but bumbards, and they but few, nor were there
flowers to suck save small poor things.
Q. It came from the cavern, you say?
A. Yes. At loudest no more than murmur, yet I heard it well.
Q. What made you of these things?
A. I made nothing then, sir. I was bewitched, see you. I would go, I could not.
Q. Why say you, then?
A. As it happened, sir. I had not spoken with Louise, as you shall hear.
Q. Very well. First I have your word, you did not once leave your hiding-place that day?
A. Two times, sir, and not five minutes apiece, to see if I could not find some water
behind and to ease my legs, for I lay so still and the ground hard. I swear no more, and all
as before when I came back to my post.
Q. Is it not true you had slept little that night previous? Did you not then sleep there?
A. No, sir. 'Twas no down bed, I assure you.
Q. Jones, I want the truth. You shall not be blamed for this, if you gave way to nature and
circumstance, and slept. I will know.
A. I may once or twice have fallen to a waking doze, sir, as one does riding. No full
sleep, upon the Book.
Q. You know what I drive at, man. Can you deny a person might have left the cavern
without your seeing him?
A. I cannot believe so, sir.
Q. You must. You admit you went twice away. And did you not doze?
A. Yes, sir, tho' very little. And you have not heard what Louise was to tell me.
Q. Come to that.
A. Sir, as I told, the shadows grew long, and began to creep across the sward, and I lay
with even greater shadows on my mind, my heart misgave me some most awful thing had
happened, or they within should have come out by now; and knowing I must soon go, I
would not for my fife have stayed in darkness in that place. I first thought to ride back to
where we had slept and tell all to the justices. Yet then, sir, I thought of the disgrace to
his Lordship's noble parent should this become public noise, and how I ought to find
some way to tell him privily, that he might then do as he thought fit.
Q. To the point.
A. Why, sir, as I lay there hollow as a kex, not knowing what to do, out comes Dick of a
sudden, running, his face wild, such as truly a man in a fit, with the greatest fear upon
him; and after a step or two he fell to his face as upon ice, then was up at once with a
look of terror backward, so he saw what d could not, and close upon him, and his mouth
opened as he would cry, tho' there came no sound; and then he ran on, as if all his thought
was to escape from what was within. And run he did, your worship must believe me, so
fast I must almost think I dreamed, why, he was gone before he was there, and back the
way they had come. And I lying above, not knowing whether I should follow, or what
was to be done. He went so fast I should ne'er have caught up with him. So I thought,
Davy, thou'st let the first whiting leap, no matter, there's more yet, thou must wait; and
then I thought mayhap Dick has gone only to fetch the horses, and will be back, and I
would not for my life leave my place, sir, and risk the meeting of him, a desperate
dangerous fellow and stronger than I. So I did nothing, see you, but lay as I was.
Q. He came not back?
A. No, sir, and I saw him not again. I doubt not he ran to hang himself. I must tell your
worship he had such an air upon him, I see it now again, of one in Bedlam, who knew not
what he did, unless to run away until he fell; like to the hounds of Hell were close upon
his heels, or worse.
Q. Come to the wench.
A. Why, sir, I do. She came not so soon, for a half hour or more passed, and once again I
knew not what to do, and the sun crept close to the cavern's entrance, which when it
should reach there I had made my hour-hand and time to withdraw. Then of a sudden, she
came, yet as unlike Dick as could be, for she walked slow, like one who wandered in -her
sleep, or was turnsick, like those once I saw come from an explosion in a powder-mill,
who could at first not speak nor tell nothing from the suddenness and great horror of it.
Out upon the sward, your worship, so, in a daze, why, not able to leap a straw, as if she
saw nothing, were blinded. And this, sir, she wore her white dress no more. She was
naked as the day she was born.
Q. Not a stitch?
A. No, sir, not even shift, nor shoes and stockings, all as Eve before the Fall; bare breasts,
bare arms and legs, bare all save where no woman is bare, her black feathers, your
worship's pardon. Then stopped she and raised her arm to her eyes, I doubt not she was
dazzled by the light, tho' the sun stood low. Next turned she toward the cavern's mouth
and fell upon her knees, so to give thanks to God for her deliverance.
Q. Her hands held in prayer?
A. No, sir, with her head bowed and her arms fallen by her side. As a punished child,
who asks forgiveness.
Q. Her person showed no wounds nor unnatural marks?
A. None that I could see, sir, that could see her white back and buttocks as she prayed.
None grave, you may be sure.
Q. Seemed she in pain?
A. More like one planet-struck, sir, as I say. All her movings were most slow, I might
believe she had drunk some potion.
Q. Seemed she not in fear of pursuit?
A. No, sir, which after Dick, I thought strange. For she rose, and seemed more returned to
her wits, and walked then less dazed to the stone by the pool; and picked up her cloak
that had lain next it all the day; and covered her nakedness, I thought gratefully, like one
who was sore cold and needed its warmth, tho' 'twas warm enough yet, for all the hour.
And there she did kneel by the pool again, sir, and scooped up a little water in her hands
and drank some, threw some on her face likewise. That was all, sir. For then she went her
barefoot way, as Dick, by that they had come in the morning.
Q. With what haste?
A. More quickly, sir, and she threw one look aside at the cavern's mouth, so to say being
more woken herself, so was her fear. Yet not running, as in true alarm.
Q. And you?
A. I waited a minute, sir, where I was, to see if his Lordship should follow. But he came
not, and you may blame me, your worship, a bold hero might have gone to that cavern,
and entered within. I am no such, sir, nor pretend to be. I durst not.
Q. Nor pretend to be, thou bag of boasting wind, nor pretend to be? In short, the Welsh
coward thou art ran off after the wench, is it so? Truly thou art worthy thy nation. Didst
catch her?
A. I did, sir, and heard all. Which will not please your worship's ears, but you'd not have
me say else than she said herself, I know. So I ask your pardon in advance.
Q. But will get none, if I catch thee out. There, Jones, thou may'st dine on that, and chew
it well. If all this be false, thou art dead. Now begone, my man shall take thee below, and
bring thee back.

Ayscough sips his medicinal purl (ale laced with the recently mentioned prophylactic
against witches and the Devil, wormwood) and Jones eats where he belongs, below, in a
silence that for once in his life he welcomes - and without benefit of alcohol, which he
does not. The lawyer's crudely chauvinistic contempt for his witness is offensive, but it is
stock, and really has little to do with poor Jones's Welshness. Above a certain line, and
despite its ridiculous respect of, and obsequiousness before, title and rank, society was
comparatively fluid at this time; with a touch of luck, and some talent, quite humbly born
men could rise in the world and become distinguished churchmen, learned fellows at
Oxford or Cambridge like Mr Saunderson, the son of an exciseman, successful
merchants, lawyers such as Ayscough (youngest son of an obscure and very far from rich
North-country vicar), poets (Pope was son of a linen-draper), philosophers, many other
things. However, below this line society was seen as static. It had no hope; in the eyes of
those above, its fate was fixed from day of birth.
The thing then dearest to the heart of English society did not help relax the
inexorable line in the least. It manifested itself as worship, if not idolatry, of property. A
conventional Englishman of the time might have said the national palladium was the
Anglican church; but the country's true religion lay only outwardly within the walls of
that sluggish institution. It was far more vested in a profound respect for right of
property; this united all society but the lowest, and dictated much of its behaviour, its
opinions, its thinking. Dissenters might be barred from all elected and official position
(which they turned to advantage by frequently becoming masters of trade and
commerce); their property was as sacrosanct as any other man's. Despite doctrine, many
were increasingly prepared to tolerate the Church of England, given that it protected the
right - and kept the infamous enemy of the other wing, the accursed papists and Jacobites,
at bay also. What the nation agreed must be preserved at all costs was really far less the
theology of the established church than the right to, and security of, ownership. This
obtained from the single householder to the great estates of the Whig magnates who, in
odd alliance with the City, the prosperous Dissenters and the bench of bishops, largely
controlled the country - or far more than its king and his ministers did. Walpole might
seem to hold power; he was rather more a generally shrewd gauger of what the national
mood required of him.
Property also remained, despite the growing commercial prosperity of the century,
a much more favoured investment than the early stocks and companies. The South Sea
Bubble Of 1721 had severely damaged confidence in that latter method of multiplying
money. One might suppose that this general obsession with property would have swept
away, through Parliament, the abominably antiquated laws concerning ownership and
acquisition of it, as in the nightmarishly complex and dilatory Chancery system (whose
law defeated even the greatest contemporary experts). But not a bit of it: here love of
property clashed head on with the other great credo of eighteenth century England.
This was the belief that change leads not to progress, but to anarchy and disaster.
Non progredi est regredi runs the adage; early Georgian man omitted the non. That is
why most called themselves Whigs at this time, but were Tories in the modern sense, that
is, reactionaries. It was why the mob was feared almost universally, by Whig and Tory,
conformist and dissenter, above the line. It threatened political upset and change; worst of
all, it threatened property. The measure brought in to deal with it through magistrates and
militia, the Riot Act of 1715, became almost holy in its status; while English criminal law
remained barbaric in its brutality, its characteristically excessive punishments for anyone
who infringed the sanctity of property in another way, by minor theft. `We hang men for
trifles and banish them' (to the forerunner of convict Australia, convict America) `for
things not worth naming,' said Defoe in 1703. The criminal law had, however, one
fortuitous saving grace. Lacking even a shadow of a police force to back it, its powers of
detection of crime, even of arrest, were feeble in the extreme.
The legal profession itself, safely ensconced behind its labyrinth of elaborate
special knowledge (alias verbiage), made fat by the endless delays and opportunities to
charge costs inherent in the system, held an exceptionally powerful place. The smallest
slip in a formal document, from deed to indictment, could in many courts lead to its being
thrown out and disallowed. Exact performance of ritual procedure has its justifications;
one might value such eighteenth-century punctiliousness higher if the performance had
not also always pleased the lawyers' pockets. Many of Ayscough's time became
effectively property dealers and estate managers, because of this ability to handle the
requisite language and their knowledge of archaic procedures; to wangle (often by
bribery) the ex parte or otherwise flagrantly biassed judgement. They could both get their
hands on property, and keep the hands of others, who might in all rational justice have a
perfect right, from it.
 Ayscough indeed fell into that last category, as the man of affairs of a ducal
master. He was also a barrister, a very different kettle of fish from the mere attorney, a
species then generally hated and despised by the layman, who quite rightly saw them as
far more concerned with stuffing their green bags full of money than in getting cases
settled. Ayscough's father had been vicar of Croft, a small village near Darlington in
North Yorkshire, whose squire had been Sir William Chaytor, an improverished baronet
obliged to spend the last twenty years of his life (he died in 1720) within the boundaries
of the famous London debtors' prison, the Fleet. Sir William's endless family letters and
papers were published only last year, and they are exceptionally vivid on this matter of
the law. He had had to mortgage his entailed Yorkshire estate beyond hope of
redemption. In the Fleet, like so many others, he became an even worse victim of
pettifogging lawyers than of the law itself, a classic case of the misery they can cause.
But he won the final case. His exasperation with the profession still sears down the
centuries.
Such business as this present inquiry was indeed quite outside Ayscough's normal work,
the purchase of property, the granting of leases and copyholds, foreclosing on defaulters,
judging new petitions for fields and farms; supervising repairing and insuring, dealing
with heriot and farleu, thraves and cripplegaps, plowbote and wainbote, hedge-scouring
and whin-drawing (and a hundred other obscure casus belli between landlord and tenant);
besides the manipulation of boroughs to ensure the outcome of their parliamentary
elections as his master willed; in short, fulfilling the functions of at least six separate
professions today. He would not have got where he was, if he had not been an assiduous
lawyer in his age's terms, a reasonably civilized man also; and a shrewd one in
Claiborne's terms ... seeing on which side the butter lay. I quoted Defoe just now, from
his famous pamphlet, The Shortest Way with the Dissenters. It had been written a
generation before, soon after William III had died, and Anne came to the throne. The
administration then was Tory, and reactionary feeling ran high in the Church of England.
Defoe played a practical joke, for (though of Dissenting background himself) he
pretended to write as one of these 'high-fliers' and proposed a very simple solution: hang
all Dissenters or banish them to America. The joke misfired, because some of the Tories
took his grotesquely draconian solution literally and declared his pamphlet excellent.
Defoe had to pay by being pilloried (amid cheering crowds, who drank his health) and
imprisoned in Newgate; he had badly miscalculated the sense of humour of his real
enemies, the Tory extremists in church and parliament. One of his victims then had been
young Ayscough, who at the time had had Tory views. To be fair he had found the
hanging too much, but had backed the idea of ridding England of seditious conventicles
and meetings by depositing them all in the convenient dustbin of America. Circumstance
and career had turned him outward Whig in the years since; but the memory of Defoe's
trick to draw the beetles from the woodwork did not make him smile. It still rankled.
All ancient and established professions must be founded on tacit prejudices as
strong as their written statutes and codes; and by those Ayscough is imprisoned as much
as any debtor in the Fleet by law. Jones is and must be made to remain below the line; his
`sentence', never to change, always to remain static. His movement from a Welsh
nowhere (in which he was born to die) to a great English city is already an unspoken
crime; if not, under the Poor Law, a definite one. The word mob was not fifty years old in
the language at this date; a shortened slang version of mobile vulgus, the common rabble.
Mobility of movement meant change; and change is evil.
Jones is a liar, a man who lives from hand to mouth, by what wits he has, not least
by what creeping deference he can muster when faced with such real power as Ayscough
holds. Pride he has not, nor can he afford it. Yet in many ways (and not only in that
millions will copy him, later in the century, in deserting country and province for city) he
is the future, and Ayscough the past; and both are like most of us, still today, equal
victims in the debtors' prison of History, and equally unable to leave it.

The further deposition of

David Jones
die annoque p'dicto

Q, Jones, you rest upon oath.

A. Yes, sir.
Q. Come to the wench.
A. Well, your worship, I ran back the way I had come, see you, yet not so far, for I came
down the slope before the trees began, in great fear I should be noticed if -
Q. Leave thy great fears, they are thy constant state. She was passed ahead?
A. She was, sir, but soon I came up with her, just where the path grew abrupt and went
down to the stream, where all was now in shadow. I saw she hobbled, and knew not how
to step, poor thing, with her bare feet upon the sharp clitter. And tho' I did try to tread
softly, upon some noise my own foot made, she heard, then turned and faced me. Yet not
as one who is surprised, more one who expects such pursuit, for as I came up to her I saw
her eyes were closed and that she wept. She looked white as a clout, sick as a cushion,
like shotten herring, so I were death upon her heels and she knew she could not escape.
Well, sir, I stopped a pace or two off and said, 'Tis only I, my girl, what ails thee?
Whereat she opens her eyes of a sudden and sees me, then in a second closes them again
and swoons at my feet.
Q. You would say, she expected some other she greatly feared, yet finding it you, was
relieved?
A. Just so, sir. I did what I might to recover her senses, in lack of salts or a better. When
after a little I see her eyes flutter and she makes a small moan as of one in pain. So I say
her name and that I come to help her. Then she says twice, belike still in her swoon, The
maggot, the maggot.
Q. What maggot!
A. You speak my very words, your worship. What maggot, says I, what dost speak of?
Whether 'twas the sound of my voice, sir, or what, more brisk she opens her eyes again
and sees me full. How come you here, Farthing, she says. I say, It matters not how, I have
seen things today that pass my understanding. She says, What things? I say, I have seen
all that passed up above. To which she says nothing. Then I say, What has happened to
Mr Bartholomew? She says, They are gone. I say, How gone, I have watched the cavern's
mouth all day and none has come out save thee thyself and Dick. Again she says, They
are gone. I say, That cannot be. And a third time she says, They are gone. Then all of a
sudden she sits away, for I held her supported till then, and says, Farthing, we are in
danger, we must go from this place. I say, In what danger. She says, It is witchcraft. I say,
What witchcraft. She says, I cannot tell thee, but if we are not gone by fall of night their
powers will be upon us. And at that, sir, she stood to her feet and would set off again,
more quickly, as if I had awoke her from her previous state, and she thought only now of
her safety. Yet hobbled at once again, then said, Help me, Farthing, I prithee carry me
below. So it was, sir, I bore her in my arms down the steep, until we came to where 'twas
grass again, by the stream, and she might walk. You may huff at me now for obeying her,
sir. But I looked around me there in that lonely, desperate place, and saw no thing else
save shadows and wilderness, and the coming of night. And bethought me of wild Dick
besides, that I knew not where he was.
Q. What of what she first said? This maggot?
A. It shall come, sir, it shall be explained.
Q. The three horses were there below, and the baggage?
A. They were, sir, and she went straight to where the seam lay, for I have forgot, the
pack-horse stood disburthened when I first came; and found her bundle and ordinary
dress; then made me look aside, until she had put them on, and her buckled shoes that she
was used to wear, and her cloak again. And tho' I asked questions, would not answer the
while, till she was dressed, when she came to me with her bundle, and asked, Had I no
horse? I told her, Yes, below, if 'tis not witched away. At which she said, Let us be gone.
But I would not have it, sir, for I took her arm and said I must know first of his Lordship,
and why Dick be run out as he did.
Q. You spake so, saying his Lordship?
A. No, sir, your pardon. Mr Bartholomew, as we had called him. Then she said, He is
gone to the Devil, Farthing. He has brought me into a great sin by force, against my will.
Then, I rue the day I ever set eyes on him and his man. Now, sir, I had thought me of a
stratagem to explain my presence and that might oblige her to tell more. So I said, Not so
fast, Louise, I must tell thee I am here secretly upon the orders of Mr Bartholomew's
father, to watch his son and report what he does; and the father is a great person in this
land and Mr Bartholomew likewise a much greater than he's pretended. She did give me a
little stare askant then, and looked down, so as she knew not what to answer, but in such
a manner that said also, This is no novels, I know it well. And then I say, For this reason
thou must tell me what he's done, or look you, it shall be the worse for thee. She says,
Then thou'dst best tell His Grace his son meddles in things that common people are hung
for. Thus to the word, sir, except she said full out His Grace's name. I said, So thou
know'st I do not lie. To which she answered, And much else besides, more shame to thy
master, and the less said of it the better. I said, Brave words, but it is I who has to speak
them to his face, and thou must tell me more that I can prove them. She looks troubled,
then says, So I will, but we must be gone first. I say, What of this young lady, thy old
mistress? Again she looks down, then says, There was never a such. To which I say,
Come, throw again, I am not thy fool, I did see her plain as day when first you came this
morning. To which she answers, She was not her; then, Would she had been. So now it is
Jones who must throw again and I say, If there be no young lady, then there be no lady's
maid. To that she speaks no word, and does shake her head sadly, so to say she does not
deny. Upon that I say, I thought I had seen thee before when we first met, tho' I have kept
it to myself. Art thou not one of Mother Claiborne's lambs? She turns from me and says,
Oh dear God, or some such. I say I must know. Then she says, Yes, I have greatly sinned
and see where my folly has brought me, I wish I had never left my parents' hearth. I say,
What are we upon if it is not an elopement? She says, We are upon wickedness, madness,
and I beg thee, Farthing, take no more advantage of me now and let us be gone. I will tell
thee all I know, but let us be gone first. Very well, say I, save I must know when his
Lordship comes. Not this night, she says, nor till the world's end, for all I care. I say,
Speak plain. She says, He stays above, he will not come. Then of a sudden, Thou must set
the horses free, they'll stay close. Well, your worship, I said, No, I could not. Now she
casts her eyes on me, as one who would make herself believed against all appearance,
and says, I have not been kind to thee, Farthing, I know I have seemed to spurn thee and
thy friendship, but I had my reasons, I meant thee nothing if not good, no harm, and thou
must trust me now, I beg thee. I have enough on my conscience, she says, without these
poor beasts. Still I said no, sir, and would ask more. Whereon she goes herself and begins
to untie the tether of the pack-horse, until I come to her and say, Very well, it is done
upon thy head, not mine. To which she says, So be it. And I did set the other two beasts
free, and laid their harness with the seam.
Q. You took nothing?
A. No, sir. I swear. And all with great misgiving, for it grew dark, I feared Dick was
about and watched us, and knew not what else to do. And a thing else, sir, it near slipped
my mind, when she had put on her clothes, beside the seam, there where she had undid
her bundle, was left strewn from it a fine pink gown and petticoat, else beside. And as I
come close I see a small pot spilled upon the grass, and others likewise, and a Spanish
comb, it seemed forgot, and so I tell her. She says, Leave them, I want them not. And I
say, picking it up, What, a fine comb like this. And she says, Leave it, leave it, it is
vanity. Well, sir, what's disowned may be owned, as the saying is; so I turned my back
and slipped the comb in my shirt, and would have it still 'cept I must sell it in Swansea
and took five shillings and sixpence for it. She would have none of it, I count that no
theft.
Q. As I count thee an honest man. Next.
A. We walked to where I had left my horse, which I found secure, thank the Lord; and
she mounted and I led her down toward the road, sir.
Q. Did you not press her to say more?
A. I did, sir, and more than once, you may be sure. Still she would not speak to any
purpose, but again said she would speak all, once we were from that place. So I kept my
counsel, sir, until we come close above the road. There I stop and turn and say I would
know where we should go once below on the road. For see you I had bethought myself as
we went, and saw I must persuade her to my purpose, which was that I should bring her
to his Lordship's father. She answers, I must to Bristol as soon as I can. Why Bristol, say
I; and she, Because my parents dwell there. Do they know what thou art, say I next. And
she would not answer, 'cept she must see them. Then I said, I must know thy true name,
and where thou be found there. And she says, Rebecca Hocknell, though some call me
Fanny, and my father is Amos, he is joiner and carpenter, thou mayst find him at Mill
Court near the sign of the Three Tuns in Queen Street, in St Mary Redcliff parish. I will
tell you now, sir, I writ her so, this last June when I heard of Dick as I told, and have had
no answer yet. 'Tis not sure, though I did believe her then.
Q. Very well. What followed?
A. Why, just then as we spake we heard singing, sir, of some who came late home from
the maying through the woods, I dare say six or seven, men and women, and more
bawling than singing, for they had drank their fill. So we fell silent as they came, and
took comfort to be among ordinary mortals, despite their cups and noise, after that place
above.
Q. It was not yet dark?
A. Near, sir, the mogshade full upon us. The wooden shoes passed below, and on. Then
of a sudden I heard Rebecca, so I will call her now, exclaim, I can no more, I must, I
must; and before I may speak she is dismounted and runs off a little way, where she falls
upon her knees, as if to give thanks once more for being delivered. Soon I hear she is
weeping. So I tie the bridle to a bough, and go to her, and find her in a strange shaking, as
she were in a great cold or fever, tho' the night was mild. And at each shaking she moans,
oh, oh, oh, as if in pain. I take her shoulder, but 'twas like my hand scalded her, she
twitches away, thus, sir, yet no other notice, nor spoke. Then of another sudden she falls
in a seeming fit flat upon her face with her arms stretched out upon the ground, and there
is more shaking and moaning. I will tell you, sir, Jones was as fearful then as of all else
before. I thought they she spake so darkly of played hot cockles with her soul, and now
did torment her for her sins and took possession of her flesh. Dear God, her sobs and
sighs were like one in hellfire. I have heard such from a woman's throat when brought to
bed, as she labours, sir, if your worship will pardon. So 'twas, I swear. I drew back till the
fit was finished and then she lay still a minute or more, though I heard her yet sob again
and a while. At last I went close where she lay and asked, was she ill? Whereat, after a
little pause, like one who speaks in sleep, she says, Never so well in all my life. Then,
Christ is returned within me. I say, I thought thee possessed. And she: Yes, so I was, but
as I should be, by Him alone, and have no fear; now I am saved. Next she sat and bowed
her face upon her knees, yet soon looked up and said, I am famished with hunger, have
you no bait? So I said, What's left of a penny brick and a morsel of cheese, and she
replies, That will suffice. Which I fetched, sir, and brought to her, and she stood to take it
from my hands, then went to sit in more ease upon a fallen tree that lay close by; and
began to eat, but stopped, and asked if I was hungry too. I said I was, no matter, I had
starved before. No, I won't have that, said she, thou hast comforted me in my hour of
need, let us share. So I sat beside her and she brake me a piece of bread and the cheese,
tho' no more than two or three mouthfuls each. And then I asked what she meant, that she
was saved. She said, why, the Lord is within me, and I pray it shall be as well with thee,
Farthing. He will not forsake us now, and we may be forgiven what we have done and
seen. Which I found strange words in a strumpet, sir, but said I hoped it so. And she
replied, I was brought up a Friend, I have lost the light and all else these last five years;
now the Lord has rekindled it in His mercy.
Q. And believed you her cant, all this quaking and shaking?
A. I must, sir. It seemed no pretence. No actress, no, none I have seen, could play it so
well.
Q. Ill. But proceed.
A. Then said I 'twas very well speaking so, and of being saved and forgiven, still I must
know what his Lordship had been about in that place, and where Dick could be gone. To
which she answers, Why didst lie to me, Farthing? What lie, I say. She says, That his
Lordship's father has set thee upon this. No lie, say I. Yes, she says, for else thou'dst have
known for certain who I am, and not needed to put thy questions. Well, sir, I was caught,
though I tried my best, but she would not have it, for she took my hand and pressed it, so
to tell me I wasted my breath. Then said, Art thou afraid? Be no more afraid. Then, We
are friends now, Farthing, and friends and lies don't walk together. I thought then to
change my tack, since the first one brought me upon the rocks, and said, Very well, even
so it can be truth if we wish, and we should together make it such; for it might bring us
great reward at His Grace's hands, as well she knew. To which she said, Death is more
like, I know the great of this world better than thee. They would rather do murder than let
live those who can bring scandal on their name. And scandal I have, such as they would
never bear, nor believe belike even it were told. For who would take my word, or thine?
Q. She cozened thee, man; made thee play coney to a cunning whore.
A. She was much changed, sir. She had not spoke so kind before.
Q. Kind when she called you liar to your face? Why did you not answer your Christian
duty lay in apprising His Grace?
A. I thought it best to let bide my plan; sir. For she seemed fixed, she said she had
promised in her prayings she'd straight to her parents, she did know they lived; and I
would have her speak of other things. So we came to what we should do that night. I was
for riding with her behind me for Bristol, as she wanted. To which she said she feared to
go back upon our road, it was best we went on for Bideford, and take ship.
Q. She gave no reason?
A. That she had given me credit at first for being His Grace's spy, for his Lordship had
told her that such there were, who dogged his steps. And they might now be on our heels,
and she should be recognized for certain if we met. And I thought then, sir, it made no
odds. If she could take ship, so might I, and still come to Bristol together. And so 'twas,
your worship, that we did make for Bideford.
Q. Come to her tale, upon the road.
A. Well, sir, I will tell all, tho' not as it came, for it came not all at once, but some upon
the road that night and some when we were at Bideford, where we lodged two days, as I
will tell. To begin she told me she first had met his Lordship at Claiborne's a month
before, where he was brought by another lord who much frequented the place; and she
said little better than pandar to it, sir, for all his rank. That she took his Lordship to her
chamber for his pleasure, yet once there he'd have none of her, though he seemed forward
enough in desire of her when in company below. That he placed five guineas upon her
table and said he hoped it would buy her silence in what he had to propose. Which was
that there was a great fault in his nature and alas he could not enjoy what she was hired to
provide him with, for which he hoped she would the more pity than mock him.
Notwithstanding which, he knew not how, it did afford him some pleasure to see the
venereous act performed; that he had a willing manservant; and that if she could oblige
him in so unnatural a thing he would see her 'ceeding well recompensed for it. He durst
not-for his fair name let wind of his disadvantage come to his friend's or Mother
Claiborne's ears, nor for that reason risk to effect his desire in the house where they were.
But to prevent that, if she agreed, he would first come to visit her there as a normal man
might; then, having won her mistress's confidence, would propose to hire her out on some
other pretext, when what he wished could take place. That he promised she should find
the servant a lusty, handsome young fellow and perhaps more to her taste than many
others she must take to her arms.
Q. I am to understand, that his Lordship never went to her bed?
A. So she said, sir. And how as on his next visit his Lordship pointed from her window
down in the street, and showed her Dick there, who seemed as he said to her. And so, to
be short, she consented, for she told me she then took some pity for his Lordship, who
spoke to her with more courtesy and consideration than she was commonly used to. On
that or another visit she said he spoke of the unjust curse upon him and the
embarrassments he was placed in by it, and in particular by his father, who was much
vexed by his seeming disobedience as to a certain marriage and threatened him to stop
him of his inheritance and I know not what else. And then he confessed that this he
proposed was counselled him by a learned doctor in London, who claimed to have cured
others in his Lordship's case by this method.
Q. He had not tried it before, as he first pretended?
A. 'Tis as Rebecca believed, sir.
Q. Had she known such cases, or had such requests, before?
A. She did not say, sir. But I have heard talk of such, with the debosht, sir, begging your
worship's pardon. Such as old men, who have lost their natural vigours. I forget, she said
he told also he had tried more decent remedies, such as be found at the apothecary's. Yet
all to no avail.
Q. Come to the journey west - what told he concerning that?
A. That he would carry her upon a tour he proposed to make there, for he had heard of
new waters, recent found, and reputed excellent for his failing, which he would also take,
and thus try the both cures at once. That he would not have his father's spies upon his
heels, watching all he did, so some pretext must be found.
Q. That of the elopement and the lady's maid?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Did she speak of a party of pleasure, with other rakes?
A. No, sir.
Q. No matter. How did his Lordship account to her for your part in all this?
A. Well you may ask, sir. For I did myself, as we walked. And she said she was told we
came as added colour to the pretext, and Mr Lacy as companion also to his Lordship.
That she was to hold her distance, not question us, nor let herself be questioned.
Q. How came she to where you first met, by Staines?
A. I did not think to ask, sir. I don't doubt his Lordship had her in hiding, for she said she
had done his wish with Dick, and he gave her money and thanked her, when 'twas done.
Yet once we were set out, she found his Lordship soon altered, his former courtesy had
been but a mask upon his real face. She must do as he wished before him that next night
also. After which he seemed far less pleased, and upbraided her for showing so little of
her bagnio arts, or what you may call 'em, sir; and how he would not hear blame for
Dick's part in it, which came from a quickness in his passion that she could not prevent.
Q. We speak of the night at Basingstoke?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. What said she of Dick?
A. That the fellow seemed blind to his master's needs, so she were for himself to enjoy as
he pleased. That he seemed not to know what she truly was, to believe she loved him
because he had this use of her, tho' in such wicked circumstance.
Q. She but feigned to show some favour for him, then?
A. She said she felt some pity for him, sir, she could see his passion for her was real. That
he knew no better, and having only half his wits, had no blame in that. She told me he
came to her in the night, after his Lordship had dismissed them, to lie with her again.
Which out of fear she had allowed.
Q. You asked of what happened at Amesbury, when they rode out in the night?
A. I did, sir, and 'tis such a tale you will not believe.
Q. That may well be; but out with it.
A. How upon our arrival, his Lordship called her apart to his room and said he was sorry
for venting his impatience the previous night, she must not take it amiss that he had
placed too great expectations upon being roused. Then that close by Amesbury there lay a
place said to have especial powers to restore such as he, and that night he would try it,
and she must come with him. She must not be afraid, it was but a crotchet of his, he
would prove superstition. He swore she would come to no harm, whatever befell.
Q. He said this, he would prove superstition?
A. Her very words, sir. And she told me, tho' his manner was kind again, she was much
alarmed, for she felt some madness in his Lordship, some bias of the mind, and wished
she had never come. Yet he made her further assurances, and promised reward, until she
agreed.
Q. In all this so far, seemed she truthful?
A. As I could tell, sir. 'Twas dark, d could not see her face. She did seem to speak as one
who would relieve her conscience, in plain sincerity, for all the sinfulness of what she
had done.
Q. On.
A. Well, sir, they rode out, as I saw and told Mr Lacy, and to the heathen temple there on
the hill, that they call Stonage. Where his Lordship had commanded Dick with their two
horses apart, outside the place, then led her to its centre, where he pointed to a great stone
that lay imbedded flat beside others that stood and told her to lie upon it, for such was the
superstition, or so he said, that a woman if taken there might help a man regain his
vigours. At first she would not, she was too afraid. Whereat she said he grew angry again
and began cruelly to abuse her. At the end the poor woman must do as he bade, to still
him, though she said she was froze with terror. So, sir, she lies on her back upon the stone
as upon a bed.
Q. In her nakedness?
A. No, sir. But his Lordship said she should raise her petticoats and bare her merkin,
begging your pardon, and place herself in the posture of love. Which she did, thinking his
Lordship would now essay his prowess upon her, in this supposed auspicious place. Yet
he did nothing, save to stand a little aside, between two great standing stones, the like to
watch. Which she put down to a timidity in him, some fear he would still be disappointed
in his hopes. And after a while she spake, saying, would he not try, she grew cold. He
bade her hold her tongue, and lie still; and ever stood where he was, ten paces off. She
knew not what time passed, yet it was many minutes, and she grew sore cold and
discomforted upon her hard couch. That then there was all of a sudden a great rush or
hurtle close in the night above, as of some great falcon that passed. And as a flash of
lightning, so be it no thunder-clap warned of its coming; and tho' but in this great flash,
she did see a figure that stood above her on a stone pillar as a statue might, next above
where she lay, that seemed of a great and dark-cloaked blackamoor, which did gaze most
greedily down upon her, like he was that falcon whose wings she heard, his cloak still
aflutter from his falling, and so he would in an instant spring down further upon her, as a
bird upon its prey. Sir, she did say this most gashly and terrible vision was come and
gone so quick she could not be sure it lay not in her imaginings; yet must she now believe
it was no imagining, for what had happened after in the cavern, that very day we spake.
And she said furthermore how, a moment or two after / the lightning, there came a
strange gust of air upon her, as from a furnace, yet one not near, that tho' it did not burn
her skin, never the less did carry a most rank and foul stench as of roasting carrion upon
it; which did by some mercy pass as quick as the other. And that then all was dark and
cold as before.
Q. This figure did not pounce upon her? She felt nothing, no touch upon her, beside the
warm air?
A. No, sir. I did ask, and she said not. She'd have said, if she had, for she feared as much
again as she told me, she could not forget it.
Q. Who thought she this figure was, this buzzard blackamoor?
A. The King of Hell, sir, the Prince of Darkness.
Q. Satan himself, the Devil?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. She saw horns, his tail?
A. No, sir, and said she was so beshocked by her alarm, she was not in her normal senses;
and likewise all passed so swift, in two snaps of her fingers, so she put it, she had no time
to think nor mark. And did most know this was he that she said, from what happened
later; that I shall come to, your worship.
Q. What followed, there at the temple?
A. As strange again, though less supernatural, sir. For she said she lay in a swoon, she
knows not how long, but woke to find his Lordship kneeling beside her, who took her
hand, then made her rise and supported her, and of a sudden embraced her as she might
be a sister or a wife, so she put it, and said, Thou art a brave girl, I am well content with
thee. To which she said she was sore frightened, sir, as who would not be; and asks his
Lordship what passed above. To which he says, Nothing, it can't harm thee. Then that
they must go. Which they did, sir, she said he took her arm to help her, and said again she
had done most well; and how now he knew he had chosen one fit to his end.
Q. Where was Dick in all this?
A. I come to it, sir. They came on him there where he had been commanded to wait. And
as with her, she saw his Lordship step forward and embrace him, and in no mere form,
see you, as one who gives heartfelt thanks to an equal, not as common master to man.
Q. Were signs made between them?
A. Not that she said, sir. She and Dick came back to the inn alone, for his Lordship stayed
there beside the temple, and she knew not when he returned. When she and Dick crept
back to their chambers, he would come and lie with her, so be it this time she would not
have it. He did not force it upon her as at Basingstoke, she said as if he knew she had
been upon great fatigue and trial, and so left her. There, sir. I have told all exact, not one
matter omitted.
Q. Did she make no other explanation of what had passed? Did you not press her?
A. That she was sure now his Lordship was bent on some great wickedness, and much
afraid of what further might lie ahead. As she was now proven right to be, on that day we
spoke.
Q. We will come to that. She spoke of nothing else of moment, before you came to the
Black Hart?
A. No, sir, not till the eve of that day we were at. When she said his Lordship again spoke
apart with her in his chamber, and behaved as without reason as ever before, first to revile
her for some insolence that lay in his fancy, for she was sure she had given none in the
flesh; then of her being so great a whore, she was certain for hell, I know not what else.
Which she said he spake in terms and language more like to one of her past Quaker
ranters or an Anabaptist than a gentleman, like he would now see her punished for doing
his very own command. And she said 'twas as if he was not one man, but two, when she
looked back on all her dealings with him; that when she went to her bed, she wept for it,
that he should be so cruel for so little seeming cause. And I asked her, What of his praise
of thee at the temple? And she said, 'Tis ever so with those of rank, they be weathercocks,
all turns with the wind of their fancy.
Q. Spoke the wench much in this vein - of disrespect for her betters?
A. I fear she did, sir. I will come to it.
Q. You shall. I ask this now. She did know, did she not, that something most wicked and
terrible was afoot? She had known it since the night at the temple, three days before. Now
why made she no attempt to escape, to seek the advice and protection of Mr Lacy,
whatever else? Why went she for three whole days, as she were a lamb of a more
innocent kind, to slaughter?
A. Your worship, she did say she believed that Mr Lacy and I were a part of what went
on, and of no avail. That she had thought, at Wincanton and Taunton both, of running
into the night, she knew not where; but found herself so desperate alone in the world, and
damned beyond hope of succour, that she found not the courage.
Q. You believed this?
A. That she was frightened out of normal wits, yes, sir, I did. One is no army, as the
saying goes; and least of all when womanly weak.
Q. Did his Lordship say whatever to her on the eve, at the Black Hart, of what should
pass that coming day?
A. No, sir. She thought it strange I was gone, when they set off, and she asked Mr Lacy,
but he said only, I was rid ahead. And so stranger still, when it came to the parting with
Mr Lacy at the gibbet, of which she had no warning; and began greatly to apprehend, to
find herself alone with her tormentors, for his Lordship rode ahead, and would not speak.
Until they came to the ford by the cwm, where I watched them; and there at last she
ventured to speak, and his Lordship said, We are come to where my waters spring; and
that she too was to taste of them.
Q. These are the waters of which he told her in London, that were reputed good for his
case?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Had you heard speak of them on your journey to Devon? Had Mr Lacy spoke of them?
A. No, sir. Not one word.
Q. Nor nothing said of them in that inn?
A. Neither, sir. You will hear. Hiss Lordship did speak in black jest. There be no waters.
Q. Proceed.
A. So, sir, she dared not ask more, for his Lordship and Dick seemed willed to one
purpose, and she like mere baggage they carried with them to it, as they went in the cwm
to where I found them, with Dick gone off. Where at the first, before I came up with
them, she said his Lordship had had Dick unstrap the box and set it on the ground, and
then opened it, and there laid on top was the May dress, new smicket and petticoat, and
fair new stockings, the which she had never seen to this hour; and he commanded she put
off what she wore, and wear this instead. And she would know why, though in greater
and greater fear at this further madness. But he would only say 'twas to please the keepers
of the well. So she said, sir, and could make nothing of it, yet knew she must obey.
Q. Keepers, you say?
A. Yes, sir. It shall come what was meant, you will see. Then they went, as I told. And
she said twice upon the way she asked what they did, and how his Lordship knew she had
not bargained for this; and twice his Lordship told her to hold her tongue. And so they
passed to where I first saw 'em, sir, as they waited upon their knees.
Q. Before the woman in silver?
A. Yes, sir. Which she said did stand of a sudden before them, as 'twere from magic,
some fifty paces off; and that did seem of evil omen and baneful prodigy, most unnatural,
not only in her manner of appearing, sir, in that wild place, but by her aspect also. That
no sooner did she stand there, than his Lordship knelt and uncovered his head, and Dick
also, and Rebecca must do as they. She said, 'twas as if they had met some great lady, a
queen, sir. Tho' in all else she looked no earthly queen, no, most cruel and malevolent,
that would do them untold harm if not obeyed in all. At first she did naught save stare
down upon them, her hair was black and wild, her eyes blacker still. That she might have
made some claim to beauty, did not something in her look stink of malice and evil, for at
the end of a sudden she did smile upon them, yet was that smile, said Rebecca, a
thousand times worse than her staring, 'twas as a spider might smile upon a fly fallen in
its web, see you, that licks its chops before a tidbit.
Q. How old was she?
A. Young, sir, of Rebecca's own age, though different in all else. So she said.
Q. She did not speak?
A. No, sir, stood there in silence, yet 'twas part so they were expected. Which notion she
took also from that neither his Lordship nor Dick did seem set aback at this most sinister
spirit, more it were familiar.
Q. These clothes of silver - what of them?
A. None such as common woman had ever worn, not even such she had seen in masque
and pantomime or the like of London; that she might, had she seen them in circumstance
less awful, have mocked them for their shape and fashion, 'twas so fantastickal and
unseemly.
Q, How did this encounter end?
A. Why, as it began, sir. Of a sudden she was not there, but disappeared into thin air.
Q. Had she so lost her tongue she did not ask his Lordship of whom this evil vision was?
A. I forget, sir. In truth she did and told me he answered, She thou art here to please,
among others. And she would know more, but was told to ask no more, soon she would
see.
Q. What said his Lordship to her when she would not go into the cavern? You said, they
did speak.
A. More upbraidings, that she was sullen and rebellious and he would not stand for it
from a whore already bought. And then when they came near the cavern, and she could
no more, and turned to beg his mercy on her knees, and he drew, she said he said, Damn
thee, my life's ambition lies inside that place, and I'll kill thee before I'm thwarted of it.
And she said his hand trembled like one in a fever, or crazed, sir, and she verily believed
he'd have done as he said, had she not obeyed.
Q. He gave no hint of why she was so necessary to the fulfilment of this ambition?
A. Not one, sir. It shall come. Do I tell your worship now what lay within?
Q. Thou shalt, and all.
A. At first she could see nothing, all seemed black as night, sir. Still she must go forward,
since she was pulled by Dick, until she made out a light upon a further wall, as of a fire,
and smelt the burning of it. Then they come to a corner, for, see you, the cavern is shaped
as the leg of a dog, a greater part opened where it bent back somewhat. And there, sir, she
said, was opened such a scene as turned her poor mortal blood to ice.
Q. Why stop you, man?
A. Sir, you will not credit me.
Q. I'll credit thee the greatest flogging of your life, if thou dost not make haste.
A. And I fear the same when you hear, sir. But so I must. I tell as told, sir, I pray your
worship remember that. There in the great inner chamber of the cavern she saw a fire and
by it two hideous old women and a younger, who she knew at once for witches, for they
stared most balefully, yet in seeming expectation, as if they awaited this. And how one
was she they had met in their coming, the younger, tho' now she was garbed all in black,
and did hold a bellows in her hand; and how another did sit with a great black cat and a
raven at her sides, her familiars; while the other that was third span thread upon a wheel.
And how behind these three stood one dressed in a dark cloak and masked, as it might be
a hangman, sir, she said, but that the mask covered not his mouth, where he seemed as
dark and his lips full-fleshed as a blackamoor's. And tho' she had seen him but in a
glimpse before, she knew upon the instant who he was and what dreadful plight she was
now in. Satan, sir, plain as I see you, Bezzle Bob as the common say. And cried out loud
in her horror, which I heard, as I told. She would run off, did Dick and his Lordship not
hold her so tight, and make her go forward toward the fire. Where they stopped, and his
Lordship spoke in a tongue she could not follow, it seemed with great respect, as one
might speak to a great lord or king. Tho' Satan said not a word, yet seemed to stare upon
her with eyes as red as fire behind his mask. And again she would escape, and could not,
for Dick and his Lordship stood as ones tranced, yet did not loose their hold upon her.
And she said she began to say the Lord's Prayer beneath her breath, but finished it not, for
the youngest hag pointed a finger of accusation to her, to say she knew what Rebecca did,
tho' 'twas without speaking. And how next the two older witches came to her and began
to pinch and feel her so she were a trussed fowl, 'spite she began to weep and did beg for
mercy. And she said they who held her had been pillars of flint for all they seemed to
hear, holding her still for the hags to feel her, like they were hodmandod cannibals as
well as witches. That did smell most vile, rank as goats. And the more she cried, the more
the two hags cackled and felt her body. The while of which, Satan came closer from
where he stood, the better to view this sport.
Q. Stop. Now think, Jones, and tell me this. She was formal, this was Satan in person?
That is, not one for some purpose dressed to impose upon her. Not some tricked-up
semblance?
A. Sir, I asked her later that very question, and more than once. But she would not have
it. As sure she was 'twas him in the flesh, as the horse we rode was horse. Her very
words, sir.
Q. Very well. I will tell you now, this is beyond my belief, Jones. The strumpet was lying
in her teeth.
A. Sir, it may be. I know not now what to believe, save I am certain that some most
strange thing happened. She was much changed, sir. No more the Rebecca of old, see
you.
Q. Proceed.
A. Next, sir, I blush to tell; but must. For she was forced back upon the ground, while the
two hags went to their master and served as his tire-maids, until he stood naked, proud in
his demon's lust and would come down upon her, though she still wept and cried, for she
thought this her Day of Judgement, punishment upon her for all her past sins at Mother
Claiborne's. So she said, sir, as he stood above her, black as Ham, to have his will. Of
what happened next she knew not, sir, for she said she swooned, and knew not how long
she lay in her swoon, but that when she woke she found herself lying on one side, she
must suppose dragged or carried there, and felt a great pain in her privities, as if her
swooning had not spared her and some rude forcing had taken place. Then that she
peeped open her eyes and saw what she could scarce believe, sir, for the young hag and
his Lordship stood naked before the Devil like man and bride, and he married them, or
made out to do so in blasphemous mock, sir, and blessed them in evil jest, gave them his
nether parts to kiss, which they did; and that this black wedding, 'twas no sooner done in
such wicked form than done in the flesh, and all about the fire fell likewise to practising
abominations among themselves, as 'tis said witches do in their covens.
Q. Do you say, his Lordship also?
A. Yes, sir, the Devil and his handmaids, Dick and his master. All. And you must forgive
me, sir, his Lordship was cured of his previous state and seemed most eager in the
lewdness, as if to vie with the Devil himself. So she said; and how she had seen
somewhat in this guise at Claiborne's, yet none like this. Why, even the raven stood upon
the cat, as though to cover her.
Q. Now I ask this, but first I make warning. What is said here between us thou shalt not
repeat. Shouldst thou speak and I hear, it is thy doom soon after. Is that most clear?
A. Most clear, sir. I swear I shall not.
Q. And had better not, Jones, or by Heavens thou art dead. This is my question. Said she
that among these lecherous abominations that she saw there was one practised between
his Lordship and his man alone?
A. Sir, save the black wedding she did not tell what she saw, no more than that it took
place.
Q. She spake not of such a vile act in the particular?
A. No, sir.
Q. Saw you no sign, it matters not when or where upon your journey, of such an
unnatural relationship between his Lordship and Dick?
A. No, sir, upon my life.
Q. You are certain, Jones?
A. Certain, sir.
Q. Very well. Now tell on as she told.
A. That in some interval in these foul diversions one of the hags came and shook her by
the shoulder where she lay, as if to see whether she waked yet. Rebecca made pretence of
being still swooned. Whereupon the hag went off and fetched some potion and forced her
to take some in her mouth. 'Twas nauseous and bitter, said Rebecca, as of aloes or
venomed toadstools. Its effect drowsing, for soon she fell asleep; yet had no relief in it, as
your worship might think, for she had a dream that seemed not a dream, so real it seemed,
and like waking. In it she walked down a passage-hall, or gallery, as in some noble house,
that was hung with great tapestries as far as she could see. And the Devil was beside her,
in a black suit, who now treated her with a seeming courtesy, so a gentleman might show
a lady his estate and its possessions, tho' he said nothing. So be it when she chanced to
look more closely on his face, it was not he she had seen in the cavern, no, more like
his Lordship's, tho' swart of skin; yet somehow she knew they were both the one, despite
this strangeness.
Q. They spake no word?
A. No, for she said in that it seemed truly as in a dream. That while they walked he would
touch her arm and show her this or that of the hangings, as he might point to a picture by
some, great master of the brush or pencil, sir. And I forget, she said all was in a poor
light, sometimes shadowed and hard to discern, yet even that light seemed most
diabolickal, for there was no windows, no lustres, no flambeaux, no, not even the
smallest candle. And moreover, as they walked this dark gallery, she saw these hangings
lay not still. They moved, they swole and fell, as if touched by some wind or air behind
them. Yet she felt none upon her face.
Q. What showed they, these hangings?
A. Why, sir, she said all kind of most monstrous horror and cruelty of man against man,
such as waking she could not have borne to see but did seem now obliged to study. For
Satan had only to point, and willy-nilly her gaze must follow. And the more horror still
because the figures and nature therein stood not fixed, as in your true pictured hanging,
yet moving as in life, tho' silent. And so lifelike, said she, there appeared no stitches nor
threads, why, the very scene they would represent seemed acted again, as on a stage for
one who stood close by in the pit. And yet she must look at all, as commanded, like as
she had no lids to close her eyes against such inhuman cruelty. How there was death in
all, sir. And the Devil himself in all, sometimes taking a main part, the bespeaker, at
others standing aloof, with a malignant smile, so to say, My work is done for me, see
what good helpers I have in this world. And as she looked the furthest scenes would seem
of a sudden brought close. How one moment she might view as if from a hill a city below
being pillaged by soldiers, and the next as from ten paces poor innocent children being
put to the sword or their mother ravished before their eyes. A torture chamber, through a
window; then stood she above the victim's face in his agony. So, sir. You must believe
me.
Q. And how did this dream end?
A. She felt a great thirst, or so she put it, sir, she did mean it in her soul, a need for Christ
our Redeemer. And began to look in these hangings for some sign of him, a cross, a
crucifix, yet could find none; till at last they came to a place where this Devil's gallery
seemed to end, for she saw a wall that closed it and upon it a hanging that seemed to
shine with a greater light, though she could not yet make out what it showed. Some little
hope began to spring in her breast that Christ lay there, as we all hope at the end of our
travails in this world. And she would hasten to it, but still was made to stop and
unwillingly to look where she had already seen more than enough. Then, sir, she could
bear it no more, and broke away and raised her petticoats and ran to where she thought
her thirst should be quenched. 'Twas the greatest deceiving of all, sir. For as she came
close she saw it was no Christ portrayed, 'twas a barefoot beggar girl in rags, who wept
like Rebecca herself and seemed to raise her arms towards her as a child to its mother.
And behind, sir, she said all was fire, endless fire under an endless night, as far as she
could see, and whence came this greater light; and tho' 'twas in her seeing, she could feel
no heat herself, yet could see the little beggar-girl that reached to her did so feel it, and
most terribly, and was stricken with pity and sorrow for her. And would reach to save
her, sir, but could not, however much she tried, she said when it seemed they might touch
'twas as if a pane of glass lay between them, tho' none to be seen. And I must not forget,
she said as she told it me, sir, there came to her as she tried in vain to touch and save the
child a belief she had known her before, that they had once lain close in love and
affection, as sisters might; albeit now, upon reflection, she said she believed it her own
self, as she was before her coming to London; how for some reason, perhaps the child's
clothes (though she had been poor, sir, she was never a beggar) she did not in her dream
know herself.
Q. Conclude.
A. I am near, sir. And must offend belief again, sir.
Q. Offend. Thou hast me well used by now.
A. How the flames gained upon the beggar-girl, and she burnt not as flesh does, but more
as wax will, or fat too near a fire. For her features seemed to melt, sir, if you may picture
it, and to drip down and fall, and drain to a pool of grease, which only then the flames did
eat and made a blackened smoke thereof, that was all that was left. This passed sooner
than I can speak it, sir, she said, as happens in dreams before sleeping eyes. And now she
felt a great despair and rage, for this burning of the beggar-girl seemed to her the most
cruel and unjust of all she had seen. And thus she turned to face Satan, who she took must
be behind. She knew not what to do, yet must let him see her anger at the least. Now, as
she told, she stopped. And d asked, Was he not there? And she said, He was not there. On
which she was silent a moment, then added, Thou must not mock me. I said I should not.
Next she said, All that had been there as I came was gone. For I seemed to stand upon a
Bristol quay, one I once knew well. And on it stood my parents, who watched me sadly,
to say they too knew who was the beggar-girl lost in hell-fire. Beside them stood another,
a carpenter by his apron, like my father, tho' younger and most sweet of face. And I
began to weep again, for I had known him well, too, when I was younger. Dost
understand? I said, You would say Our Lord? And she said, Yea, though in anevil dream,
and tho' not a word was spoke; but yea, a thousand times yea. Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Well, sir, I knew not what to say, so I said, And how looked He at thee? And she said, As
d had looked at the little beggar-girl, Farthing. But yet there stood no ice-cold pane
between us, and I knew I might still be saved. There, sir. I have told all I can, save her
very voice and the circumstance.
Q. And is this the gloss she put upon such a farrago? She is brought to sainthood by
hobnobbing and coupling with Lucifer himself? Why, man, you should have pitched her
off your horse into the nearest ditch. He deserves to be hanged who would believe a word
of this; or boiled into wax himself.
A. It seemed best policy to believe her then, sir. That lay behind.
Q. To her waking.
A yes, sir. She said in her dream she would fain run on her Bristol quay to fall to her
knees before the Lord and her parents, but waked before it could take place; and found
herself as before, in the cavern, to her great relief alone, tho' naked and bitter cold. For
now the fire was embers, and all the others vanished. And so she left, sir, as I have told
before.
Q. And how did these others vanish, did she suppose? Upon a broomstick?
A, Sir, I asked the same, saying they had not left, or only hick, to my eyes. She could tell
no better than I.
Q. Saw she no passage or way farther into this cavern than she went herself?
A. No, sir, yet said there must be, or they might have turned themselves to other creatures
I had not marked, thinking them natural, such as the ravens I spake of.
Q. Old women may credit that. Not I.
A. No, sir. Then the cavern must have its inner parts. And it may be it ran under its hill
and out upon another side.
Q. Seemed the land apt to provide it?
A. It may be, sir. I could not know how it lay, see you, .there behind the cliff.
Q. This smoke you saw - was there not an issue above?
A. Why, yes, sir, plainly. I doubt such a one five persons might have passed from,
without my seeing.
Q. This humming you spake of also - enquired you concerning that?
A. I did, sir. And Rebecca said it came from the great spinning wheel I spake of, that one
of the hags had beside her, that circled more swift than eye could follow, at her smallest
touch.
Q. What, in a close cavern, and you two or three hundred paces off? 'Tis not to be
believed.
A. No, sir.
Q. You are certain she intended you to believe that Satan had lain with her? Seemed she
in pain as she rode?
A. No, sir.
Q. Showed she no great abhorrence or horror, in thinking that she must have his seed in
her womb? I do not mean at the telling, Jones; but after. Did she not speak of it again?
A. No, sir, but much of the great mercy of her escape, and finding Christ again. Or the
light, as she said.
Q. What said she of Dick's running out, as if sore afraid?
A. Naught, sir, beyond the supposing the fellow driven at the end out of his wits, the
while she lay drugged, by what had passed.
Q. And this speaking of a maggot, when first you came upon her?
A. She said it was from one of the hangings in her dream, sir, in the Devil's gallery. For
there she saw a fair corse of a young lady being gnawed by a seethe of maggots as it lay,
unburied; and one of which was monstrous large, out of all nature, she could not forget it.
Q. If all she said were true, how comes it to pass that she is let escape to tell all? That
Satan in person may come and claim his own; well, we'll not go into that. That he should
come and not claim, I do not conceive. Why lay she not murdered or spirited away with
the rest?
A. We spake of that, sir. And she believed it was because she prayed as she lay there and
begged God's mercy on her sins, and swore with all her heart she would never do such
again, if He would succour her now in her extremity. That she heard no answer there, as
she lay. Yet felt she was answered, in her dream. And when she did wake, and found
herself rid of her persecutors, all gone, felt more sure still. And more and more full of the
divine presence, the light as she called it, when she met me, that she called the good
Samaritan, and we came down safely, so that in the end she must thank the Lord and
solemnly renew the promise she had made. Which she did, sir, in the manner of her
religion, with the shaking and sobbing I told of.
Q. Now consider this, Jones. You fall on the wench, when she least expects and desires.
Least of all does she wish to go with you to his Lordship's father. She is no fool. She
knows her men, and thee and thy failings, and the tale thou art most like to swallow. So
she cooks thee a fine repast, admixed of superstition and quack conversion and plays the
repentant fallen woman in need of thy protection. And moreover warns thee that what
passed was so loathsome and terrible a commerce that thou'lt be held for a blasphemous
liar if thou tell it. What say you to that?
A. I have thought the same, sir. I won't deny it. Yet humbly begging your worship's
pardon, would believe her still till I know better. Set a thief to catch a thief, as the saying
goes. For my part I know your liars, sir, being one myself, God forgive me. I smelt none
there, as to repentance for her past.
Q. That might be. And what she told of the cavern, as false as it sounds. I shall have her
yet, I shall know. Now I would have the subsequent course of events. You rode straight
to Bideford?
A. No, sir, for at the first village we came upon, though all seemed asleep, there was a
great barking of dogs, and a fellow cried after us, and we were sore afraid the constables
or tithing-men might be upon us, and feared the watchmen of Bideford worse, should we
come straight there in the night. So thought best to lay by our road till it was dawn, and
enter the town more safe by day.
Q. You lay in the fields?
A. Yes, sir. On a bank we found.
Q. Did you speak of going to His Grace again?
A. I did, sir, for when all was told, she said I must see now we - could not. I said I did
not, I was certain we should be well rewarded. At which she said something strange, sir.
To wit, that she knew my heart and that it spoke a different tongue; that if gold was all I
believed in, tho' she knew I did not, then she had no less than twenty guineas sewn
among her petticoats, and I had best murder her there and then, and take them. Well, sir, I
said she mistook me, I thought most of my duty to his Lordship's father. No, she said, 'tis
the gold. Now thou'dst call me liar to my face, I said, and that is poor reward for my help
to thee. Farthing, she says, I doubt not thou art poor, and weak when such temptation
shows; yet thou know'st it wrong. Thou mayst deny it, but the light falls on thee as well,
she said, and would save thee. First save yourself, says I, 'tis the way of the world. And
now she says, ] have lived that way, and I tell thee it is damned. And we came to a stop
there, sir, for I was taken aback she was so sure of me, and something of how she spake,
which was not of accusing or reproach, see you, sir, 'twas more as my own , conscience
might have said. Then as I thought on this, she ! went on, Well, wilt murder me for my
gold? 'Tis easy enough, and to hide my body, in this wild place. For this was spoken
where we lay on the bank, sir, and no house within a mile. I said, Rebecca, thou know'st
well I will not, but what of our Christian duty to tell the father what has become of the
son? What is more Christian, she says, to tell him he is gone certain to Hell, or not? And I
tell thee thou must tell him, for I will not; and I counsel thee not, for thou'lt get far more
trouble by it than reward, and all to no purpose. It is done, his Lordship is damned and
they'll be persuaded thou hast some part in it. And then she said, If it was money alone I
needed, I was welcome to the half of what she had on her person. sir, we argued thus for
some time more, and I said I would think on it; that how whatsoever was done, if I was to
be one day taken up and questioned, I should be in great trouble if I told truth and had no
other word to prove it save my own; in which only she could help me. To which she said,
she had given me her father's name and his place of abode, which she spake again, sir,
and now gave me her word she would stand by what I said, if asked. And at that we were
silent, sir, --..id slept as well we could. I know you will say I should have been more firm,
but I was tired, why, all of that day seemed lik-e a dream to me also, so far was it from
what I had expected.
Q, The next morning?
A. We came to Bideford without trouble, and found us an inn behind the quay, which we
chose for seeming less busy than the others, and so put up there, and brake our fast upon
a star-gazy pie, that was stale, but in truth I have never eaten better, so empty of belly I
was. And there at the inn they said a ship sailed on the tide that very next morning for
Bristol, which we went to ask when we had ate, and found it true. And I would take
passage for us both, but she would not have it, and once more we fell to a skirmish or
what you may call it, I saying I would not part from her, she saying I must. Well, sir,
there were other matters I will not tire you with, but it came to my agreeing. I should for
Swansea, she for Bristol, and neither of us to speak of what we knew, but should be ready
to speak for each other, were either accused. I inquired and found I could be suited for
Swansea two days thence, as I have told, with master Parry. So we made for our passages
with our two masters, then went back to the inn.
Q. Did they not ask you your business there?
A. Yes, sir. And we said we were fellow servants, come from Plymouth, having lost our
places by reason of our widow mistress's death, and so regaining our homes. And must
leave the horse, and would pay a month's keep for it, until it was fetched; for we would
not seem to steal it, sir. And I did not forget to send message to Barnstaple at the Crown,
as I had writ Mr Lacy, for where it now was; which your worship will find I did, and sent
by a boy and gave him twopence for his pains.
Q. The name of this inn?
A. The Barbadoes, sir.
Q. This money she promised thee?
A. She was good to it, sir. She took me to a little room apart after our dinner and counted
me ten of her guineas, tho' she said it was whoring money and would bring me no good;
but my need was great, so I took it.
Q. And spent it so fast you had none a month later?
A. I spent some, sir. I gave most to my brother, for I found him in great need. You may
ask.
Q. You saw her take ship?
A. Yes, sir, that next morning, and warped away, and sail.
Q. The name of this ship?
A. The Elizabeth Ann, sir. She was brig, the master Mr Templeman or Templeton, I mind
not which now.
Q. You are positive the wench did not leave it before sailing?
A. Yes, sir. I waited upon the quay, and she stood at the rail as they went out and raised
her hand to me where I stood.
Q. Said she nothing particular on your parting?
A. That I must trust her, sir. And try to lead a better life, if we should not meet again.
Q. You saw no sign at Bideford of his Lordship?
A. Not one, sir. You may believe I watched well for him, and Dick beside.
Q. You sailed yourself for Swansea the day after?
A. Yes, sir. At full flood, then down on the ebb.
Q. Despite thy fear of the sea and of privateers.
A. Well, sir, there is truth in that. Salt water I never abode. But I had small choice, found
where I was. I had liefer be in Little-Ease.
Q. Where I wish I might lodge thee. I tell thee thy first plan was a far better, that you
should go to tell his Lordship's family, for all thy seeking thy own profit in it. I desire to
know more of how this whore persuaded thee from it.
A. You may think I was cozened by her, sir, and it may yet prove I was. But, your
worship's respect, I must tell you again she I spake with that day was another woman
from she I had spake to before. There was some great change upon her. Why, she was
more friendly to me in a minute than in a day of her previous ways.
Q. In what manner friendly?
A. We talked much on our journey to Bideford, sir. And not only of our present.
Q. Of what else?
A. Why, of her past wickednesses, and how she had seen the light and would never return
to her whoring. Of how Jesus Christ came into this world for such as she and I, to show
us a path through its night. She asked me as well much of myself, sir, so we were met for
the first time and she would know who I was and of my past life. Which I told her some-
what of.
Q. You told her your true name?
A. Yes, sir. And of my mother and family, that in despite of all, I had not forgot. And for
the visiting of which she did strengthen my conscience, as I have told.
Q. And also to be rid of you, is it not so?
A. I did believe her sincere in that, sir, also.
Q. You said earlier, she spake against her betters.
A. Yes, your worship. Of the injustices of this world and what she had seen of them at
Mother Claiborne's.
Q. To wit?
A. Sir, begging your mercy, I had spoken of some past faults of my own, and she said
that the gentlemen who went to her bagnio were not better than us, but worse, for they
did choose to live evilly when they might live well, while it was forced upon us, only to
get our daily bread. That wealth was a great corruption in men's minds, a blindfold upon
their true conscience, and the world a most damned place until such day as they see it.
Q. She spake seditiously, in short?
A. Your worship, she said there was no hope for the world while sin governs our betters,
and they not punished for it. That we in humbler stations must look to our own souls, and
not serve their wickedness.
Q. Did you not laugh to hear such words in such a mouth?
A. No, sir. For they seemed sincere, and she did not prate, and when I said, so I did, that
it was not for us to judge our betters, she would persuade me gently, by putting me ques-
tions. Saying I'd not thought on it enough and that there was a world to come, which must
be earned equally by all in this present one. For there was no rank in heaven, she said,
save in saintliness. She flattered my better side, sir. I know you deem those of my nation
have none such, and are all wicked. Your worship's respect, sir, we Welsh are most
desperate poor people, with so little natural advantage that our faults come most from our
need. We are not wicked at heart, more we'd be friendly and religious, if truth be spoke.
Q. I know thy friendship and thy religion, Jones. The first is all treason, the second all
dissent. You are a plague among the decency of nations. A nauseous boil upon this
kingdom's arse, may God forgive you.
A. At times, sir. When we know no better.
Q. Which is all times. Spake she more of his Lordship?
A. That she forgave him, sir, tho' God would not.
Q. What right has a brazen strumpet to forgive her masters and to know God's will?
A. None, sir. I walked almost sleeping, I was so tired and footsore. And what with all that
had passed that day, I was much confused. It seemed somewhat of truth, as I led her.
Q. She led thee, thou wretch. She rode the horse?
A. Yes, sir. And here and there walked a little, to give me rest.
Q. Wast thou so fatigued thou no longer played the gallant? Why, hast lost thy tongue?
A. Well, your worship, I see I must tell all, tho' 'tis nothing to your purpose. When we
rested before Bideford, she was cold and lay beside me on the bank, with her back turned,
'twas but for the warmth, and saying she trusted me to take no advantage. Which I did
not, yet told her as we lay, which is truth, I had married once, albeit it turned out ill for
my own fault in drinking and my poor wife that died of the flux. And that I was no better
than I should be and doubtless a poor figure of a man beside many she had known. Yet if
she would take me, I would take her, and marry again, and we might live honestly and as
she said she now wished.
Q. What, she lies with Satan in the morning and thou wouldst lie with her in the evening?
A. Sir, she had lain with Christ since then, or so she said.
Q. Thou gav'st lease to such blasphemy!
A. No, sir. I believed her truly repentant.
Q. And ripe for the practice of thy lust.
A. Well, sir, I won't deny I envied Dick his use of her before. I have my natural vigours. I
liked her much for her new . candour, sir, as well as her flesh. And thought she might
bring me to better ways, if I married her.
Q. But this new-found saint would have none of thee?
A. That she'd have none of being wedded to any man, sir. For she said I was kind to think
of taking to wife one as defiled and sinful as she, for which she was grateful, tho' she
could not; seeing she had promised at the worst of her trial inside the cavern, that she
should never again have knowledge of any man of her own willing.
Q. That sufficed thee, for an answer?
A. Sir, I tried again on her going the next day - later that same, rather. And she said, I was
a good man, she would entertain well of my offer if she changed her mind. Yet had no
present desire that she should, indeed earnestly the contrary. And in all case first she must
see her parents.
Q. Thou shouldst have unfrocked her piety whilst thou hadst the chance.
A. That tide is lost, sir.
Q. But I shall catch it. She'll not candour me with her soft looks and ranting fits. Quakery,
quackery, by Heaven she won't.
A. No, sir. And I wish you well in it.
Q. I need no wishes from such as thee.
A. My pardon, sir.
Q. Jones, if thou'st lied in any particular of this. I'll have thee at a rope's end yet, I warrant
thee that.
A. Yes, sir. I know it well. I wish I had told you all in the first place.
Q. Thou art too much a dolt and braggart to be a thorough rogue. That is all the good in
thee, which is none, but by degree of wrongdoing. Now be off, until my further
disposition. I have not released thee yet. Thy lodging is paid, and to it I sentence thee
until all is done. It is clear?
A. Yes, sir. I thank your worship humbly. God bless your worship.
 The 11th Sept. Lincoln's Inn.

Your Grace,

My most humble concern for Yr Grace would, were I not also his servant, with duty
above all else to bow to his gracious commands, beseech me to forbear the dispatch of
this that is inclosed. Would that I might find some allay to it, yet cannot beyond that
ancient saw of my calling, Testis unus, testis nullus. The more might it be applied to this
present, that the one witness is known liar and transparent rogue, and here does report of
another we may fear to be a greater liar still. Yet must I in truth to Yr Grace state that
though in all Jones doth most plainly merit the rope, I believe him no liar in the substance
of our matter. Our hope and prayer must lie therefore in that the wench did cunningly
deceive him.
All is on foot to discover her, and God willing we shall. Then shall she have such
a riding as Yr Grace may guess. The rogue Jones describes himself in all he says, Yr
Grace may picture his kind, that matches all that is worst, which is much, in his wretched
nation. He is man of clouts. I will venture one hundred pound to a peppercorn he hath
been no nearer Mars or my lady Bellona than John o' Groats is to Rome, nay, further still.
He is far more a frighted eel, that would slip from any pot, once caught.
This also I beg to submit to Yr Grace, that knows his Lordship and that all in
which he standeth blameable. There is alas no doubt that he is guilty of the most heinous
of familial sins, in his conduct towards Yr Grace's wishes; yet always with this in his
favour, as Yr Grace himself once in happier days remarked, that he hath seemed unsullied
by those nowaday too frequent vices of his age and station; that is, by none so foul and
dark as is now proposed. Yr Grace, I may believe gentlemen exist that would sink to such
depravity; but not a one bearing the honour to be Yr
Grace's son. Nor will my reason believe, as I doubt not Yr Grace's likewise, that such
witches as these have been, these last hundred years. In short, I must exhort Yr Grace to
patience. I pray he win' not credit that such alleged infamy as here I send report of to hire
is yet determined truth.

Yr Grace's most saddened, and ever his most obedient

Henry Ayscough
Bristol, by Froomgate.
Wednesday, the 15th of September, 1736

Sir,

I have received the honour of your letter and return your kind compliments an
hundredfold, to which I trust I may add that your most noble client may be assured that I
am ever his to command in anything that concerns him. I count myself no less fortunate
to have been able to assist a gentleman of your eminence in our profession in the business
of last year; as to which I may mention that I have just recently been at Assize (in another
happily concluded suit) before Mr Justice G-y and that he did me the honour of asking
me in private to convey his respects to our client and assurance of his most favourable
interest in any further cause Sir Charles may choose to pursue before him; the which
compliment, my dear sir, I felt gratefully obliged to transmit to you before I come to your
directions in this present most sad and delicate matter.
Sir, you may furthermore assure His Grace that nothing is more precious to me
than the good name of our nobility, that pre-eminent and divinely chosen bulwark upon
which, conjoined to the King's majesty, the safety and welfare of our nation must always
most depend; and that all shall be conducted with the utmost secrecy, as you request.
The particular you seek I have had most closely inquired after, and find she
appeared in this city - and in that place she stated - about the time conjectured in your
letter, though none my searcher spoke to could put more precise date upon it than the first
or second week of May Last. She was told what is truth, viz. that her parents are gone this
three years since to another meeting of their sect, it is believed in Manchester, and reside
here no more. It doth appear that in Manchester a brother to her father dwells, who had
persuaded them of better living (and a more pernicious enthusiasm besides, I doubt not)
to be found there, and so they did take their three other children with them, thus leaving
her no relations in this city. These three are all daughters, there is no brother.
The father's name is Amos Hocknell, his wife's is Martha, who was Bradling or
Bradlynch before marriage, and is originary of Corsham, Co. Wilts. Hocknell was
accounted here a good carpenter and joiner, though adamant in his heresy. He was most
lately employed by Mr Alderman Diffrey, an excellent and Christian merchant and
master ship-builder of this city, for the cabin furnishings of hiss vessels. I am acquainted
with Mr Diffrey, and he tells me he had no complaints of Hocknell for his work; but
found he could not leave his preaching and prophesying at home and was ever trying to
subvert those around him from established religion, to which my worthy friend Mr D. is
to his honour most securely attached; and that on finding one day Hocknell had secretly
won two of Mr D.'s apprentices to his own false faith, he dismissed him; at which
Hocknell cried injustice and persecution, though Mr D. had warned him many times he
would not stand for what Hocknell had persisted in doing, as was now well proven. The
man is as turbulent and rabid in his politics as his religion, Mr D.'s very words are these:
as steeped fn false liberty as a cod-barrel in salt, from which you may judge his kind;
and by this that Mr D. also told me, of how when he dismissed Hocknell, he had the
impertinence to exclaim, that any man might hire his hands, but no man, not even the
King, nor Parliament, should ever hire his soul. It seems the fellow muttered for a time
of taking himself and his family to the American colonies (where I heartily wish all such
seditious fanatickals might be condemned), yet thought the better of it. The conclusion is,
he may be found certainly by inquiry at the Manchester meeting-house; for 'tis, as you
must know better than I, sir, an inconsiderable town to this great city that I write from.
The person stated she was come from London, and had there been maid by her
work, tho' said no name nor place that is now remembered. To my best ascertaining she
stayed no more than an hour in a neighbour's house, who informed her of the above, and
then departed away saying she must journey on without delay to Manchester, as she
wished with all her heart to rejoin her parents. Sir, I must explain that by a most malign
mischance for our purpose, the neighbour in question, an elderly Quakeress, is dead of a
dropsy three weeks before my receipt of your letter, and all is founded upon her tattle to
her gossips. 'Tis accordingly tongue-worn testimony, yet I believe may be credited.
Of the person's past, my man could discover little more, owing to the closeness of
her obstinate co-religionaries in this town, who deem all inquiry, however lawful, a
threatened tyranny upon them. Howsoever he found one to tell him the maid was com-
monly considered slid from Quakerism, and lost to their faith and world, after being
discovered in sin, some five or six years past, with one Henry Harvey, son of the house
where first she had work here; was cast out by her mistress, then by her parents, who
considered her insufficient in repentance; since it was she that led the young man to their
sin. And was long disappeared, none knew where till this coming-back (of which none
but the aforesaid neighbour knew nor spoke to her before she was gone off again).
Lastly I must inform you we are not the first to inquire after the person, for the
prattler above told my searcher another came asking this past June after her, saying he
was from London and had a message from her mistress; but neither his appearance nor
his manner recommended him to these jealous and suspicious people, and he was told
little beyond that she was believed gone to Manchester; at which the fellow went off and
has troubled them no more. I trust you will know better what to make of this than I, sir.
I write in some haste before I leave on the other matter, which shall be done as
prompt as circumstance allows. Pray rest assured I will write to you thereon as soon as it
shall be possible. I am, sir, in all things your* noble and gracious client's and your
esteemed own most humble, most faithful and most obedient servant,

Rich'd Pygge, attorney at law

Bideford, the 20th of September.

Sir,

I have spent these two previous days at the very place of your most concern, and
write while all is fresh in mind. This place is to my best computation two and a half miles
above the ford upon the Bideford road and the valley thereto is known as the Cleeve,
after its cleft and woody sides, that make it more ravine than vale, like many in this
country. The cavern lies with a sward and drinking-pool for beasts before, in the upper
part of a side-valley to the aforesaid, the branch path to which is reached in one and three
quarter miles from the ford upon the high road. All is desart in these parts, and the valley
most seldom used unless by shepherds to gain the moor above. One such, named James
Lock, and his boy, of the parish of Daccombe, was at the cavern when we came; as he
told us was his summer wont, for he has passed many such there. This Mopsus appeared
a plain fellow, no more lettered than his sheep, but honest in his manner.
The place has a mischievous history, being known to him and his like as Dolling's
or Dollin's Cave, after one of that name in his great-grandfather's time who led a
notorious gang of rogues that boldly resided here and lived a merry life in the manner of
Robin Hood (or so said this Lock), with long impunity, by reason of the remoteness of
the place and their cunning in thieving more abroad than in the neighbourhood itself;
were never brought to justice that he knows, and in the end removed away. And in proof
thereof he showed me inside the entrance to his grotto and rudecarved upon the native
rock the initials I.D.H.H., that is, John Dolling His House. The rogue would have been a
free-holder, it seems.
Sir, I run ahead, for he told me also of a superstition much older concerning the
great stone that stands upright beside the aforesaid drinking-pool, which is that the Devil
came once to a shepherd there to buy a lamb of him, or so he said, yet when a price was
made and the shepherd said he might choose which he please, Satan pointed to this
shepherd's young son (as Lock in telling me to his own boy), who stood nearby. Whereat
the shepherd guessed with whom he truly dealt and being much afraid, lost his tongue.
Why say you nothing, says Sir Beelzebub, did Abraham make such a to-do about a mere
boy? Upon which our shepherd, seeing (as my rude fellow put it) he did speak with one
who should best him in a barter over souls, bravely struck with his crook; which fell not
on a human (or most diabolical) pate, but upon this stone, and was broke in half. For
which loss the shepherd soon consoled himself, since his son's soul was saved from
perdition, and moreover the Devil (not taking to this Arcadian hospitality) dared not to
show his impudent face in the place again; thus ever since the stone has been called the
Devil Stone. And perhaps for that reason the place is deemed accursed by many and some
in the parish will not set foot in it. Not so this fellow Lock, nor his father (as well a
shepherd) before him; on the contrary, good fattening ground and without mads or
murrain, and the cavern apt for his summer living and the ripening of his cheeses. I trust,
sir, you may not find me trivial in reciting this, since you especially desired me to omit
no particular, however fanciful.
The antrum is fifteen paces broad in its mouth and rises to some twice the height
of a man at the tallest of its exterior arch; and thence runs back some forty paces, there to
make a most singular bend indeed (running upon a blank wall in first appearance)
through a rough-hewn arch, which Lock believes formerly enlarged from nature, perhaps
by the rascal Dolling and his band, unto an inner and more spacious chamber. This I
paced and found it somewhat the shape of an egg, thus, some fifty paces at the longest
and a pace or two over thirty at the broadest or beam, though not regular. The roof is tall
and breached at one end to the air, for one may see a faint light at the place, though not
sky, as in a crooked chimney; and the ground is damp thereunder, but not greatly so,
Lock says in some manner it drains away. He uses not this retiring-room (if I may call it
so), for the inconvenience of its darkness, except for his cheeses.
Now, sir, I proceed to your more particular inquiry. Advised by you I brought a
lantern with me, and came by its aid upon ashes near the centre of this inner chamber, as
of a great fire, or many such. Which Lock told me, ere I had even asked, was made by
what is called in the Devonshire vulgar didickies (that 3s, Egyptians), who come here
with some regularity in their winter wanderings; for it seems some of their bands tend
westward to Cornwall at that season and return thence eastward in the spring. Upon my
further questioning Lock said that on his own returnings here, which passes most years
about the beginning of June (and to which this present year is no exception), he has
seldom not found such traces of their sojourn; and that it was so also in his father's time.
Yet he has never encountered them (in this. place) for they are secret people, with their
own heathen tongue and customs; and never having done him harm nor disputed his
summer possession of the cavern, they trouble him not; that he has even found store of
burning and hurdle wood seemingly left dry and good for his use, for which he is
grateful.
I must here remark that something in these ashes did stink strangely of other than
wood being burnt, I fancy somewhat of sulphur or vitriol, I can put no better name to it. It
may be conceived the answer lies in the constitution of the bare rock on which these
ashes reposed and that the heat of a strong fire draws forth some tarry emanation, whose
effluvia linger on, though t am not competent to determine such matters. I asked Lock of
this stink, but he seemed not to have remarked it and declared he could smell nothing
uncustomary. Yet methought his nostrils were beclogged with the worse stink of his
sheep and his cheeses, and that I was not mistaken. My own man, who was with us, was
of my opinion; and we had further proof I was not wrong, as I shall come to, tho' with no
better explanation. We disturbed the ashes somewhat to see if aught else but charred
wood lay there, and found nothing. In one low corner or recess Lock showed us many
bones lying as in a charnelhouse, for the most part small, of rabbits and fowls and I know
not what else, no doubt thrown aside by the uncleanly Egyptians in their regales and
feastings Lock says they use this inner room more than he in their winter stays, it may be
with good reason, for the better protection from the winds and colds of that season.
I must add, sir, before I forget and in answer to another of your queries, that I
searched all well by the lantern and found no other way from this cavern save that by
which we had entered; and Lock likewise was positive there was none, other than the
aforementioned chimney. To my best observation it is little more than a chink, for I later
mounted above upon the slope where it issues, where it might pass a child, but not a
grown man. Nor is it to be reached at the foot without a ladder. I saw naught else there, or
in the vestibule of the antrum, that spake of what concerns us.
Now I come, sir, to one last matter and that is the fire outside the cave. It lies
some twenty paces off, a little to one side upon the sward. I had marked it on arrival, for
Lock has encompassed the place with hurdles to keep his flock away. The ashes are
washed out by rains, yet the soil remains dark and barren in this place, and nothing has
grown upon it since it was burnt. Lock says in former years the Egyptians have not lit
their fires so, outside the cave, and knows not why they are so departed from their usual
custom this last winter. His sheep, when first he came, seemed driven to lick the
superficies where this fire had been, as if something there tickled their animal appetites;
and tho' none seemed to sicken for it, he had feared this sudden maggot in them and so
barred them from it; yet said they would still on occasion try to thrust through, for all the
abundance of sweet grass lying about them.
 This ustulated patch is some nine paces across. I entered upon it and when I
stooped was able to discern a similar sulphurous property to that I had smelled inside. I
told my man kneel and scratch a little of the earth, when he declared the smell was as
strong as before, and the same; which I confirmed with a morsel (that I inclose) he
handed me, and marked it seemed baked hard as a potsherd; id est, it had withstood the
mollient effect of this season's great rains. I had Lock fetch a hurdle stake, with which my
man digged down, and found all the soil in this bare place roasted curious hard for four or
five inches' depth, and difficult of penetration without repeated thrust; which we could
not put a cause to except by many and repeated great fires (for which there is provision
enough of wood nearby, yet which I find not accountable to ordinary purposes of cooking
and making warmth).
I asked Lock whether this absence of grass was not a strange thing, to which he
said yes, and he deemed the Egyptians had poisoned it in making of their salves and
potions. Now, sir, they are considered in this part of the Kingdom praeternatural wise in
the preparation of simples and 'tis true get some living by sale of their pseudo-
apothecarickal concoctions to the ignorant; but neither I nor my man will believe this,
that so great a fire was needful if such alone were their business. My man truly observed
it was more like earth at the bottom of a smelting-pit, though we saw no trace of metal or
else besides. Nor, I think, is there utile ore known in this immediate vicinity. Nota, 'tis
found in abundance upon the Mendip Hill, toward Bristol.
I fear I must leave you thus with a great enigma, sir. I assure you 'tis not for fault
of my keenest perseverance at your command, nor for want of thinking upon it. Yet I can
come to no sure conclusion. Not to be too long I will now answer your remaining matters.
1. There is no known previous visiting to this place by any curious gentleman or
virtuoso. Its waters have no reputation whatsoever, and knowledge of it reaches not
beyond the parish Mr Beckford (who presents his most flattering compliments) had not
known of its existence, before my asking him, e'en tho' it neighbours upon his own
parish.
2. I questioned Lock close upon the hanged man and all that has ensued; which he
lays upon thieves, and would not be shaken. For lack of a better 'tis the general but
unreasoning opinion hereabouts. When asked what further evidence may be that such
desperate thieves are about in this district, they have none; and fall back upon a silly tale
that is now afoot of a landing of French privateers; notwithstanding there is no further
evidence of it and that they should come this far inland is without precedent these past
eighty years, without common sense besides. 'Tis their practice to land and seize what
lies close to hand, then be swift away, as is too well known by our navy and waterguards.
3. Lock swore upon oath he had not seen nor remarked aught else unaccustomed
in his summer sojourn; nor had more visitors, beyond his family, than I and my man. I
have, alas, got no material new informations (beside speculations as the above of
privateers) from the aforesaid Mr Beckford, or Puddicombe, or of any others of those you
named to me.
4. I saw no fresh-dug ground about the place, such as might hide a person
murdered; and neither Lock nor his boy knew of any in their far greater familiarity with it
and its vicinity.
5. Such an overlooking vantage as your deponent describes may be seen. All else
conforms well enough to his chorography. You may credit him in this at least.
 6. Of what was left below, and the two horses, I found no vestigia, though this
country is such rough wilderness in its bottom or lower parts I cannot be sure we
searched where was meant; yet searched all that seemed most apt, beside the stream; and
came away with empty hands. At the most neighbouring places naught seems known of
the two horses unaccounted for, or what else was left. "Tis thought most likely that the
Egyptians might have come upon these horses; which did it so fall, they might well, if not
most certain, steal them; and likewise what was left of baggage. Of your deponent's
horse, I will anon.
7. As to witches, Lock declared to know of one in his village, but that she was of
the kind they here call white, or benign, more given to the curing of warts and rots than of
any evil conversation, aged and crippled beside. He knew of no covens, and was firm
none came here in winter save the aforesaid Egyptians; that he had never seen female
flesh about the place, in all his many visitings, apart that of his ewes and his wife and a
daughter, who would now and then trudge up with provision for him and to pick whortles
(which grow abundant there in August). Yet it may be he is here (as to witchcraft) less
natural than most of his kind, for Mr B. tells me 'tis still most generally credited, and such
noise as has reached their ears of the new repealing of the Act counted great folly. He has
had one accusation, no more, concerning it since his coming here, and that proved
baseless, caused by one crone's malice to another in some dispute between them. Yet still
will most believe, as their grandsires.
8. One may proceed from the head of this valley across the Ex-moor in seven
miles to the road that goes from Barnstaple to Minehead. The path is obscure and
unknown to strangers; those resolute enough however might pass it well enough,
provided qualibet they bear north, when they must in one place or another come upon the
high road, which here lies east and west. 'Tis most easy in summer, when dry. Minehead
and Watchet, the only considerable places before Bridgewater and Taunton, may be
avoided by one travelling in secrecy. I will return this way and inquire, with the
discretion you enjoin, as also here; and write immediately if new evidence of moment is
found; otherwise, upon my return to Bristol.
I am truly sorry, sir, that I cannot at present determine more to your advantage, and to
that of your noble client. I have the honour to be your most humble, faithful and obedient
quester and servant,

Rich'd Pygge, attorney at law

Bristol, the 23rd of September

Sir,

I fear I have had a barren return to Bristol, and have found no trace at the towns
mentioned in my last, nor at many smaller on my road, of the noble person's having
passed that way. I cannot alas positively say he may not have done so, for in truth the
scent is grown too cold. Even were it the case of one who travelled openly (and were I
able to conduct my questionings in the same fashion), I must respectfully advise that
there would at this lapse of time be great improbability of a better result. Had his mute
man been still with his Lordship, better hopes of publick memory might be entertained;
but we lack that advantage. Barnstaple and Bideford are busy towns and much frequented
in the more clement season for the trade in Irish wool and linen, likewise Welsh coals,
and no less the roads to them from Taunton, Tiverton, Exeter and even Bristol.
At Bideford the Collector, Mr Leverstock, was able to confirm me from his
register that on the and of May last the vessel Elizabeth Ann, master Thomas Templeford,
sailed for Bristol and on the next day the coal-ship Henrietta, master James Parry, bound
for Swansea, as your deponent told.
Likewise the same told truth as to the Barbadoes inn, where I inquired, and found
he and his companion was recollected, tho' little noticed, for their story was credited. He
boasted to one after she was left that she was gone to ask leave of her parents in Bristol to
marry him; naught else of import.
Now, sir, I must inform you also that the horse that was left there is sold, and the
landlord would claim it within his right, for he kept it the one month paid and a month
besides, or so he says, and could keep it no more; nor would part with what he sold it for,
tho' I threatened it should come to law and he be hanged for a horse-stealer; as I wish he
were, he is an impudent, arrogant fellow, and Mr Leverstock tells me, a great friend to the
smugglers. You may wish not, for so small a sum, and so 'tis left in abeyance.
Sir, I await your further instructions in re and meanwhile respectfully attach an
accompt of my fees and disbursements to date, in the trust that you will ever count me
your most devoted and obedient servant,

Rich'd Pygge, attorney at law

The First of October,

Corpus Christi College.

Sir,

I am pleased to assist any friend of the learned Mr Saunderson. I have examined the piece
of baked earth, upon which you request an opinion, and regret I may come to no certain
conclusion as to its nature. 'Tis clear that it hath been subject to great heat, and I doubt
not great alteration of the original composition, that alas doth make the chymical analysis
thereof (in even the best-furnished elaboratory) most difficult; for we may say in such
matters that fire is as an anacoluthia in grammar. All natural logick of expression in the
elements is made thereby interrupted and most obscure, howe'er so skilled and
moliminous the adeptist. I may believe that before the incalescence the earth was
admixed or drenched with some element of character bituminous, yet none has outlived
the fire in sufficient size (nor upon colation) to allow of a closer determination. The
Royal Society (of which I have the honour to be socius) doth hold in the collection of
minerals and stones bequeathed it by the great chymist and philosopher the Hon. Robert
Boyle some fragments from the banks of the Asphaltick Lake of the Holy Land (that is,
the Dead Sea) that do bear some resemblance, if memory serves; and likewise have I,
seen pieces not dissimilar brought from the Asphaltum, or Lake of Pitch, that is found
upon the Spanish isle of Trinidadoe in the Indies; indeed somewhat the same have I
remarked where pitch is boiled and some portion has spilled upon the ground beneath the
vats or coppers. But yet unless I mistake I detect a smell in these baked ashes that is
neither of pitch mineral (as these examples that I have cited) nor of pitch of pine, or
vegetable. Sir, if you can provide me of this soil a fresh portion that is not burnt (that may
doubtless be found adjoining), I should be exceeding grateful, and may thereby the better
enlighten you. Such soil is not hitherto reported to be found in these isles, and may be
most apt to commerce, and of great enhancement to your client's (whose name Mr
Saunderson did not vouchsafe) estates.

I am, sir, your most obedient servant,

Stephen Hales D.D. R.S.S.

I am in Cambridge briefly, and may be the better addressed at my living, that is at

Teddington in Middlesex.

London, the 1st October

Your Grace,

I write in great haste. She we seek is found, though she knows it not yet. My man
is sure; for he took Jones to view her secretly, which he hath done, and now affirms most
positively, it is she. She is late married to one John Lee, blacksmith, of Toad Lane in the
town of Manchester; and is several months gone with child, it cannot be by him. Lee is
said, Quaker, like her. They live in poverty, in little better than a cellar, my man avers;
for Lee has no regular work, but is called preacher by his neighbours. She now plays the
housewife and very soul of piety. Her parents and sisters are likewise in the town as Mr
Pygge wrote. I trust I need not assure Yr Grace that I proceed there at once - and humbly
pray he will pardon this present brevity, in the knowledge of its cause, and that I am ever
the most forward in his service,

H.A.

I inclose with this copy of a letter received this day from Dr Hales, that is best known
(these few years past) for his worthy anathemata upon the evils of spirituous liquors; yet I
am told also of excellent report as a natural philosopher, though more such as botanist
than chymist. He is friend to Mr Pope, that is one of his parishioners.
THE TALL, gaunt man sits with an empty bowl of pottage, wiped by bread as clean as if
it had been well washed, on the scrubbed wooden table before him, and stares at the
woman opposite. She is a less hungry, or more fastidious, eater, and does it with cast-
down eyes; so, it seems, to declare the very act of eating vaguely immodest. The table
stands before a huge grate and large chimney, but no fire is lit and the pottage the woman
still eats is evidently cold. The fingers that hold the wooden spoon she eats with look
cold; and are cold. The fingers of her other hand lie against the broken morning loaf, to
gain some last warmth from its baking. That, the two bowls, two battered pewter mugs
and an earthenware pitcher of water - only one thing else lies on the table, a little to one
side: a large octavo book. Its brown leather binding is dog-eared, and it has lost its spine;
and been repaired by a glued patch of old canvas, so that one may only guess at its
contents.
The room is a half-cellar, paved with flags, many of which are cracked, with steps
up to the street outside. The upper shutter of the door there is thrown open and lets in a
weak and new-risen October sun; as do the two small windows beside it. The sun is
needed, for the scene is one of great penury. The cellar-room has no carpet, not even a
rush mat. The recently whitewashed walls are similarly without adornment, except that of
patches discoloured by damp. There is no other furniture, beside the table and two chairs,
bar a wooden chest against the inner wall, that rests at either end on rough-sawn baulks of
timber, to keep its bottom off the flagstones. Two iron pans and an ancient chafing-dish
hang on nails inside the chimney. There are the remains of a fire there, but it is very
small, confined by old bricks, a paltry thing beside the large logs the seven-foot hearth
must have been built to burn in its beginnings.
Through an inner and doorless doorway beside the chest can just be made out
another and smaller room, and the end of a bed.
That room has no light at all from outside. A shelf fixed to the beam above the
hearth has one or two other necessities; an iron candlestick and two or three candle-ends,
a square of mirror-glass without a frame, a tinder-box and salt-box. And that is all. A
monastic cell could not have been more sparse.
Yet there are two strange things in this austere scene. One is physical, for the
floor above the room, though not ceiled, is supported on two fine oak beams, almost
black with age, and each delicately fluted and chamfered downward to a narrow hanging
edge; as if a century or more before, in James I's or Elizabeth's reign, the house had been
a finer place, where even those who lived or worked in the half-cellar were counted
deserving of such elaborate joinery. In truth it had served as shop to the merchant clothier
who then lived above. It was his customers who were granted such noble beams.
The other strange thing is a virtue. Poverty is associated today with loss of
morale; and that with dirt and disorder, both personal and domestic. This humble room is
as clean as a modern operating theatre: no dust, no dirt, not a single cobweb, not a
blemish on its strict tidiness. All is swept, washed, scrubbed, more thoroughly shipshape
than the most demanding bosun's mate could want, as if its denizens have said to
themselves: We have nothing, and so may be godly. There was an equivalent saying of
the time: cruel to the flesh, kind to the soul. The virtue was not mere cleanliness in
adversity, but a kind of wakeful resilience; a latent energy, a waiting will to change; a
being set like a spring. We accept this now, we will not accept this for ever. The
cleanliness was no more than a convenient and easily demonstrable symbol; a physical
emblem of a psychological cleanliness, spare and hard, a dormant readiness for both
martyrdom and militancy. That was why comfortable established Christianity so
mistrusted - as some of us today mistrust conspicuous consumption, less for what it is
than for what it may bring - the outward signs of a strict, practical Christianity in Dissent.
The man, although only in his mid-thirties, is already going grey. He wears
breeches and a loose white blouse, and an armless jerkin, scarred, like his forearms and
hands, by countless smithy sparks. For this is john Lee, the blacksmith of Toad Lane;
though he has no forge, and is far more given now to hammering something harder and
more obdurate than iron, the souls of other men and women. A tall, gaunt man, with an
abstracted face and seemingly far-seeing eyes. Something in them suggests he thinks too
slowly ever to smile; must endlessly digest before he might laugh, or offer an opinion. He
certainly does not look as if he has yet digested this other being and wife, Rebecca
opposite, in her coarse grey dress and pure white cap; this latter an object as sober and
sparse as the room itself, without lace or frill, close over her ears. Only her hair and her
face have not changed; the grey dress and white cap cannot quite hide why she was what
she was. Those gentle brown eyes, that opaque innocence in spite of all, that patience ...
yet she has changed elsewhere. There is now something also steadfast, almost learnt, in
her meekness; perhaps learnt from the man opposite; a new self, defiant, determined by
new circumstance and new conviction.
She pushes her bowl across the table to the man.
`Eat, thee. I have no stomach for it. And must to the neasery.'
`It ails thee?'
`All shall be well, praise Jesus.'
'Thy father and I shall stand witness outside, and pray for thee. If they'd stone thee
for thy bygone sins, thee must bear it, and remember thee art the Lord's new-born.'
`Yea, husband.'
`They too shall be judged when He comes.'
`Yea, yea. I know it.'
He looks at the offered bowl, but clearly has more on his mind.
`There is a thing I would tell. I was given in the night, but feared to wake thee
while thee rested.'
"Twas well?'
`One came all in white upon a road, as I walked. And he held a staff in the one
hand, the Book in the other, and greeted me. He said naught, beyond these words. Be
patient, thee, for thy time is nigh. Yea, thus he stood and spake, most clear, as clear as I
see thee now.'
`And who should he be?'
`Why, John the Prophet, praise the Lord. And more, he smiled upon me, as his
friend and good servant.'
She stares gravely at him a moment. `The time is nigh?'
"Tis as Brother Wardley says. Be resolute in faith, and thee shalt be given signs.'
She looks down, towards where her stomach swells a little, then up, and smiles
faintly. Then she stands and goes to the inner room, to re-appear with an iron bucket,
which she bears across the room and up the steps; unlatches the half-door, and disap-
pears. Only then does he draw her half-finished bowl closer, and begins to eat what she
has left. He tastes nothing, still thinking of his dream. It is thin gruel, watery oatmeal
mixed with one or two specks of salt bacon and a few dark green leaves of fat-hen; the
left-over of the previous evening.
As soon as it is finished, he pulls the book close and opens it; and it opens, as if
by nature, at an inner title page, that of the New Testament. It is an old Bible, of 16t9, and
turned, by its most frequent usage, into a Tetrevangelium. The content words of the page
are in a heart-shaped frame, heavily underlined in red ink for lack of proper rubrication.
They are surrounded by tiny woodcuts of sacred emblems like the Paschal Lamb, the
tented arms of the Prophets, portraits of the Apostles, and most closely by those of the
four Witnesses. The man stares for a moment or two at the cut of St John, a distinctly
Jacobean and moustached gentleman who sits writing at a table with a tame dodo - no, an
eagle - sitting beside him. But John Lee does not smile. He turns on to the saint's gospel,
and finds its fifteenth chapter: `I am the true Vine, and my Father is the husbandman'.
He stoops a little to read. It is clear, without any ease, for his finger slowly traces
what he reads, and his lips can be seen silently moving, as if these words cannot be
understood unless they are also spoken in mind, not merely absorbed by it.
`Abide in mee, and I in you: As the branch cannot beare fruit of
it selfe, except it abide in the Vine: no more can yee, except ye abide in me. I am the
Vine, yee are the branches: Hee that abideth in mee, and I in him, the same bringeth forth
much fruit: for without mee ye can doe nothing. If a man abide not in mee, hee is cast
foorth as a branch, and is withered, and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and
they are burned.'
The man raises his eyes there for a moment and stares across the room at the light
in the doorway; then down at the ashes in the hearth beside him. He goes back to his
reading.
Meanwhile Rebecca walks to the necessary, bucket in hand. There is a quickness
and lightness in her walk that belies her condition; and are quite certainly not justified by
Toad Lane. Though the Industrial Revolution has hardly yet begun, Toad Lane is an early
forerunner of a familiar sight in many modern cities; a once fair street become a
miserable slum of dilapidated houses, both they and their courts behind become warrens
of one-room tenements, warrens of disease also. Its practical effects can be seen
everywhere in the human denizens, in pocked faces, rickety legs, malnutrition, the neck
ulcers of scrofula, scurvy ... or would be so seen by a modern eye. Fortunately the victims
were not then aware how much they were to be pitied. Such was life, and change not
imaginable; and a more fundamental principle of resilience applied. One survived as one
could, or must. This day the majority of those in the street and its doorways are women
and very young children, for those of their men and children (though not more than five
or six years old) with work have gone to their places. Some eye Rebecca a little askance,
but it is for her sect-betraying dress; not her in herself, nor her errand.
The closets stand near the end of the street, on a common space: a ramshackle row
with their backs turned to the street, five noisome boxes, in turn containing even more
noisome holes in the ground. Between them and a ditch below stands a heap of human
dung, to which Rebecca adds, with something of an expert toss, the contents of her
bucket. Nearby grows fat-hen, as always; another name for it is dung-weed. Then she
goes to wait patiently by the necessaries, since all are occupied. They serve a population
of nearly five hundred; as does the one water-pump close by in the street.
 Now an older woman, yet dressed rather as Rebecca, and with a similar very
plain, closefitting white cap, joins her in her wait. Rebecca smiles primly in recognition
and then utters what must seem, in the circumstances, either a profound sociological need
or something too obvious to require saying at all.
`More love, sister.'
All that is spoken in reply are the same three words. It is clear they are not sisters,
for the two women say no more, and stand still rather apart. It seems this is no more than
a stock greeting between fellow-believing neighbours, as banal as a goodmorning. Yet it
is not a Quaker formula; and exceptionally Mr Henry Ayscough's man (who at this very
moment stands, as it happens, waiting near the half-cellar, with Jones at his side) has
misinformed him on one matter.
When some fifteen minutes later John, who has put on a plainbrimmed hat and a
threadbare black coat, and Rebecca Lee emerge from their cellar and walk towards the
two men, the latter make no pretence of turning their backs and being in conversation, but
stand and watch them approach. The tall clerk wears a small and sardonic smile, as one
accustomed to his present role; Jones seems ill at ease. When they are only a few feet
apart, Rebecca stops, though her husband walks on. She has no eyes except for Jones,
who awkwardly takes off his hat, and looks sheepishly down at the gutter between them.
`I must. 'Twas as we agreed.'
Still she stares at him, as at a total stranger; yet without anger, merely as one who
sees him whole. Then she looks down and speaks that same phrase she had spoken at the
necessary.
`More love to thee, brother.'
She quickens her step to rejoin John Lee, who has stopped and now stares at these
two strange men as if the last thing he feels for them is love. But Rebecca touches his
arm, and they go on. The other two wait a moment, then turn and follow, like a pair of
foxes who have marked their weak lamb.
 The Examination and Deposition of
Rebecca Lee
the which doth attest upon her sworn
oath, this fourth day of October
in the tenth year of the reign of
our sovereign Lord George the second,
by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.

MY NAME IS Rebecca Lee, I was born Hocknell, eldest daughter of Amos and Martha
Hocknell, in the city of Bristol, on the fifth day of January in the year 1712. I am married
to John Lee, blacksmith, of Toad Lane, Manchester. I was common prostitute in London
until May of this year, and went by the name of Fanny. I am six months gone with child.

Q. You know why you come before me?

A. I do.
Q. That I enquire upon the disappearance of a noble gentleman in May last?
A. Yes.
Q. Then first this. Have you since the first day of May last seen, had news of, or held any
communication whatsoever with his Lordship?
A. No.
Q. Do you have knowledge that he is or is most probably dead, in whatsoever manner?
A. None.
Q. And is what I have asked of his Lordship true also of his man Dick? You have no
greater knowledge of his fate?
A. None.
Q. You are upon oath.
A. I know it.
Q. Now, my new-virtuous Mistress Lee, I will find out what you are before we come to
what you were. And you will speak as plain as your dress. Your swelling belly shall not
save you, if you rant religion. Is that plain enough for you?
A. Christ shall be my witness.
Q. Very well. And I counsel you, keep it well in mind that I have Jones's testimony
concerning you before me. And your former mistress's, and much else besides. Now,
when arrived you here from Bristol last May?
A. On the twelfth day.
Q. And found your parents?
A. Yes.
Q. Who forgave you your sins?
A. I thank the Lord.
Q. You told them of what you had been since they saw you last?
A. Yes.
Q. Did they not abominate you?
A. No.
Q. How no - are they not strict in their religion?
A. Very strict, and so forgave me.
Q. I take you not, woman.
A. They do not abominate those who truly repent.
Q. Did they not abominate you before and cast you out?
A. Because I was wicked and did not truly repent. And I know now they were right, from
what I became.
Q. You say you have told them all. Do you mean by that, what happened in Devonshire
immediately before you came hither?
A. No, I have not told that.
Q. Why not?
A. Because I sinned not in that, nor would trouble them with it.
Q. You are principal witness and accessary to foul and irreligious crimes, and are not to
be troubled with them? Why answer you not?
A. Because they were not crimes, I say.
Q. But I say they were, and that you aided and abetted in their commission.
A. I deny it.
Q. You shall not deny what is proven.
A. I shall, if I be falsely accused. There is a greater lawgiver than thee. Is Jesus so poor a
meter He cannot weigh true repentance in a soul? He is not so small, and soon the world
shall know it.
Q. Enough. Watch thy tongue. None of thy thouing andtheeing.
A, It is our manner. I must.
Q, A fig for thy musts.
A, We mean no disrespect. All are brothers and sisters in Christ.
Q, Enough!
A. It is truth. We are equal in this, if not in the world. Blame me not for defending my
right, and God's word.
Q. Thy right and God's word! Shall I fetch thee to a pulpit?
A. I say they are one. Who takes my right steals from Christ.
Q. Thou hast no right to be stolen, thou art a most notorious whore. I am not thy new
modesty's fool. I see thy whorish insolence still proud in thy eyes.
A. I'm no harlot now. And thee knows it, thee hast inquired of me. Christ is my master
and mistress now. My pride is to be His servant, naught else.
Q. Thou canst buy remission of your sins so easy? Why, thou shouldst be at Rome.
A. Thee dost not know my religion. I am repentance with each breath I breathe, until my
last, or still I sin.
Q. I know I'll have thee whipped, if thou throw'st more piety at me.
A. I came not here to offend.
Q. Then cease your impudence.
A. When I was harlot I learnt those who would serve us worse than their horses or their
dogs served themselves likewise; and those that were more kind left happier.
Q. I should bow and scrape to you, is it so? I should call you madam and hand you to
your coach?
A. Thee may thunder and frown as thee will, but I think 'tis more in thy manner than in
thy heart.
Q. Dost thou indeed!
A. Yes. I pray thee, be not angry. I have met lawyers beyond thee, and judges besides;
and know their hearts are not all flint. Nor would they rail me so for giving up my
wickedness, as if 'twere better I was their harlot again.
Q. I wonder they ever came again to your bed, if you preached so at them.
A. Then more's the pity I did not.
Q. Well, well, I see you have imbibed your father's poison.
A. And my mother's. Who also lives in Christ.
Q. And contempt of all secular rank and natural respect, is it not so?
A. No. Unless where rank and respect would forbid our liberty of conscience.
Q. That gives you no liberty to be pert in your answers.
A. Then harry me not for my beliefs.
Q. We waste time. I would know of your marriage. When was it?
A. On the second day of August.
Q. The man is one of your congregation?
A. We are Quakers no more. He is Prophet.
Q. What manner of prophet?
A. French Prophet, descended of they who came from France this fifty years past, called
Whiteshirts by some.
Q. The Camisards? Are they not lapsed?
A. We are forty or more here who believe that Christ soon comes, by prophecy, as they
did.
Q. You mean, your man is of French blood?
A. No, he's English.
Q. Your parents are grown such prophets also?
A. Yes, and my uncle John Hocknell, who is friend to Brother James Wardley, our elder
and teacher.
Q. Was Quakerism not extravagant enough for you?
A. Not since I know Christ comes. But I will not speak ill of the Friends. They are good
people.
Q. Your husband knew of your past infamy?
A. He did.
Q. That he wore horns to the altar, in the state of your belly?
A. He wore Christian kindness there, no horns.
Q. A prophetic saint indeed. He took you from pity, in short?
A. And holy love. For our Lord Jesus said, Neither do I condemn thee.
Q. Did you not tell Jones, you would hear of marriage from no man?
A. I did not know then I was by child.
Q. Then you are wed for your bastard's sake?
A. For his soul's sake or if it be she, for hers. And my own.
Q. And is it this, a marriage in form, without true conjugality?
A. I know not what that would mean.
Q. Whether your man has his fleshly rights?
A. He is content with what he has.
Q. That is no answer. I require yes or no. Why say you nothing?
A. My conscience will not allow.
Q. I must know.
A. Thee'll not know from me. Nor my husband, who waits in the street below, and thee
may call him up.
Q. This is more defiance. You are to answer.
A. Of his Lordship thee may ask all, and I will answer. But of this, not.
Q. Then the imputation is this, the poor clown protects you, yet is denied your bed?
A. Believe what thee must. Where lies more shame? In my silence, or this prying where
thee has no business? Of what I was thee may inquire, 'tis as whipping to that
abomination I was, that she deserves. What I am since is no business of
thine, nor any other man.
Q. Who sired this bastard?
A. His Lordship's servant.
Q. You are certain?
A. I was used by no other in that month.
Q. What, you are prostitute, and slept with no other man?
A. I had my courses, my flowers, then left the bagnio before I was used again unless by
him.
Q. Did not his Lordship have his pleasure of thee?
A. No.
Q. No, what no is this? Did he not hire you?
A. Not for such a use.
Q. Did not the Devil himself have advantage of you in that Devonshire cavern? Why
answer you not? Jones says he did, and that you told him so.
A. I told him what he might believe.
Q. And not what truly passed there?
A. No.
Q. You lied to him?
A. Yes. In that.
Q. Why?
A. Because I wished to lead him from meddling further. Because I would be what I am
now become, an obedient daughter and a true Christian. And most, the last.
Q. Had you no thought of his Lordship's family, who are in despair of ever seeing him
again?
A. I pity their pain, and their unknowing.
Q. Are you not its cause?
A. God is the cause.
Q. And doth He pardon those who most shamefully neglect their Christian duty? Answer.
A. I answer, He pardons those who do not speak a truth that none will believe.
Q. What none-will-believe is this?
A. What I am here to tell thee. It shall be seen, whether thee theeself will believe.
Q. That it shall, mistress, that it shall, and Heaven help thee if I do not. Which I will not,
if you give me no better than these artful-devious answers. Now, it is true you know
nothing of what is become of the begetter of that lump in thy womb - the man Dick?
A. It is true.
Q. I have your word upon oath?
A. Yes.
Q. Then I'll tell you. He is dead.
A. Dead?
Q. Found hanged of his own hand, and not three miles from that place where last you saw
him.
A. I knew not.
Q. And have no more to say?
A. I pray our Lord Jesus forgive him his sins.
Q. Spare me your prayers. You say, you did not know?
A. When I saw him last, he lived.
Q. Jones has writ you no letter since you parted at Bideford? Nor come hither?
A. No.
Q. Nor any other of your past world?
A. None but Claiborne.
Q. How is this, Claiborne? She swore upon oath she knew not where you were.
A. Then she lied. She sent one Arkles Skinner, who is called her lackey, but is her bully-
man.
Q. Write Hercules. When came he here?
A. Toward the end of June.
Q. And lived-to his name? He would use force to have you back?
A. Yes, but I cried out and my husband John came running and struck him to the ground.
And I had Brother Wardley, that knows letters, to write Skinner's mistress how I had told
others all I knew, and if harm came to me, then worse harm to her.
Q. And she has held her peace since?
A. Yes.
Q. Well, I may approve your husband's fist, if not his choice of wife. Where works he
now?
A. When he can with my uncle, like my father. They make grates and backs, and set them
in, and the mantels, which is my father's part, who is joiner. They will do good work for
any. But few will hire them, for their religion.
Q. You are poor, then?
A. We have enough. Those among us who have give to those who have not. The world's
goods are to be shared by all who believe, so say we; and do.
Q. Now, Mistress Lee, I'll have the part you played last April, and not a scene omitted.
When came his Lordship first to you at Claiborne's?
A. Near the beginning of that month, I cannot say the day.
Q. And you had seen him never before - no matter where?
A. I had not. He was introduced by Lord B………
Q. Knew you who he was?
A. Not then. But soon after.
Q. How?
A. Claiborne asked me of him. And when I had spoken, she told me who he truly was.
Q. And what else?
A. That he was worth the plucking, and I must keep him close.
Q. And how fared his Lordship? Liked he his sport in your bed?
A. There was none.
Q. How none?
A. No sooner went we apart in my chamber and I would put my arm around him, he took
it away; and said, it was in vain. That he had entered upon it only so as not to lose face
before Lord B…….. Then that he would pay me well for my silence.
Q. What, would he not assay those arts and wiles you were once so remarked for?
A. No.
Q. Were you not surprised?
A. The case is not so uncommon.
Q. Is it not?
A. No. Though few admit it so soon, and without trial. And most as well would buy our
silence if they could, as they'd buy our boastings for them.
Q. Of their gallantry?
A. It was the custom, when they came down from us. Which we fostered, for our purses.
Though among ourselves the saying was, Brag most, do least. And I think not only in that
place.
Q. We need not thy bagnio wit.
A. More truth than wit.
Q. Enough. So, he would not, or could not. What passed then?
A. His Lordship was civil, and spoke with me, saying Lord B……. had said well of me.
And asked of my wicked life of sin, and how I liked what I must do.
Q. Seemed he at ease, or embarrassed in his manner?
A. Unused. I would have him lie beside me; he would not, nor even sit. But then at last,
he sat at the end of my bed and told me something of himself. That he had never lain with
a woman, that he suffered greatly for the knowledge of it and the having to hide it from
his family and his friends, that he was much blamed for refusing advantageous offers of
marriage, for he was a younger son and had no great expectations. I thought him more
distressed than he showed. He spake all with his face turned, as if in shame that he had no
more than one like me to confess it to.
Q. What said you to this?
A. I tried my best to comfort him, and said he was young, I had known others in the same
condition, who now had their normal powers. And that we should try. But I could not
move him to't. And then of a sudden he stood away from the bed, and when I went to
draw him back, he said, Leave me, *no more, as he were angry and I was grown
importunate; as sudden again made his excuses, saying I was not to blame, I did my best,
that he was worse than marble not to melt at my kisses, and suchlike. That if I would
have patience with him, he would like to make one more trial on another occasion, in two
days' time, for he believed himself on this first one too wrought by his anticipations, not
knowing what I should be like, nor the place; but was reassured now, and conscious of
my charms, so be it he could not yet prove it. That is all.
Q. Another assignation was made?
A. Yes.
Q. And he gave you money?
A. He threw some guineas on my bed, as he left.
Q. Now, I desire to know this: in asking you of yourself, and paying you compliments,
was he out of the normal custom of such libidinous encounters?
A. No.
Q. Was it not more usual for a gentleman to come, to take his pleasure of you, then
away?
A. There were some such; yet more, for pleasure of our company. I heard many say,
Claiborne's had the best conversation in London. She would take none of us who could
not speak as well for ourselves out of bed as in it.
Q. You have known others speak and confide in you in this manner?
A. In their different fashions. They might say to us what they durst not say to their wives,
God forgive them.
Q. Very well. He came again?
A. He came.
Q. And what passed?
A. The same as before, he would have none of me. But now declared he would watch his
servant do with me what he could not, tho' he knew it was difficult to encompass, and he
feared I might refuse such an unnatural request. Yet he would pay me well, and gladly.
Q. Did he not propose this at that first meeting?
A. No. I am sure. For that second time he made me go to my window, that looked down
upon the street, to see Dick that stood there opposite, and waited.
Q. What said you?
A. At first that I would not, he might buy me for himself, not for his man; that mistress
Claiborne was strict to our uses, she would never allow such a thing. At which he
appeared much set down, and disappointed of his hopes. On which we fell to talking, and
he told me he was advised to it by a learned doctor, and other things, which I did truly
believe to be only his excuses for what he asked. Yet I doubted not he was in some
distress, and had pity for him, and would have him lie beside me; tho' he would not, and
fell to pressing me again, and told me of Dick, how they were like to twins, even born
upon the same day, whatever so different in their station and outward.
Q. Was this not strange?
A. Yea, yet I believed him more there than in this talk of doctors. And I will tell thee
now, not half so strange as what I later learnt of them; which was that they were two men
as far apart in most matters as any in this world, yet of one soul. What one lacked, the
other had, as it is with man and woman, tho' both were men. As twin brothers, tho' they
were none.
Q. On that I shall ask more, in good time. In short, he won thee to his wish?
A. Not then, another time, he came yet again. I will tell thee now what I said not to Jones.
Whether thee believe me or not, I do not care, 'tis truth. Thee may'st take me for a
notorious harlot, I will not deny it. So it was, may the Lord Jesus forgive me, and a great
sinner, my soul harder than flint. Yet it was not dead, not quite dead, for my conscience
told me I sinned and should not be forgiven. Most of my sisters in that house were blind,
they knew not what they did; yet I was not in their case, I knew I was on the path to hell
and with no excuse save my own obstinacy in sin, that is none. There is a badder case
than they who sin for their own selfish pleasure, it is we who sin in hatred of the sin
itself. Not because we would, but somehow must, as a slave must do his master's will,
tho' he hates both it and him. I tell thee this because I was in that snare when first his
Lordship came. I sinned the more brazenly because at heart I would sin no more. The
more modest I would be, the more impudently I did. And I pray thee remember we
women are brought up to do men's will in this world. I know men will say it is Eve who
tempts them into the stews. But 'tis Adam who keeps them there.
Q. And Adam also who keeps most of'em pure. Be done with this prating.
A. I take heart thee won't look me in my eyes, 'tis sign thee knows I speak truth. It had
become strong upon me that I must change my life, now saw I his Lordship was my
prison's key. For when he came out with his scheme to take me away to the West where I
was born, I felt a great flutter come to flee where I was.
Q. You say, whatever might befall you meant not to return to Claiborne's?
A. I do.
Q. And would mend your ways?
A. I will tell thee what I fain would not. To my everlasting shame I had use, to please the
more wicked, to play the virtuous maid, that they might take the more pleasure in their
conquests. And for that I was given a Holy Bible, that I might pretend the better; and that
these men I served might show they believed not in God, and did mock His Word. For at
the end I would hold it as if to forbid them; which they must tear aside to gain their will.
What little conscience that still sprang in me knew I did do in that a most wicked
abomination, tho' l could not stand against Claiborne, her willing that I acted thus. Yet I
began then, when I was alone, to learn the letter of the Book that I so misused.
Q. What mean you by that?
A. Its letter, that I might read it; which did come the more easy, that of some parts I had
memory, that once I had heard read or spoken. God pardon me, for years 'twas not so.
And Jesus's mercy was even then kind, for the more I read, the more the light came upon
me: that what I did was great sin, and I crucified Him again in what I did. Still could I not
bring myself to do what in my growing harlotry I came the more to see I must. I stayed
too fond of worldly things; and would ever put away until the morrow. And thee must
know that this pressed ever more upon me, like a great boil or sore place within my
conscience, that must be lanced, or I should die of
Q. Did you tell his Lordship of this great boil upon thy ever-open thighs?
A. No.
Q. Very well. Enough of thy tender soul. What pretexts advanced he for this journey?
A. First, that which he had already proposed, concerning Dick, and the greater
commodity to it if we were removed from the bagnio. Then that he wished to take new
waters supposed good for his condition, and so try two remedies for it at the
same time.
Q. Did he name these waters?
A. No. Then told that his family and father thought the worst of him for having so far
refused to marry, and spied upon him, and he greatly feared we should be followed if we
did not hit upon some disguise for the journey. Which he said he had thought upon and
found an answer to.
Q. To wit?
A. A scheme of a false elopement, where I should play lady's maid brought to serve his
false intended.
Q. This was not told Claiborne?
A. No, for her 'twas said that his Lordship was upon a folly in Oxfordshire, to which he
should bring me. All who attended were to bring one such as I.
Q. For which he fee'd her handsomely, did he not? And to thee did he promise more?
A. He did promise I should not regret the deceiving, that I took to mean I should not be
the poorer for it. Heaven knows I was not, I mistook then the fee he intended.
Q. You thought he spake of money?
A. Yes.
Q. Of what did he speak in truth?
A. What I now am.
Q. Am I to understand this - that you are now what you are because of his Lordship?
A. I will tell.
Q. Very well. First let us be clear - he made no promise of a fixed reward for your pains?
A. No.
Q. Did you not press for such?
A. No, for by him I hoped to escape, that was more than reward enough, and I did not
care for the wages of sin.
Q. Were you not suspicious of so much deception?
A. I might have been, had I thought hard upon it. All I did see then was my own
advantage. And e'en the same later, despite I must do as I was bid, and was mistreated, as
I thought: that it was the price I must pay, to change my condition, and purge my fouled
soul.
Q. Had you any suspicion, before you came to Amesbury, that his Lordship deceived you
also as to the real purpose of this journey?
A. No, not none.
Q. Was he pressing that you should resolve yourself to this western journey? In all this
did he rather solicit, or did he dragoon?
A. He pressed, but did not force. I told him the time of my courses was near. He accepted
it must pass first, as happened.
Q. You say, the time of your going depended no more than upon the season of your
menison?
A. Yes.
Q. It was not so appointed, that you should be in Devon on the first of May?
A. Not that I know.
Q. Now this, mistress. Is it not most often the case with such as you, that tops the
licentious town in her trade, that her hope lies in leaving the stews and becoming kept
woman of some nobleman, who may establish her for his use alone?
A. It was proposed me. I would have none of it.
Q. Why?
A. Such we called the militia, not trained soldiers like us. We might never desert,
Claiborne would never allow.
Q. Were none that proposed this to you great enough to protect?
A. Thee were never in that world of Antichrist. She said she should find us in Hell,
should we run off; and so she would, the devil.
Q. But she let you go with his Lordship?
A. Gold will melt iron.
Q. He offered more than she might refuse?
A. I doubt not more than she told me.
Q. What was that?
A Two hundred guineas.
Q. Had you in your house, to Claiborne or some fellow-whore, made mention whatsoever
of his Lordship's fault?
A. No, not a word.
Q. And where were you taken, when first you left the stews?
A. To St Giles i' the Fields, to Monmouth Street, that I might buy clothes at the second-
hand, suited to a country maid. Which I did.
Q. His Lordship fetched you to this?
A. No, Dick his servant, with a closed carriage, as was arranged. It bore no arms, 'twas
hired. Then out of the town to Chiswick, where his Lordship waited, within a cottage.
Q. At what time of day was this?
A. 'Twas all after dinner. Past six of the clock, when we came.
Q. What made you of Dick, now you had met?
A. Nothing. He did not ride with me, but with the coachman.
Q. How were you welcomed at Chiswick?
A. His Lordship seemed pleased I was come. A supper was prepared.
Q. Was any other person there?
A. An old woman, who served us. She spake not, I think left when we were served. I did
not see her again, in the morning when we set forth.
Q. And what else passed, that evening?
A. What was agreed, with Dick.
Q. His Lordship was present?
A. Yes.
Q. Throughout all?
A. Yes.
Q. Where was this?
A. In a chamber above.
Q. Did it have the hoped-for effect upon him?
A. I know not.
Q. Did he not speak?
A. No. Not a word. And left us so soon it was done.
Q. He was not aroused by it?
A. I have told thee. I do not know.
Q. Saw you no sign?
A. No.
Q. Had you done such an act before spectators before?
A. On occasion, may I be forgiven. Q. What then?
A. 'Tis not thy business.
Q. I insist. Was there no lechery in his Lordship's conduct on this occasion?
A. No.
Q. Very well. And Dick?
A. What of Dick?
Q. Come, Mistress Lee. You are no innocent in this. Did he play his part sufficient well?
Why answer you not?
A. He played his part.
Q. Sufficient well?
A. I doubt he had lain with woman before.
Q. Did not his Lordship complain on a later occasion - that you had failed to rein him
back?
A. Yes.
Q. What answered you?
A. That he was green as a radish. No sooner in than out, if thee'd hear more bagnio wit.
Q. Yet later you chose to lie with him for pleasure, was it not so?
A. I felt pity of him.
Q. Those who were with you say more.
A. They may say what they list. It shames me not that I was kind to him, who suffered so
by lack of natural parts. Given for my sins I was harlot still.
Q. He knew what you were?
A. He did not treat me so.
Q. Then how?
A. Why, not as a body bought for his lust, as I was used to feel, far more as one he loved,
his sweetheart.
Q. How knew you this, since he could neither speak nor hear?
A. There are more ways of speaking than with words. He would not brook me speaking
with Jones, he would watch me with that in his eyes no woman mistakes, he would do all
in his power to serve me.
Q. And served you also in his Lordship's presence, is it not so? Saw you no resentment
there? Do not true sweethearts abhor such a base value put upon the act of love?
A. I say he was not as other men, more one that knew so little of this world he might have
lived in the moon, and must take his Lordship as his guide in all down here below. If his
Lordship bade him, he must follow. I told thee, there was such closeness between them
they needed no words, they were as one person, tho' two in body. I might almost believe
his Lordship did enjoy me, though he would not bear my touch, yet through Dick's
enjoying.
Q. Now, had you warning that morning you set forth from Chiswick that you had other
companions on your journey?
A. His Lordship told me that evening previous we should meet them, and they would
come with us, Mr Brown and his man. And told me who he should pretend to be, a City
merchant, tho' in truth he was the doctor he had spoke of; yet I must pretend I did not
know such a thing, and take him for what he seemed. Which I did, yet so it happened I
had seen him before, two months before in a playhouse where I was, though I could not
mind me his name, notwithstanding his person and voice well enough. And that day as
we rode Jones came up, and I knew by some gross hints he made that he likewise
suspected I was not what I seemed, and I was much afraid. And when next I had
opportunity, I told his Lordship I feared I was recognized.
Q. What answered he?
A. That I was to keep mum, and brave it out.
Q. Seemed he set back, alarmed, I know not?
A. No, not one whit. And he said that none of us were what we seemed. That I was to tell
him if Jones was importunate I again.
Q. Did you not likewise tell him you knew Mr Brown for what he really was?
A. No, for I must tell thee every step we took from London still lightened my heart.
'Twas to me as if I left the City of the Plains and Bristol was my Sion. And I thought, if
his Lordship deceives me, I may the easier deceive him, when my time comes, and so it is
better now to keep my counsel.
Q. Very well. Now let us come to Basingstoke. His Lordship demanded what you had
done before?
A. Yes.
Q. And where was it done?
A. Within his chamber.
Q. He watched?
A. He found it too quick done, and he blamed me, after.
Q. Was Dick present, when this was spoken?
A. No, he was sent away.
Q. His Lordship was angry?
A. More as one who thought himself cheated.
Q. He was disdainful of your supposed skills?
A. Like one a practised rake, for all he could not be.
Q. Did you remonstrate?
A. No, beyond what I said. That Dick was too green to be managed.
Q. What said his Lordship to that?
A. That I was his now, and I should find he was worse than Claiborne if he did not get his
money's worth.
Q. You are certain - he spake thus?
A. Certain.
Q. What answered you?
A. Why, nothing, I looked meek. Yet I did not feel it, and felt him much changed, and not
just, for he had seen how Dick came to it, like a poor beast with only one thought, and I
could not stop him. I tell thee as I then thought. I know now he would be my good friend,
but I saw it not.
Q How your good friend?
A, I will tell in its place.
Q. I will know now.
A. Not by my mouth. 'Tis like the Book. We say, One threshing will not yield its grain.
Thee must wait till thee's heard all, and as it was set down.
Q. Came Dick to you privily in the night there?
A. Yes.
Q. And you allowed it?
A. Yes.
Q. Although he was no better than a poor beast?
A. Because he was. And had enough wit to know he had no right to ask. Shall I tell thee
how many lords and dukes I have served, master Ayscough? Why, even a royal prince
beside. I'll tell thee not one of them who came to my bed, yet knelt there as he did, like a
child with his head pressed down on the coverlet, and waited to know my will, not force
his own upon me. Thee'll say for the first I was bought, I had no will, no liberty, no harlot
has.
Q. I'll say thou art a most damned doctoress.
A. No, I am not. Thee hast thy alphabet, and I mine, that is all. And I must speak mine. I
tell thee why I took pity for Dick. 'Twas neither love nor lechery.
Q. You lay together all that night?
A. Till we slept. And when I woke, he was gone.
Q. And every night the same?
A. Not the next. After, yes.
Q. I would hear of that next night, at Amesbury. Had you warning of what would take
place there?
A. Not until we were arrived, no, more late still, we had supped, it was eight or more of
the clock, and I waited in my chamber, when Dick came to fetch me to his Lordship's,
and I must bring my riding-cloak. Which did alarm me, I could not think why that should
be. And there his Lordship said we must ride out later, in great secret, which alarmed me
the more, for when I asked why, he would not say, and told me sharp I was hired to do as
he commanded, as the night before.
Q. He had not spoken to you during that day?
A. No, not one word, though before then all was under the guise of my doing him a
favour. He was courteous enough, and grateful I assisted in his designs. Now he spake so
a lord to a slattern servant, as in my sins I truly was. Then he said I might lie upon his
bed, and sleep till he woke me. Which I did, though I slept little at first, I was too
frightened; yet slept in the end till I was woken.
Q. What did his Lordship the while?
A. He had his box of papers beside him, and read before the fire.
Q. And Dick?
A. He went away, I know not where; and was returned, 'twas he who woke me.
Q. When was that?
A. In the midst of the night. The inn was silent, all slept.
Q. Next?

Rebecca Lee is silent, and does something she has not hitherto done, looks down. The
lawyer repeats his question.
‘Next, mistress?'
‘I would prithee drink a little water. My voice fails.'
Ayscough watches her a long moment, then without looking away speaks to the
clerk at the end of the table. `Fetch water.'
‘The clerk puts down his pencil - for unusually he writes with that, and not a quill
- and silently goes, leaving the diminutive lawyer still staring in his speculative, robin-
like way at Rebecca. He sits with his back to the room's imposing battery of Jacobean
windows; and she faces the light. She looks up at him, into his eyes.
‘I thank thee.'
Ayscough says nothing, he does not even nod. All of him seems concentrated in his stare;
clearly he would embarrass her, express his doubt of this suspiciously untimely request.
He surveys her with all his education and knowledge, his judgement of human affairs, his
position in the world. It is true he does it partly from policy, as one of his tricks or
practices before difficult witnesses, and long acquired, like his bursts of bullying con-
tempt, to compensate for his puny stature; yet strangely she holds his look, as she has
since the interrogatory started. In all else of her appearance she seems modesty itself; her
primly sober dress, her cap, her hands folded on her lap. But not once as she answers has
she bowed her head or looked aside from his eyes. A modern lawyer might have found a
sneaking admiration for such directness; Ayscough does not. She merely strengthens a
long-held opinion in him: that the world grows worse, and especially in the insolence of
its lower orders. Again we meet that unspoken idee recue of his age. Change means not
progress, but (as a child born the following year was one day to put it) decline and fall.
Without warning he stands and walks to the inn windows behind. There he looks out.
Rebecca gazes at that back, but then drops her eyes to her lap again, and waits for the
water. At last the clerk brings it and sets it before her. Ayscough does not turn to watch
her sip it, and indeed now seems lost in what he watches outside: a square with many
shops and central stalls, and busy with people, whose noise and cries have been constant
background to what has gone on inside the room. Already he has noted a group of three
men, that stand at the corner of a street entering the square, directly below where he
stands, and stare up towards him, oblivious to the jostlings of the throng that passes by.
He knows what they are by their plain clothes and their hats, and ignores them, once
seen.
What he watches are a lady and her daughter. They are evidently of some rank and
distinction, for they are fashionably dressed in town clothes, and preceded by a tall
liveried footman, who carries a basket with their purchases and officiously gestures with
his free hand at any who are slow to get out of the way of the ladies behind him; most, as
if by instinct, stand aside. Some even touch their hats or bow their heads, though the
ladies do not acknowledge them. Yet Ayscough, despite his watching, thinks less of them
than of a recent literary memory they evoke, and especially the affected and self-assured
younger of the two ladies. It had appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine for August,
under the initials R.N., a satirist and evidently a misogynist, a seeming abbe mondain of
the English church. Here it is, set in exactly the same form that Rebecca has just broken;
it may serve also to remind of the reality of her world for the more fortunate of her sex;
and how different from them she has chosen, or has been chosen, to be. The piece might
have been entitled Eternal Women of a Certain Kind, but Mr R.N. was not so prescient.

PRETTY MISS'S CATECHISM

Q. Who are you?

A. A Lady fair of nineteen.
Q. 'Tis pretty difficult to understand what that is; therefore explain yourself a little.
A. No very keeping Ware, I promise you; Stale Maids and stinking Fish is, you know, a
Saying never a whit the less true, because of its Antiquity.
Q. Is this the View you proceed upon?
A. Yes, truely; at 16 we commence thinking, at 17 love, at 18 whine and at I9, if we can
get the Man in the Mood (which, by the by, is a difficult Task) we e'en cry, Adieu,
Daddy, and go off with our Spark. For were we once to pass our Prime, we should run a
very great Risque of taking up with some paltry, antique, undeserving Wretch of a most
forbidding Physiognomy.
Q. Let me hear the Articles of thy Creed.
A. First then, I do believe, I came into the World by Mamma's Means, but not that I am
one Jot obliged to her for that. In the next Place, I do hereby acknowledge myself bound
(not in Duty, tho') to mind whatsoever she bids me, as also to obey that old Hunks, Jack-
pay for-all, my suppos'd Father; but for this very Reason only, that should I say nay,
they'd force me to wear these scurvey two-months-out-of-fashion Silks for half a Year
longer, to my very great Mortification. And lastly, as for my Husband, that I shall
hereafter condescend to bubble, I do verily believe he ought not to have the least
Superiority over me; therefore am determined, that tho' Quadrille be my Religion, and
Cuckoldom ev'ry Sabbath's Meditation; tho' I ruin him in Plays, Masquerades, Fashions,
Housekeeping, &c, tho' I should even accept of my very Butler as a Coadjutor to him, he
shall be mum. These are the chief Articles of my Creed, which I love and will adhere to,
to my dying Day.
Q. Have you any other Principles to steer by?
A. I act just as I've a Fancy, right or wrong, upon the Strength of my Beauty; follow all
the new Fashions, be they never so ridiculous; devote myself entirely to Pride, Pleasure,
and Extravagance; pray as often as a Lord pays his Debts; frequent the Theatre, &c, more
than the Church; and laugh at every Body that go thither for their Devotions, believing it
to be all Hypocrisy. 'Tis as natural for me to do all this, as for a Peacock to spread its
Tail.
Q. Very right, but however, you know there is a World to come, should you not often
consider of it?
A. No, not at all; because such Reflections are apt to give the Vapours; and Ladies ought
never to molest themselves with any Thing serious, but only build their Faith on what an
humourous Fancy suggests.
Q. But are Ladies then of no particular Religion?
A. No, indeed; for, at that Rate, we should be the most unfashionable Creatures
breathing. Variety makes every Thing agreeable; and so for one half Hour, it may be, we
assume the Christian, at other times are Pagans, Jews, Mahometans, or whatever best
suits with our Conveniency.
Q. But what are those Principles, which, if adher'd to, will make a Lady's Life agreeable?
A. To pamper herself, her Monkey, or Lap-dog; to rail at and ridicule her Neighbours; to
regard no Body; but to cozen and defraud the Poor, and to quit Scores with the Rich at
the Expence of a neglected Husband's Reputation. To lie in Bed till Noon, and to chase
away the Night at dear Quadrille.
Q. Hold, Hold - if you read the Form of Matrimony you'll see 'tis the Duty of Ladies to
Honour and Obey, at least to respect and oblige their Husbands.
A. Marriage Form and Duty! A pretty Story! That Form's all of the Parson's contriving,
and therefore not minded. Ladies regard only the Articles drawn up by the Lawyers,
Covenants for Pin Money, or Allowance for separate Maintenance, and how to get an
Addition to them with a good Grace. 'Tis quite out of Fashion to stand obliging an easy
Fool of an Husband; but perfectly right and according to the Mode, instead of mending
on their Kindness, to insult them the more.
Q. But is there any Reason for this Mode?
A. Yes sure, and a very good One. We claim our Wills while we live, because we make
none when we die.

This piece had shocked Mr Ayscough when he read it. .He knew it fairly described a
spirit alive in many women of titled family and from the richer gentry, indeed was
becoming only too prevalent lower down the social scale, in his own class. What had
shocked him was not this; but that it should be said nakedly in public. His initial disgust
for Lacy's calling sprang from precisely the same cause (although there, had he known,
relief was at hand - in the form, only a few months ahead, of that abominable censor the
Lord Chamberlain, about to begin his 23o-year tyranny over the theatre). Both religion
and matrimony were revealed in the catechism as mocked, as was respect for man's
superior status vis-a-vis womankind. What he saw in Rebecca's eyes, as indeed in some
of her answers, was a reflection of this; that is, the effect of published laxity on high
among the lower orders. It could lead one day only to the most abhorrent of human
governments: democracy, that is synonymous with anarchy. The lawyer was possessed of
one of the most unwelcome human sentiments: he was old, and glad he was old.
He glanced round and saw the tall clerk was back at his seat; that Rebecca had
drunk, and now waited. She seemed a monument to patience, and humble submission.
Yet he did not return to his chair. He continued the interrogatory from where he stood. It
was only after he had asked several questions that he returned to his chair opposite her,
and once more had to bear that undeviating directness of look; so direct indeed he knew
he could not, and would never, believe it.

Q. Very well, mistress. Next?

A. We crept down and Dick led out the two horses, and we mounted outside, and were
away. We rode a mile or more at a trot, and not a word was said, until we came to the
standing pillars, or to a post some hundred paces short of them, where they tied the
horses. 'Twas overcast, no stars nor moon, yet I saw them there in the darkness, like great
gravestones. And I was near out of my wits with fear, not knowing why we should be in
such a place at such a time. I knew hardly how to walk, yet must, for they made me. I saw
some way off a light, a fire, as of shepherds, and thought to cry out, yet doubted they
would hear, it was too far distant. Then, so, we came to the stones and entered within
their circle, to the middle part.
Q. You would say, all three of you?
A. Yes.
Q. You told Jones, not Dick.
A. I tell now what truly passed. There his Lordship stopped, where there was a stone flat
upon the ground, and he said, Fanny, kneel now upon that stone. And then I could no
more, for I believed they must mean some great evil, sorcery, calling upon dark powers, I
knew not what, and felt far more than natural cold, like I was bound in ice, and about to
meet my death. So I did not kneel, nor could I speak, I was so chill and afeared. And his
Lordship said again, Kneel, Fanny. And then I found my tongue, and said, We do evil,
my lord, I was not hired for this. And he said, Kneel, it is not for thee to speak of doing
evil. And still I would not, so they took me each an arm, and forced me to my knees upon
the stone, that was hard, and most hurtful to kneel upon.
Q. You told Jones they made you lie upon it.
A. No, but to kneel. And next they also knelt, beside me upon the sward on each side.
Q. How is this?
A. 'Twas so.
Q. With their hands set, as in prayer?
A. No, their hands not so, but with their heads bowed.
Q. Wore they their hats still?
A. His Lordship wore his. Dick wore none.
Q. What direction did you face?
A. North, I must believe. For we rode the way west, and entered upon our right hand.
Q. Proceed.
A. For myself I prayed, and swore I should never more whore, should God forgive me
and let me come safe away. I thought I was fallen into the Devil's hands, a far worse than
the worst I had met at Claiborne's, and one who would not scruple to abuse my soul as
much as my body and -
Q. Yes, yes, I'll imagine thee that. Now, how long knelt you all so?
A. Five, it may be more minutes, I do not know. But then there came a great rush in the
sky above, as of wings, or a great roaring wind, and I looked up in terror, but saw
nothing, no, nor was there wind that night, it was still.
Q. His Lordship and Dick - looked they up as well?
A. I was not fit to notice.
Q. How long did this rush, this roaring wind, sound?
A A few moments. Not more than it takes to count ten.
Q. Did it grow louder in that time?
A. As it fell from the heavens straight upon us.
Q. Not then as a flock of passing birds would, from one side to the other?
A No, from above.
Q. You are most certain of this?
A. Certain as Christ.
Q. What next?
A. Of a sudden it stopped, and there was silence, and in this pause there crept upon the air
such a smell I cannot say, as of new-mown meadows and summer flowers, that was most
sweet, most strange that it came not in their season, yet should spring from this cold and
barren place_ Then again of a great sudden there was a light upon us from above, a light
more large than any human making, as of a sun, I know not, so bright I no sooner looked
to it than I must look down bedazzled, why, near blind of it; and there I saw, who stood
not fifteen paces from where we knelt, among the stones, a young man and an old, that
gazed upon us.
Q. I will not believe this. I warn thee, I am not to be imposed upon.
A. I speak truth.
Q. No. Thou hast cunningly prepared this, to confound me. Thou and thy prophesying
man, I'll warrant he put thee to this tale.
A. No, he did not. I have never yet told him.
Q. Yea or nay to that, still thou liest.
A. No. I tell thee I saw them, they stood little further than this room is long. Tho' I saw
them not well, for my eyes were made blind by the light, as I say.
Q. In what posture were they?
A. They stood, and looked on us. The younger man a little nearer, the older behind. And
the younger stood with his finger pointed up, as if towards the light, yet methought his
eyes did rest upon me.
Q. With what expression?
A. I could not truly tell, for the light went out before I recovered my eyes.
Q. And the older?
A I saw not, save that he had a white beard.
Q. What clothes wore they?
A. The older I saw not. The younger an apron, as masons and carpenters.
Q. You would say, he was ghost of the heathens who built the temple?
A. He was dressed as a working-man today; as might my own husband and father.
Q. Were they not painted figures?
A. No. They lived. They were no dream nor vision.
Q. Were they not most broad and tall?
A. No. Of ordinary figure.
Q. How long did this light last?
A. Very little. 'Twas nearer a lightning's flash than light proper. Enough to glimpse, no
more.
Q. To glimpse, when you are already blinded, yet you may be so certain?
A. Yes.
Q. Were they not two of the standing stones?
A. No.
Q. Was there no thunder, no voice of Beelzebub?
A. No, not none. But as a gust of warmth, that was sweetscented, as of summer fields, as
I say, and more than sweet to the nose, sweet to the spirit. When all else was vanished, it
remained. And I no more had fear, I knew this came not evilly, yea, the rather to comfort
and solace me. Yea, it came like another light upon me, that what I feared, I feared no
more. I felt more a sadness it had come yet gone so fast that I could not embrace it, nor
look longer, with all my eyes. Yet must I cling to it in hope. For I tell thee it meant no
evil, nor those I was with, evil. Thee must understand that.
Q. I understand one thing alone, I cannot believe thee.
A. Thee shalt, when I have done. Thee shalt, I promise thee.
Q, When I shall call spent mutton fresh lamb, mistress, not before. Now I'll put thee
closer to thy stinking meat. Whence came this light thou hadst this vision by?
A. The sky above.
Q. Did it light all about? Turn night into day, as the true sun does?
A. No, the night stayed dark beyond.
Q. Saw you candles and tapers in this great floating lantern?
A No, 'twas white as the summer sun, shaped as a rose, a circle.
Q. And hung in the sky above the temple?
A. Yes.
Q. And moved not?
A. No.
Q. How high above?
A. I cannot tell.
Q. As high as the sun and moon?
A. No, less. Not so high as those clouds above. As upon St Paul's round roof.
Q. A hundred paces?
A. I tell thee I cannot tell.
Q. And how was this light so hung above, do you suppose?
A. I know not, unless borne by some great bird.
Q. Or some great liar. This sound you speak of before it shone out, you say first a rush of
wings, next a roaring wind. They are not the same.
A. I do not know to say it. Most of a passing wing.
Q. Or a whip on thy back? Thou shalt hear that too, if I catch thee out. This pointing
workman and his grandsire, carried they aught?
A. No.
Q. His Lordship addressed them?
A. No, but did remove his hat.
Q. What is this? Removed his hat to a carpenter and an old dotard?
A. 'Twas as I say.
Q. Made they no sign back? Showed they no mark of respect to this courtesy he offered?
A. Not that I saw.
Q. And heard you, when the light went out, no movement?
A. No.
Q. Nor could see them still standing there?
A. No, for I was still dazzled blind.
Q. Was there no sound above?
A. All was silent.
Q. And what made you of all this?
A. That his Lordship was other than I had come to believe, as I say. For very soon after
that he stood and helped me to my feet; and took my hands and pressed them, as one who
is grateful, and looked me in the eyes, tho' it was darkness, and said, You are she I have
sought. On which he turned to Dick, who was stood also, and they embraced, not as
master and man, but as brothers might upon some happy outcome to their affairs.
Q. They exchanged no signs?
A. Nothing but a clasping to each other's breast.
Q. And next?
A. His Lordship led us from the stones. There he stopped and spake to me again, that I
must not speak of what I had seen this night. That it neither brought nor should bring
harm to me, I was not to fear what must seem so strange. Then he took and pressed my
hands again, most earnestly, it seemed to make proof this more gentle manner he showed
me was more his true self than that I had known.
Q. What said you to this?
A. That I would not speak. To which he answered, Very well, now go with Dick. And
thus I went with him, while his Lordship stayed. But before we were rid back to the inn,
he came behind us, so he stayed not long.
Q. Did you not ask him of what had happened?
A. He still rode some paces behind us for what short distance we had yet to make. And
there in the yard bade me goodnight, and went to his room, leaving Dick his horse to
unsaddle and stall. And I went likewise to my room.
Q. Dick did not join you there, when he was done?
A I saw him not again that night.
Q. Very well. Now what of this - first that you told Jones his Lordship did inform you of
why you went to the temple, to wit, that he should use you carnally there, in pursuance of
a lewd superstition; and further you told Jones of a blackamoor perched upon a stone as if
flown there like a great buzzard, ready to spring upon thy carcass, of a stench of carrion, I
know not what else, a most satanick vision?
A. I lied.
Q. I lied, says she. I'll tell thee a truth of lying, mistress. Who lies once will ever lie
twice.
A. I lie not now. I am upon oath.
Q. Why didst thou so greatly lie to Jones?
A. Because I must, to blind him, that he should think the worse of what was done, and
dare not to speak, for fear he should be thought part of it. I will tell in good place, and
why I lied to him.
Q. That you shall, I promise you. Now, that next day, did his Lordship's manner to you
seem changed?
A. Save that once as he rode, he turned and waited until we came abreast of him, and then
gave me a close look, and asked me, All is well? And I replied yes, and would have
spoke more, but he turned and rode on, as it were to say, he would converse no further.
Q. What thought you to what you maintain to have seen among the stones?
A. That there lay some spell upon it, some great mystery. That it was a sign, and yet
meant no evil. I have told thee, I knew no evil in it, nor fear.
Q. And what put you upon what you say his Lordship said afterward: that you were she
he had sought?
A. There was that in me that matched what he willed.
Q. To wit?
A. That I had sinned, and should sin no more.
Q. How is this - did he not keep you in sin and lechery?
A. That I should see it the better.
Q. Then what he willed was not what we suppose: a cure to his impotency?
A. What he sought was what came to pass.
Q. That a common whore shall provoke what passes belief? Is not that your sense? This
visitation is made upon you, not him? Did he not kneel beside and below you?
Q. Such was seeming. I was there of his will, not mine. I but served him.
Q. And who think you these two men to have been?
A. I shall not tell thee now.
Q Enough of these shufflings. You are before the law, mistress, not at one of your
prophetick meetings. I will be put off no more.
A. Yes thee will, master Ayscough. For if I told thee now, and of his Lordship's will, thee
would mock me, and not believe.
Q. Thy present obstinacy is worse than thy ancient whoring. Why smil'st thou?
A. Not at thee, I beg thee to believe.
Q. You shall not escape me, mistress.
A. Nor thee what God has given.
Q. What of Dick - seemed he changed upon that next day?
A. Not in his lickerousness.
Q. In what manner?
A. As we rode.
Q. What as you rode?
A. His Lordship was rid ahead, and Mr Brown and Jones lay behind.
Q. What passed?
A. I will not say. But that he was in a state of lust, as an animal, as Adam unregenerate.
Q. And you relieved him of it?
A. I will not say more.
Q. You mean by the roadside, among bushes?
A. I will not say more.
Q. What happened that night at Wincanton?
A. His Lordship called me not, except soon after we arrived, and then but to take a
message to Jones, that his Lordship must speak with him at once.
Q. Do you know why?
A. No. I gave the message, that is all.
Q. Jones did not speak to you concerning it?
A. No.
Q. And his Lordship did not ask further for you that night?
A. No.
Q. Did Dick come privately to you?
A. Yes.
Q. And you lay with him?
A. Yes.
Q. Were you not tired by then of his attentions?
A. I accepted them as before, tho' not as harlot.
Q. Out of pity, you would say?
A. Yes.
Q. Did he not arouse thy womanly lust?
A. That is not thy business.
Q. He did, is it not so? (Non respondet) Stayed he long in your
chamber?
A. As before. He was gone when I awoke.
Q. The next day you passed to Taunton. Spake his Lordship more with you on that day?
A. `Cept once, when he rode a little beside and apart with us, and asked how I did,
whether I was not sore from the riding. And when I said yes, for I had not the use of it, he
said, Our journey is near done, you may rest soon.
Q. His manner was polite?
A. Yes. More as at the beginning.
Q. Did you not ask him then of what had passed at the heathen temple?
A. No.
Q. Was the moment not opportune?
A. I knew he would speak of it when he wished. And when he did not, would not. And I
believed now I was under his protection, and more precious to him than he showed by his
cruelty earlier, or seeming indifference. Tho' still I knew not why.
Q. And that day, did you satisfy Dick's state of lust again, as you rode?
A. No.
Q. Did he not attempt it?
A. I would not have it.
Q. Was he not angry? Did he not force you to it?
A. No.
Q. And bade his time until that night?
A. Nor then neither. For we found no inn at Taunton that could lodge us as we wanted,
and must put up at a poor place, out of the town's centre. There I must sleep with other
maids, and his Lordship and Mr Brown in one small chamber, and Jones and Dick upon
hay in the loft. I could not be apart with either his Lordship nor Dick, even had they
wished it. Nothing passed. Unless the lice and fleas.
Q. So be it. The next day?
A. We rode all day, I think more distance than before. And when we had passed
Bampton, we went not by the high-road. By green paths and lanes, where we met few or
none.
Q. Did you not say you purposed not to return to Claiborne's, and to find your parents and
sisters again in Bristol?
A. Yes.
Q. Then why chose you to come this far? Is it not far west of where you might most
conveniently have escaped for Bristol?
A. Yes, it is so. But I had not courage for it, nor saw means. At heart I was whore still,
may the Lord Jesus Christ forgive me. A bagnio life makes hard in sin, soft in much else.
We have our servants and our needs looked to, as much as any lady. And besides grow
creatures of our humours, we think only of today. We have no feet upon the rock, no faith
to help us provide against our future. I minded still to go to Bristol, as I told thee, and to
change my life; yet cared not at the time that I went as I did, since it was ever more away
from London, so be it at his Lordship's whim. Thee may scorn, I will not deny it. When
we rode from Taunton it was to be the last day so. From that tomorrow I will not let thee
scorn; or if thee do, thee'll scorn theeself.
Q. Enough. No more of this.
A. Yea, I must. For else thee can't understand my soul's road, nor his Lordship's neither.
Thee must forgive, I tell thee not the truth entire in one matter. 'Tis true I began out of
force, then out of pity for Dick. I came now to know he pleased me more than that, yea,
more than any man else I had known since the first, when I was mere girl and in folly
against all my parents had taught me. He knew not the sinful art of love, no not one whit;
yet knew to please me more than those who did. For he loved me the more, with all his
strange heart, despite he could not say it in any words. And I have thought since, in his
no-words lay more speaking than in any spoken. Which came not of what passed in the
flesh, that is of our fornicating and beastly selves, but of other times. When I did sleep
against his breast upon the road, of looks we passed, I know not, when I heard what he
would say better than if he had spoke it out loud. He came to my bed on that last night,
and had his will of me; then lay a-weeping in my arms, and I wept also, for I knew why
he wept. As if we lived in two prison cells, able to see the one the other and touch our
hands, yet no more. And thee may call it what thee will, I tell thee this weeping was most
strange and most sweet to me. For I saw it freed me from my harlotry, my sin, my
hardness of heart, all I had become since first I lost my innocence. 'Twas as if for those
years I had lived in darkness, and made of stone; and now was flesh again, if not yet
Christian, and fully saved. Believe me or not, master. Every word I say is truth.
Q. You loved the man?
A. I might have loved him, could he have shed his Adam.
Q. And what heard you in this speaking without words?
A That he was a desperate unhappy man, as I was myself, tho' for a different cause; and
that he knew me so, and loved me also that I did not mock and spurn him.
Q Very well. Now did you not upon this last day's journey ride aside with his Lordship?
A. Yes, the summit of a mountain, that lay beside the road, and showed many miles to the
land ahead.
Q Did Dick not point in a certain direction? To a particular place?
A. I took it to be in show, to seem as he knew the country.
Q. Did his Lordship ask Dick to point? Did they exchange some sign first?
A. No.
Q. Was not where Dick pointed, to that cavern where you were on the morrow?
A. I could not say.
Q. It was in that same direction, was it not?
A. It was westward. More I cannot tell. It may be so.
Q. This place was how far from where you rested that night?
A. Two hours' ride or more.
Q. And nothing else passed as you rode?
A. His Lordship took offence that I wore violets beneath my nose. I put them in a band
there for their sweet scent. He took it as an impertinence, I know not why. He said
nothing till later.
Q It was not reasonable? You gave him no other cause than this, that you had picked a
nosegay?
A. I am sure not.
Q. Now what said he later?
A He called me to him when we had supped, by Dick, and I thought for his old purpose.
However, Dick was dismissed as soon as I was brought, when his Lordship would have
me , make myself naked before him; which I was obliged to do, ` expecting he would at
last try his prowess upon me. But he would not, he made me sit on a bench before him, as
I were a penitent, and called me impertinent as I say, for the violets; then a whore, I know
not what else, more cruel than ever before, like he was half mad, for he forced me to
kneel, and make an oath that all he said was true. Then all of a great sudden he changed,
and maintained his cruelty was no more than a test, that on the contrary he was well
pleased with me. And spoke of they he called the keepers of the waters, that we
should meet tomorrow, and now said I was brought by him to please them and must do
so, and he should reward me for it. I must put off my London airs, so he said, and appear
as simple as I could, feign I came not from the bagnio.
Q. By these waters you supposed those he had spoken of in London?
A. Yes.
Q. Said he no more of these keepers?
A. That they was foreign, and spoke not English, nor any other language of Europe; nor
knew nothing of women of vice. That I must be in all like an innocent maid, with no
knowledge of sin. And meek, not forward in any way.
Q. He was not more particular- did he not name some particular place or country from
which these persons came?
A. No.
Q. Did he never intimate where he had heard of them?
A. Only that he much wished to meet them.
Q. He had not met them before, was that to be understood?
A. Yes. Tho' it was not said plain, he had not.
Q. Did you not think this strange, that his Lordship now talked of giving you to others, as
a pandar might?
A. Yes, in part.
Q. Why only in part?
A. I knew by then he spoke most in riddles.
Q. Were you not made fearful again, even tho' you had thought what passed at the
Wiltshire temple not evil in its intent?
A. Still I saw behind his Lordship's dark humours no evil purpose. I did not understand
what he did, and most feared my own ignorance.
Q. I would know something more in general. Believed you that his Lordship knew of
your amour with his servant? Was it done within his knowledge or behind his back?
A. He knew, for he accused me of it, that I took too great a pleasure in Dick's embraces;
as a master might say, you are bought for my pleasure, yet do find it in another's arms;
and that I would have told him as much by the wearing of the violets.
Q. He knew you lay with Dick in secret, outside of those occasions he commanded?
A. What I had been hired for was done but twice, and then no more, so to say his
Lordship gave up hope of it, and I was abandoned to this man; yet still seemed he
angered that I took pleasure in it.
Q. You would say, that he saw your coupling answered not to his declared purpose, and
so he cared no more?
A. His Lordship had more than one purpose, and one a far greater.
Q. It shall be explained.
A. In good time.
Q. To the nonce: was it not singular that he should put upon you that you must serve to
these important strangers, yet not say you must now put Dick by?
A. So it was, even so.
Q. That was his wish, as you conceived - that you should be these persons' whore if they
so desired, and despite your appearance of innocence? Not less?
A. So I understood it.
Q. All this was said by way of command: that you must do it? Not that the choice lay
with you?
A. As his wish, that I must obey.
Q. Nothing else was said to you by his Lordship?
A. No.
Q. You hesitate.
A. I sought my memory.
Q. And you still say no?
A. I say no.
Q. Mistress, there is that in your answers I do not like. 'Tis so you would tease, and riddle
me. This is no riddling matter, I warn thee.
A. If I speak riddles, I was set them. If I confuse thee, so was I confused.
Q. His Lordship dismissed you?
A. Yes.
Q. You saw him no more until the morning?
A. No.
Q. You went to your room, and then Dick came?
A. I was asleep when he came.
Q. And did you not think, I must lie in another man's arms tomorrow?
A. I did not know the morrow then, Jesus be praised.
Q. The morrow is close. Thou shalt put off no more.
A. I know it.
Q. Had you no warning that Jones would run away that night?
A. No, none.
Q. He spoke not of it to you?
A. We spoke little.
Q. Why?
A. Because he would pry when we started out; and would seem always to know more of
me than he did; that I owed him a favour for his silence.
Q. He did not lie in that?
A. Notwithstanding. He would ever mock Dick for his dumbness and deafness. I liked
not that, neither. He never spoke plain, till the end.
Q. Knew you that Mr Brown should part also, so soon upon your setting out?
A. No.
Q. Were you not surprised?
A. No. It seemed not strange. Their task was done.
Q. Very well. Mr Brown rode away, and you set off upon the Bideford road. What next?
A. We rode, and entered soon upon woods, a most wild place; and went there till we
came upon a stream that fell across the road, and we must cross. Where his Lordship
stopped and looked back upon Dick, for he rode ahead, and we behind; and raised a hand
with the forefinger stretched out so, the other forefinger so, as a cross. To which Dick
replied by pointing ahead as we stood, which was not to the road we trod, that crooks
back at where the stream crosses, but up the hill, or mountain, on the course the water fell
by.
Q. What put you upon this?
A. That Dick must know this place, and his Lordship not; or was not so certain of it.
Q. Were other signs made?
A. His Lordship set his hands apart, as if to measure. And Dick raised two fingers. Which
I understood not then, I think now to have meant, it is two miles away. There came no
more sign. Yet they moved not from where we stood, but stared still together, like two
people tranced by each other's eyes. Till of a sudden his Lordship turned his horse, and
rode away through the trees, up the hill where Dick had pointed.
Q. Said he nothing to you?
A. No, not one word, nor looked at me. 'Twas as I was not there.
Q. Had you seen them before stare in this manner?
A. Yes, once or twice, not so long.
Q. It was not as master and man?
A. More as two children will stare each other out.
Q. Then with a seeming hostility?
A. Not that, neither, not as an ordinary look. As if they spoke, tho' their mouths moved
not.
Q. Very well. You entered upon the valley above. Jones has told me of it, how it lies.
Come to where first you stopped.
A. We must soon dismount, or our horses fall. And there it was Dick who led our pillion
and the pack-horse, and I walked after, and his Lordship led his own horse behind. The
all in silence, save for the beasts' feet upon the stones, and we went beside the stream.
And so for a mile or more, I know not. Where Dick of a sudden stopped and tied the two
horses to a thorn branch, and took his Lordship's when it came, and tied it to another.
And there began to unrope his Lordship's great box, from the seam the pack-horse bore.
Q. Dick did not stop of his Lordship's command?
A. Of his own will, like as if he knew best where we went.
Q. Continue.
A. His Lordship came beside me, and spoke. And said that my dress was not sufficient
for who we met. That he had brought an other more suitable and now I must wear it, for
we were close. And I asked, was there no better road? And he answered, no, there was
only this. And then, that I should not fear, no harm would come if I did as I was told. The
while, the box was upon the ground and opened, and his Lordship himself gave me the
clothes from it, that lay upon the top.
Q. What were these clothes?
A. Why, a smicket and petticoat, then a fine white holland gown, ruffled with cambric
upon its sleeves, where it bore pink ribbands also, in two knots. Fine clocked Nottingham
stockings also, and white likewise. And shoes of the same. 'Twas all white and new, or
fresh laundered.
Q. You would say, as a May dress?
A. As a country maid might wear, of dimity. Tho' finer made, and of finer cloth, as for a
lady.
Q. And stitched also to your figure?
A. Well enough.
Q. You had had no knowledge of these, before?
A. No, none.
Q. And next?
A. His Lordship said I must bathe, before I donned my new clothes.
Q. You must bathe!
A. That I must be pure of my body, with no taint of my former world upon me. And he
did point a little back, to where the stream did deepen a piece, as a pond, albeit not so
deep, and small; for most it ran shallow, upon stones.
Q. What thought you to this?
A. That it was too cold. To which he said I must, this stream should be my Jordan.
Q. He said these words: This stream shall be thy Jordan?
A. Yes.
Q. Spake he as in jest?
A. Thee shalt hear in what jest he spake. It seemed jest then, tho' no jest to me.
Q. You did bathe?
A. As best I could. For the water came only to my knees, and I must crouch in it, ice-cold
as 'twas.
Q. You were naked?
A. I was naked.
Q. Did his Lordship watch you?
A. His back was turned, that I saw. And after, my back upon him.
Q. And then?
A. I dried myself upon the bank; and did put on the new clothes, and warmed myself in
the sun. When his Lordship came to me again where I sat and gave to me a knife that
Dick had use to carry, and said, It is May Day, and here is may enough. Thou shalt be
queen, Fanny, but thou must crown thyself.
Q. He spoke again in good humour?
A. Passing good, be it so his mind was elsewhere. For he turned away some paces, and
watched where Dick had gone.
Q. When was he gone? Was it before you had bathed?
A. As soon as the box was opened, and the horses better tied. Across the stream and up
the steep side, where we could see him no more.
Q. The horses were not left tied as when you came?
A. No. For as I did go a little apart to bathe, I saw Dick a-tying of them to long tethers,
which he put to the thorn-tree stems that were there; and that he had took off their saddles
and harness and set them so that they might drink from the stream and take what grass
there was.
Q. As to say, their stay would be long?
A. Yes.
Q. And you saw not Jones, when he was caught up and did watch you?
A. I had no thought of him, nor anyone, only of myself. I made my crown, as I could;
then Dick was returned, and signed to his Lordship, who waited.
Q. A sign like this, was it not so?
A. No, not so.
Q. Jones says it was so.
A. No, 'twas not, and I doubt he could see so well, he was hidden.
Q. Then how?
A. With the hands clasped thus, before his breast. Which I had seen before, and knew it
meant much like to saying, It is done; or I have done what is commanded. So here it
might mean, Who we meet awaits us above. For his Lordship came at once where I sat,
and said we must go. As we did, tho' first I must be carried. The ground was most rough
and steep at the first, and Dick took me in his arms.
Q. Seemed he not excited, or in good spirit, when he returned from above?
A. No.
Q. Very well, enough for this present. We shall not yet mount with thee to the cavern,
mistress. My man shall take thee to a room apart to dine. Thou'rt not to speak with thy
husband, or none else, is it clear?
A. So be it. I shall with my soul's husband, that is Christ.

THE TALL, slightly bent-shouldered clerk opened the door, and followed his prisoner
out. But then she had to follow him, as he led the way down a short passage to another
door. Only when she was inside the room, and turned back to look at him, did he speak.
'Ale or more water, mistress?'
'Water.'
‘You will not leave this room.'
She shook her head, agreeing. He gave her a long stare, as if he doubted her word,
then left, closing the door behind him. The room was evidently a small bedchamber, with
only one window, before which stood a table and two chairs. She did not move to it, but
beside the bed, and stooped, lifting the side of the coverlet and looking on the floor below
it; pulled out what she was looking for, and quickly raising her skirts, sat upon it.
She did not have to remove any other garment for the very simple reason that no
Englishwoman, of any class, had ever worn anything beneath her petticoats up to this
date, nor was to do so for at least another sixty years. One might write an essay on this
incomprehensible and little-known fact about their underclothing, or lack in it. French
and Italian women had long remedied the deficiency, and English men also; but not
English women. All those graciously elegant and imposing upper-class ladies in their
fashionable or court dresses, whose image has been so variously left us by the eighteenth-
century painters, are - to put it brutally - knickerless. And what is more, when the breach
was finally made - or rather, covered - and the first female drawers, and soon after
pantalettes, appeared at the beginning of the nineteenth century, they were considered
grossly immodest, an unwarranted provocation upon man; which is no doubt why they so
swiftly became de rigueur.
Rebecca stood relieved, and pushed the earthenware Jordan back beneath the bed, and
straightened the coverlet. Next she walked slowly to the window and looked out, down
upon the large back courtyard of the inn.
 A private coach was drawn up, its four horses still harnessed, as if it had just
arrived, on the far side. Its nearer door bore a painted coat of arms, supported by a
wyvern and a leopard; its motto and closer detail, beyond two quarters of red diamonds,
impossible to read. There was no sign of its passengers or coachmen; only an ostler's boy,
seemingly left to watch the horses. Here and there some hens and a gamecock scratched
among the cobbles, and sparrows, and a pair of white doves, which the boy fed from a
palmful of grains, idly, as he leant against the coach. Every so often he would put a fatter
grain in his own mouth, and chew it. Suddenly Rebecca's head bowed and she closed her
eyes, as if she could not bear to watch this innocent scene. Her mouth began to move,
though no sound came from it, and it became plain she was speaking to that husband she
had just given herself licence to address.
The movements of her lips stopped. There were footsteps on the wooden floor of
the passage outside. Her eyes opened again, and she sat quickly, in one of the chairs, her
back to the door. It opened, the clerk stood there, staring a moment at her back. She did
not turn; some moments later, as if belatedly realizing that no one had come in, no normal
sound followed that of the opening door, she glanced back over her shoulder. It was no
longer the sardonic clerk she had expected: another man, elderly, of medium height yet
rather stout, a gentleman in grey. He stood neither in nor out of the room, doom in the
doorway, and watched her. She rose, but made no other obeisance. He wore a plain black
hat, and his right hand gripped a strange thing, a shepherd's crook, its foot on the ground.
However, this was no shepherd; where the top of a working crook is of wood or horn,
here it was of polished silver, like some staff of office; closer to a bishop's crosier than
anything else.
Nor was his stare at her that of a normal man; much more that of a person sizing
an animal, a mare or cow, as if he might at any moment curtly state a price that he
considered her worth. There was something both imperious and imperial in that look,
indifferent to ordinary humanity, oblivious of it, above all law; and something also that
was unaccustomed, almost at a loss to be seen there. Without warning he spoke, not to
Rebecca, though his eyes did not leave her face.
`Make her step forward. She stands in the light.'
The clerk appeared outside, and beckoned urgently to her from behind the man in
the doorway; two swift movements of a bent finger. She came forward. The foot of the
silver-ended crook was quickly raised, to keep her at a distance. So she stood, some six
feet away. His face was heavy, deprived of any signs of humour, good or bad, and
without generosity; or even, much more oddly, of any normal curiosity. One detected
beneath it a hint of morose doubt that was also a melancholy. Even that was very largely
obscured by the aura of absolute right, in both the ordinary and the ancient monarchical
sense; an impassivity both habitual and imprisoning. He did not, now she was close, even
look at her as a beast; but uniquely into her eyes, as if trying to read some almost
metaphysical meaning through them. Rebecca faced him and gazed back, one hand upon
the other in front of her belly; neither respectfully nor insolently; openly, yet neutrally,
waiting.
Slowly the man's hand slipped down his crook and he held it out, without threat,
almost tentatively, until the curved silver end lay against the close sidepiece of her white
cap. Twisting the crook a little, he pulled to draw her towards him. This was done so
cautiously, in other circumstances one might have said timidly, that she did not flinch
when the silver end of the crook touched her, nor when it began to coax her forwards.
She obeyed, until the pressure at her neck ceased, and their faces were barely eighteen
inches apart. Yet they seemed no closer; not just divided by age and gender, but by
belonging to two eternally alien species.
And now, as abruptly as he appeared, the man ends this wordless interview. The crook is
jerked impatiently clear, and set firmly to ground again as he turns away, as if
disappointed. Rebecca has time to see that he walks with a heavy limp. The crook-staff is
no mere eccentric adornment, it is a necessity; and has just time also to see the clerk step
back with a deep bow, and Mr Ayscough also, with a lesser one, then turn to follow his
master. The clerk comes forward and stands in the doorway, with a faintly quizzical look
at her. Most unexpectedly his right eye flickers, in the ghost of a wink. He disappears for
a moment or two then returns bearing a wooden tray, on which is a cold chicken; a
rummer and a small jug of water; a leather tankard, black with age; a bowl of green
pickles, eldershoot and gherkins; a salt-pot, two apples, and a loaf of bread. These he sets
upon the table, and produces from his pocket a knife and two two-pronged forks. Now he
takes off his coat and throws it on the bed. Rebecca has not moved, and stares at the
ground. The clerk sits in his shirt sleeves, and briskly seizes the chicken, knife in hand.
'You must eat, woman.'
Rebecca moves and sits opposite him, at the window; when he would pass her the
breast he has detached, she shakes her head.
'I would send it outside, to my husband and father.'
'No. Feed your bastard. If not yourself. Come.' Now he cuts a slice of the loaf, and
puts the breast upon it, and places it before her. 'Come. You are safe from the gallows till
then.' And again his right eye flickers, almost as if it is a tic, outside his control. `Your
man and your father dine not so well. Yet they may dine if they would. I have had bread
and cheese sent. What do they say? They say they will not eat the devil's food. There it
lies, on the street before them. Charity made sin.'
'No. 'tis not. I thank thee.'
'As I thee, mistress For the absolution.'
She bows her head a few seconds, as she had when she prayed alone; and grace
said, begins to eat. And so does he, a leg, and a great slice of bread, folded round a
forkful of the pickles; alternate bite by bite. It is a kind of wolfing, without delicacy. An
acknowledgement of reality: that life is always near starvation, and plenty . such as this
not to be trifled with. She pours water into the rummer; and later, spears a gherkin from
the pickle, and another;
and finally a third. The second breast she refuses when it is
silently offered; but takes her apple. She watches him opposite,
and when he seems finally done, the chicken in ruins, the ale
supped, speaks.
`What is thy name?'
`Royal, mistress. John Tudor.'
`And where did thee learn to write so swift?'
`The short hand? By practice. 'Tis child's play, once learnt. And where I cannot
read when I copy in the long hand, why, I make it up. So I may hang a man, or pardon
him, and none the wiser.' And once again she sees that tic in his right eye.
`I may read. I cannot write, save my name.'
 `Then you are saved writing.'
`I would learn, e'en so.' He does not answer, but the ice thus broken, she
continues. `Are thee married?'
`Aye. And rid.'
`How rid?'
`I married one worse than you, for her mouth. Who never spoke save she disputed
or denied. She matched Joe Miller's jest. Should I forbid her another crooked word, why,
she'd cry ram's horn to my face. Until one day I beat her as she had well deserved,
and she would not brook it, and ran off. And did me a great mercy.'
`Where went she?'
`I know not nor care not, mistress. Where women always go - to Hell or another
man. She was not so fair as you. I was well rid.' Again his eye flickers. `Thee, I might
have asked after.'
`She never came back?'
`No.' He shrugged, as if he regretted having spoken. "Tis old water, well past the
mill-wheel. Sixteen years gone.'
`And have thee always worked for the one master?' `Near enough.'
`Thee knew Dick, then?'
`Nobody knew him, mistress. He was not to be known. Tho' he knew thee, it
seems. More's the wonder.'
She looks down. `He was man enough.'
`Was he so?' She looks hesitantly up at him, aware that his question is sarcastic,
yet plainly not understanding why. He stares away out of the window for a moment, then
back at her. 'Didst never hear of such, when thou wert what thou wast?'
`Of such?'
`Come now, mistress. You were not always saint. You have said as much today,
and most credible, that you know your men. Did you not take one whiff?' "
`1 grasp thee not.'
`What is most unnatural, and a great crime. Where servant may become master,
and master, servant.'
She stares at the clerk a long moment; he gives a small nod, to kill her doubt, and
then again there comes that minute spasm of his eyelid.
`No.'
`Saw you no sign of it?'
`No.'
`Nor mayhap thought it might be so?'
`Nor that, even.'
`Very well, God save your innocence. And do not you speak of it, unless you be
asked. And never outside these walls, mistress, if you value your life.' There comes from
down below the sound of hooves on the cobbles, the heavy grating of iron-shod wheels, a
coachman's cry. The clerk stands and looks down to watch. Only when the vehicle has
drawn out, and without turning to where she still sits, does he speak again; almost as if to
himself. `He'll hear aught but that.'
Then he goes and picks his coat from the bed where it lies and puts it back on.
 `I leave you now, mistress. Do your necessities, I fetch you again to Mr Ayscough
shortly.' She bows her head in a little sign of acquiescence. 'Speak truth. Fear not. 'Tis but
his manner.'
`I have spoke truth, and shall. Nothing else.'
`There are two truths, mistress. One that a person believes 1s truth; and one that is
truth incontestible. We will credit you the first, but the second is what we seek.'
`I must tell what I believe.'
He walks to the door, yet there he stops and looks back at her. `Thee, I should
have asked after.'
She receives one last tic of his right eyelid; and then he is gone.
 Rebecca Lee further deposeth,
die et anno praedicto

Q. Mistress, let us recommence. You rest upon oath, do not forget it. First I would ask
you this. Know you what the vice of Sodom betokens?
A. Yes.
Q. Saw you ever, at any time since first you met his Lordship, any sign that he and his
man were its victims? That they were guilty of practising it?
A. No. I am most certain, no.
Q. Was there no hint, when his Lordship first spoke of his failing to you, that such was
the true cause of his insufficiency?
A. No.
Q. Nor later?
A. No.
Q. Did you never think, he may say what he likes, or not say, this must be the true cause?
Those I have known said to be such have a different manner. 'Tis well known, where I
was sinner. There are names for them, petty-masters or pretty-boys. They are more
beauish than proper men should be. More foppish, and coxcombs, most often, more full
of malice and scandal than aught else. 'Tis said, by resentment of what they are, and so
must they damn all else, being damned themselves.
Q. His Lordship seemed not like this?
A. No, not one piece.
Q. When Dick did use you before his eyes, he did not command it be enacted in manner
unnatural? Not in word nor nothing else. He was silent as stone.
Q. Now, Mistress Lee, I respect your judgement here. You are certain?
A. Certain he bore no common sign of it, nor report of it neither. Nothing was said of him
to this wise at Mistress Claiborne's, tho' we had use to discuss all who came there, and
most wicked freely; what their faults were, and every scandal we had heard of them. Lord
B….. himself question me, who has the most evil tongue in London, the most happy to
hear ill of a friend. Even he made no hint of such vice. Only of his Lordship's coldness,
his liking his books and studies more than flesh like mine; and whether I has surmounted
this taste in him.
Q. What answered you?
A. What was false itself: that reputation was false.
Q. Very well. Now come to the cavern.
A. Still shall I tell truth, master Ayscough.
Q. As I shall doubt where I please.
A. Doubted truth is no less truth.
Q. Then no less truth for being doubted. Speak on.
A. First as we mounted to where the cavern lay, tho' 'twas yet hidden from our eyes
behind a fold of land, there stood sudden in our path, a lady in silver.
Q. How, in silver?
A She was clothed, tho' most strange, in plain silver, that had no pattern to it, nor
flowering. And more strange still, wore narrow trowse, as seamen wear, or northmen
over their breeches, such that I saw once a-riding into London, yet more narrow, that
fitted almost close as hose. And above a close-fit smock, cut of the same cloth, that shone
like silver. And on her feet she wore as a man's riding-boots, yet shorter; as of black
leather, without their tops. And so she stood there, gazing upon us, as she had waited our
coming.
Q. Mean you to maintain she sprang from nothing, from thin air?
A. So she had lain in hiding till then.
Q. Why say you she was lady?
A. She was no common person.
Q. Was she attended? Was there no groom or servant?
A. No. She was alone.
Q. Young or old?
A. Young and fair to see, with full dark hair, that was not bound, as black as a raven's
wing; yet cut strange in a line above her brows, nor a curl to be seen.
Q. Wore she no cap or hat?
A. No. And I must tell thee her manner was strange as her appearance, for she moved and
stood not as a lady might, more as a young gentleman, I mean of most simple and easy
sort, that cares not for pomp and formal appearance; and did salute us in strange fashion
also, so, with her hands held in front of her, so, as 'twere in prayer. Yet held thus for a
moment only, as another might raise a hand to a friend, in light greeting.
Q. She showed no surprise at your coming?
A. No, not none.
Q. What response made his Lordship?
A. He fell at the once upon his knee, and did take off his hat, it seemed in respect. And
Dick besides, and I must follow, though I knew not why, nor who she might be. Whereat
the young lady did smile, as one who had not expected such courtesy; yet, being done,
did welcome it.
Q. She did not speak?
A. No, not one word.
Q. His Lordship addressed her?
A. He knelt with head bowed, so to say he dared not look her in her face.
Q. Thought you they had met before?
A. Save that he did seem to know who she was.
Q. Made she no especial sign of greeting or respect to his Lordship?
A. No.
Q. Of what stuff were these her singular clothes?
A. Of none I have seen. They shone like best silk, yet fell more stiff, when she moved.
Q. You say she was young?
A Of my own age, or less.
Q. How far from you stood she in this manner?
A. It may be fifty paces, not more.
Q. Seemed she of English blood, or foreign?
A. Not English.
Q. Then of what nation?
A. In looks she was most like unto one showed these two summers past in a tent beside
the Mall, that they called the Corsair Woman. Who was taken from a ship captured in the
West, and said as cruel a sailor as any man, tho' mistress unto the corsair's- captain. He
was renegade, and hanged at Deptford docks, she spared. And would stare at us who paid
to view her so she would kill us were she not chained, yet was exceeding handsome and
fine-figured. Claiborne thought to have her to the bagnio, and the taming of her fierceness
as a whet to the boldest rakes; but those who kept her would not agree a price. And said
besides, she would not bear such a thing, should kill herself rather than suffer it. This
lady upon the path was not she, I pray thee do not mistake. This upon the path was gentle
of face, not cruel.
Q. This woman you speak of in the tent, she was Moorish?
A Turkess?
A. I know not, save she had dark eyes and hair, and a skin of olive. She wore no red nor
ceruse, and had somewhat of the Jewesses I have seen in London; yet her manner not
modest, nor seeming fearful as is their wont. Of she in the tent d heard some declare she
was false, no true Corsair woman, but a common Egyptian paid so to pretend. I tell thee, I
speak only of how it did come to my mind when first she stood there.
Q. Why say you she seemed more as a young gentleman in her behaving?
A. That she made no affectation of elegant manner, as a London lady might; as she had
no need of fashion nor airs to prove her state. She did seem at a loss at our kneeling, like
she found it not necessary. For soon after, she placed her hands upon her hips, as a man
might, to say we puzzled her.
Q. She was angered?
A. No, for she smiled still, it seemed more we did amuse her. And then again of a sudden
she did show with her arm behind her, so might one invite a stranger to a house or
chamber, that he should enter at his will. 'Twas as the daughter of a house, before her
parents' coming.
Q. Saw you no malice nor evil in this person?
A. I told ill of her to Jones, may God forgive me. I did see, as I say, strange dress and
manner; in truth in all else innocence and beauty, that knew not England nor its ways, yet
had a freedom and an ease no Englishwoman knows of.
Q. What followed?
A. She did make that same gesture with her hands, so; then did turn and walk away,
simple and idle as within her private garden; for she did stoop and pluck a flower and
raised it to her nose to smell. So might she had we never been there. Then his Lordship
arose and we mounted where she had first stood, and could see all before us, the cavern's
mouth withal. Where she now did stand, and seeing us, did point towards the pool, so to
say we should wait there; and turned and entered in its darkness and was gone.
Q. This path by which you had mounted - seemed it well trod, had others passed that way
often?
A. 'Twas faint, or not at all.
Q. Did you not ask his Lordship who this person was?
A. Aye, and he answered, I pray she shall be thy friend. No more.
Q. Proceed.
A. We came to where a pool and stone did stand, before the cavern. There his Lordship a
little apart, while I knelt by the pool, and bathed my face, and drank of it, for the sun
beated down, and I was hot.
Q. Now I ask you, mistress, you were hot, were you not out of your wits with the sun and
your walking? I do not say you lie, yet that there was some disorder in your spirits, and
you saw what was never in front of you, but had pushed forth from your heated mind in
the semblance of reality?
A, No, I am sure not.
Q. It is not heard of, that any woman whatsoever, far less a lady, and one of foreign birth,
should be alone in such a place. Much is not heard of, that is. Thee must judge when all is
said.
Q. Then say it
A. His Lordship came to where I sat beside the pool and said, The time is come, Fanny.
The keepers await. Now I must tell thee, as we waited, my heart had of a sudden sore
misgiven me of what we did. I liked not that black cavern's mouth across the grass, that
seemed more fit for a gateway to Hell than to curing waters. And when his Lordship
spoke, I answered that I began to fear. To which he replied, It is too late now to fear. I
would have him to assure me I should come to no harm in what we did. To which he said,
I should come to more harm now if I disobeyed. I would know more of the keepers, but
he grew impatient, and said, No more of this, and took my arm, so I must go with him to
where Dick stood, by the stone; and must as well put on my crown of may. When Dick
seized my hand, and I was straightway made to walk by him toward the cavern, while his
Lordship came a two paces behind, like it were to attend us, in my fears I thought the
better to prevent me, should I try to escape. And now did I sink under great alarm that
God forgive me I was fallen into the hands of two devils, who wore the mask of ordinary
men; and these waters they that are said to boil eternal for sinners in the deeps of hell,
and their keeper must be the Devil, who I was now to meet. And all this swept upon me
with such force, I fell on my knees as we walked and begged his Lordship to tell me the
truth. I knew I had sinned, but no more than many others, and begged to be spared, I
know not what. To which he told me quick I was a fool and said, did I not suppose if they
took me to Hell, the last thing I should meet was punishment, on the contrary I should be
welcomed with open arms, I had done their service so well. He said, had I not been the
Devil's good servant? Should I not fear Heaven's anger far more? And then was I pulled
to my feet again, and must move on.
Q. Did not his Lordship threaten you with his sword?
A. No, tho' he was drawn, and held it in his hand. He spake not in a rage, more as one
impatient I should mistake their purpose so.
Q. I return a moment. Saw you, before his Lordship fetched you to this, a sign from the
cavern that the time was come. The woman in silver beckoned not, nor servant?
A. I cannot tell. I looked not towards the cavern, I was too lost in my fears and thoughts.
Q. Did you not mark a burnt place beside the cavern's mouth?
A. Yes. I had forgot to tell.
Q. What did you observe of it?
A. It seemed new-burnt, yet was there no pile of ashes. It lay in a circle, as of a great fire.
Q. Very well. On.
A. First my eyes were weak after the brightness of the sun, and I saw only shadows, and
knew not where I went save by Dick's guidance. Until of a sudden he made me turn upon
my left hand.
Q. Why stop you?
A. The maggot.
Q. What maggot?
A. That floated in the inner cavern, like a great swollen maggot, white as snow upon the
air.
Q. What is this?
A. Yes, like a maggot, tho' not. Its great eye shone down upon us, my blood did curdle in
my veins; and I must perforce call out in my fear, ignorant that I was. Now his Lordship
came beside me and took my other arm, and forward towards it, and then to kneel.
Q. You alone, or all?
A. All, as at the temple, and upon the path.
Q. I'll know more of this maggot. What appearance had it?
A. Of white, yet not of flesh, as it were wood japanned, or fresh-tinned metal, large as
three coaches end to end, or more, its head with the eye larger still; and I did see other
eyes along its sides that shone also, tho' less, through a greenish glass. And at its end
there was four great funnels black as pitch, so it might vent its belly forth there.
Q. Had it jaws and teeth?
A. No, none, nor legs neither at that first, but six black holes or mouths beneath.
Q. It lay not on the ground? It was suspended - there were ropes, timber, could you not
see?
A. No, none.
Q. How high in the air?
A. At twice a man's height, it may be more. I thought not then of measure.
Q. Why say you maggot?
A. So I first believed it to be. For it had a seeming head, and a tail, and was fat, and like
in colour.
Q. Did it move?
A. Not when first we stood before it, it hung in the air like to a kite, yet no string. Or a
windhover, yet beat no wings, as they do.
Q. Of what girth or circumference?
A. More than a man in height. Two men.
Q. Ten to twelve feet?
A. Yes.
Q. And you say, as three coaches long or more? Why, this is fancy entire. Thou mak'st it
up, 'tis not to be believed. How came this thing within a cavern whose mouth would not
admit it, nor the passage to its inner chamber neither?
A. I know not, save that it was there. And if thee won't have it there, then I say no more. I
will not lie. I am dammed as a stream is dammed, and must spill to waste.
Q. I may sooner believe thy three witches that was told to Jones, and the Devil at thy tail,
than this.
A. That is, thee art man. Thee'd. make me mirror of thy sex. Dost know what a harlot is,
master Ayscough? What all men would have all women be, that they may the easier think
the worst of them. I would I had a guinea for every man that hath told me he wished I
were his wife, or his wife like me.
Q. Enough of thy licentious tongue. I'll not yet dam thy tale, mistress, but I'll see thee
damned for a liar yet. This most preposterous maggot - bore it no marks other?
A. Upon its side was a wheel with figures thereafter, in a line; and yet another, upon its
belly, the same.
Q. How a wheel?
A. As 'twas painted upon its white skin, in a blue as of summer sea, or sky; and that bore
many spokes about its hub.
Q. And the figures?
A. I knew them not. They were in a line, as letters or numbers, that might be read by
those who knew. One was in the likeness of a bird, it might be a swallow flying; and
another, of a flower, as daubed upon a piece of china pot, not strict to the life, tho' all of
equal size. And yet another was as a circle, divided in two halves by crescent line; its one
half black, the other left white, so the moon in middle wane.
Q. There were no alphabet letters, nor numbers?
A. No.
Q. You marked no emblem of Christianity?
A. No.
Q. Made it no sound?
A. There was as a humming, tho' low, as of a closed furnace that flames, as oven before
baking. Like also to a cat that purrs. And soon did I smell of that sweet smell I knew at
the temple, and guessed it to be the same light that had floated above us there; and my
heart had relief, for I knew this must bring no evil, for all its seeming.
Q. How, you see a vile prodigy that denies all Nature's laws, and deem it not evil?
A. No, I knew it not evil, by this smell; that it was the lion's carcase, and held honey
within. And as I shall tell.
Q: What, you may tell good and evil by smell?
A. By this smell, yes. For it was of innocence and blessedness.
Q. Very fine. Now tell how innocent blessedness doth smell.
A. I could not say in words; though I smell it yet.
Q. As I thy self-weening piety, which stinketh over this thy manner of answering. I
command you to describe this smell, as it might come to nostrils less blest.
A. All that was good in what does smell.
Q. But sweet, or more harsh? Of musk, bergamot, attar, myrrh? Of flowers or fruit, or
made waters, such as they of Hungary or Cologne? Of what must be burnt or of what
smells of its natural essence? Why answer you not?
A. Of life eternal.
Q. Mistress, had I asked another question of you, such as in what your belief or hope may
lie, you may answer so. But not in this. You say that still you smell this smell. Very well.
I'll not be foisted by this havering.
A. Then most it smells of the white canker that grows in June in the hedge, which we did
call the virgin rose when I was small, and a bride must carry in her posy, if she is wed
within its season; that lasts but one day or two, and smells most pure when first it opens
and is golden of its heart.
Q. The white briar, you would say?
A. She the rose that is weak, and falls if she is not supported, and less sweet of her
perfume than they that grow in gardens. Yea, like to her, but yet stronger, as she were
'stilled. And yet this is no more than to say a man's soul by his outward face.
Q. Did there not burn upon the cavern's floor a great fire, as you told Jones?
A. No, yet a place as one had been, like that outside; but old, of darkened ashes only,
long burnt away.
Q. It burnt not still?
A. 'Twas dead. No spark nor smoulder.
Q. You are certain? Was there no smell of burning also?
A. I am certain. There was no smell.
Q. Saw you not, now you were close, by what powers this great light shone?
A. No, for it was covered as by milk-glass, or thick muslin, that showed nothing behind.
Yet more bright than any lamp or sconce I've seen in this world.
Q. How large was its expanse?
A. A foot.
Q. No more?
A. 'Twas so. But brighter than the sun. 'Twas not to be beheld direct.
Q. How close kneeled you while it hovered above?
A. Passing close. As to that far wall here.
Q. Do you maintain that this was some engine come from the temple to this place; that
might mount into the heavens, as a bird?
A. Yes, and far besides.
Q. Though it had no wheels, nor wings, nor horses?
A. Thee must hear more, master Ayscough. I do not blame thee. Thee would have me out
of my wits, and the fool of apparitions. Thee would have me put wheels and wings to
God's breath. Thee can see I am a poor woman, and not well lettered; and a plain one
besides, in my natural. I tell thee this came not in a dream, by apparitions, but more like
to those prodigies I have seen on show in London. Thee may say they are false, done by
deceit and trickery; but not that they were not there to be seen.
Q. Now in all this, marked you his Lordship's behaviour? Seemed he alarmed, in fear of
this monstrous prodigy?
A. The rather, in expectation. He had removed his hat once more, and carried it by his
side.
Q. As one who knew he entered the presence of a greater?
A. Yes.
Q. And Dick the same? He appeared not frightened?
A. More in awe, his eyes cast down.
Q. On.
A. We were knelt, as I say, his Lordship with his sword before him, point to the ground,
and his hands upon its hilt, so a gentleman of old before his king. Then came there a sigh
from the floating maggot, and it did begin to fall, most slowly, like a feather; and came so
until its belly rested nigh upon the ground; and from that belly now there stuck forth thin
legs that had great dark paws, on the which it rested. No I sooner that than of a sudden
there appeared upon its side toward us an open door.
Q. How, a door?
A. I saw none, while it floated; yet as it came to ground, such a door was opened unto us,
in its central part; and tho' I saw not how, nor any person, there fell upon a cunning hinge
a set of stairs like for a coach that led to the ground from this door. Of three steps or four,
and all of silver latticed.
Q. What saw you inside?
A. Why, not of heart or bowels, but so it seemed a wall of precious stones, whose colours
shone, of topaz and emerald, ruby and sapphyr, coral and peridot, I know not what, yet
more clouded in their water than clear, it seemed lit with candles behind, tho' I could see
none. As of a coloured window in a steeple-house, yet the pieces smaller. I would be
clear. I repeat, this was no true maggot nor living creature, but something of artifice, a
machine or engine? Yes. And this sweet balm stronger upon us, also, it issued from
therein. Now his Lordship bowed his head, so to say, he that he called the keepers of the
waters must now appear.
Q. These legs - whence came they?
A. From out its body, from those black mouths I spoke of; and seemed too thin to bear
such weight, yet did.
Q. What thickness had they? Had they thighs, calves?
A. No, all of one thickness, a flail or such, a constable's staff; that looked as a spinner's
legs, with such bulk above.
Q. On.
A. Now one appeared in the door, she in silver we had seen before. And in her hand she
carried a posy of flowers, white as snow. Smiled she and came brisk down the steps that
led from the maggot and stood before us, but there she did turn her face, for of a sudden
above her did appear another lady, dressed as her, but more old, her hair grey, tho' she
still bore herself straight and upright; and did also smile upon us, yet more gravely, as
might a queen.
Q. How old was she?
A. Forty years, not more; still in her grain.
Q. Proceed, why stop you?
A. I have more to tell, that thee will doubt, but 'tis true, I give thee Heaven's word.
Q. Heaven sits not before me, mistress.
A. Then thee must believe its poor servant. For this second lady did the like come down
the silver steps, and no sooner was she upon the cavern's floor, than yet another lady
appeared in the doorway, as 'twere in her train, that was old; her hair white, her body
more frail. Stood she and looked upon us the same as the two first, then came more
slowly to the ground beside them. All three there gazed upon us, with that same kindly
look. Then further marvel, 'twas plain they was mother and daughter, and daughter's
daughter again. Thus it seemed the one woman in her three ages, so like were their
features despite their different years.
Q. In what manner were these two other dressed?
A. Most strange, as the first, in silver trowse and smock. Thee'll think it immodest in she
who was aged dame; yet it seemed not so, for all wore their garments as ones
accustomed, not from mere foolery or the like, but as clothes it pleased them to wear for
their plainness and their ease.
Q. Wore they no jewellery or ornaments?
A. Not one. Unless that the oldest bore a posy of flowers of darkest purple, near to black;
and the youngest as I say, of purest white; and her mother flowers of red, like blood. Else
were all three as peas in a pod, spite of their ages.
Q. Saw you not toads nor hares, nor black cats about them? Did not ravens croak outside?
A. No and no. Nor broom sticks and cauldrons neither. Be warned, thee know'st not who
thee mocks.
Q. I wonder, 'tis all thy picture lacks, with thy flying mawk and its attercop legs, thy
scarecrow women.
A. I must yet tell thee worse for thy disbelief, master. Both young and old that stood
beside she in the centre, they did turn towards tier and made as a step to be the closer.
And by some strange feat, I know not how again, were joined as one with her, or seemed
to melt thus inside of her; disappeared, like to ghosts that pass a wall, and the one
woman, she of the grey hair, the mother, left to stand where there were three, as plain as I
see thee now. Yet held she no more in her posy her red and none other flowers, no, she
held the three kinds together, the white, the red, the dark purple; as if still we must
believe by this what our eyes must doubt.
Q. Mistress, this would tax the most credulous fool in Christendom.
A. Then thee must play that part. For I'll not tell thee any other tale, that is not true,
howsoever a better friend to thy suspicions. Look not angry, I beg thee. Thee art a man of
law, thee must play the hammer and the saw upon my word. I warn thee my word is of
the spirit. Thee may turn its good plank to dust and chips, and then will be no wiser, in
this world.
Q. That we shall see, mistress. On with thy farrago.
A. This lady, the mother I will say, did come to where we knelt, first to his Lordship, and
reached her hands to make him stand; that he did, and she placed her arms about him,
they did embrace, as mother might son that had been on long travel and she had not seen
nor held this many a year. Then did she speak to him, in no tongue that I knew, her voice
low and most sweet; to which his Lordship replied, in that same strange tongue.
Q. Not so fast. What tongue was this?
A. Not one I had ever heard before.
Q. What tongues hast heard in thy life?
A. Of Dutch and German, and French besides. A little also of the Spanish and Italian.
Q. This was none of these?
A. No.
Q. When his Lordship did answer in it, seemed it well, as one familiar?
'T. As most familiar, and not in his previous self.
Q. In what manner note
A. more of respect and simple gratitude. As I say, so a son brought to his mother's
presence after long absence. And I forget also what had been strange in him at the
beginning, when first she came to him, that he had cast his sword aside, as 'twere
something he needed to carry no more, its sash and sheath likewise; so a man that has
been abroad in dangerous places and comes now at last beneath his own roof, where he
may be at his ease.
Q. You say he cast it aside, mistress - mean you rather he laid it carefully aside, or tossed
it away, as if he cared not?
A. So he cared never to wear it again, for it fell ten feet away, behind, and the sheath and
belt the same; like to they had all been disguise or mask till then, their purpose at an end.
Q. Now this - did they greet and speak as persons that had met before?
A. He showed too little wonder, had they not. Next he turned to present us, the first Dick,
who remained upon his knees, but the lady reached her hand to him, that he did seize
most fervently and press to his mouth. Then she did make him stand also, and now 'twas
my turn. First I must tell thee his Lordship spoke to her in their tongue, and tho' I know
not what was said, I heard my name most clear, and that one I was baptized, not Fanny,
but Rebecca; which he had never used before, and I know not how he knew it.
Q. You had never told him of it, nor Dick, nor any other?
A. Nor none in the bagnio, unless it be Claiborne.
Q. Then he did learn it of her. On.
A. This lady was before me, where I knelt; and smiled down upon me, as we had been
old friends long apart, but new met. And of a sudden stooped and reached out her hands
to take mine and raised me to my feet; and so we stood close, for she would not loose my
hands when I was risen, and still she smiled and searched my eyes, as an old friend
might, to learn how much I had changed; and then passed me her posy of the three hues
of flower, like it was her private favour she gave. As 'twere in return, she lifted my crown
of may from off my head, and held it to look at, yet put it not on, for she set it back upon
me, with a smile, and kissed me gentle upon the mouth, in the old fashion, so to say I was
welcome. In all of this I knew not what to do, yet must curtsey for her flowers and smiled
her a little back, tho' not as she, who did so she knew me well, yea, as a mother or loving
aunt might.
Q. Nothing was spoke?
A. Not one word.
Q. Moved she with ease and grace, as a lady?
A. With great simplicity, like her daughter, as one who did not care for the airs of this
world, nor knew of them.
Q. Yet came of high estate?
A. Yes. Most high.
Q. What of these flowers she gave?
A. They were of the three colours, of the same kind, somewhat in look as they that grows
upon the Cheddar rocks, that they bring to Bristol at midsummer, and call them June
pinks. Yet not so, these were more large, and far richer scent; too soon in season, besides.
Q. You had seen none like before?
A. No, never. Tho' hope to see and smell again.
Q. How, see again?
A. Thee shalt hear. Next did the lady take my hand anew and would lead me to the
maggot. I feared not her, yet I feared to enter, and looked to his Lordship that stood
behind, over my shoulder, to ask what I must do. At which he raised a finger to his lips,
to say I must not speak, and nodded also to she the mother who had greeted us, that I
must give her my attention. And when I looked to her, she seemed to understand what I
would ask, and did raise her hands before her breast, as her daughter had done, and did
smile also, plain as plain to still my fear. So I passed on with her as she wished and
mounted the silver steps and was conducted inside her coach, her parlour, I know not
how to say, 'twas none such, but a place of great wonders, a chamber walled all of those
gleaming stones I had seen through the doorway.
Q. His Lordship and Dick came also?
A. They did.
Q. The lady gave thee the precedence?
A. Yes.
Q. Didst not stand at a wonder to be treated so - thou, a whore?
A. What should I be else? I was as one struck dumb.
Q. Tell more of this chamber. How were these precious stones?
A. Some shone more bright than others, and of many colours, cut both square and round,
and all the walls and even a part of the roof or ceiling above was of them. And upon
many were signs or marks, so to say each had some magic or secret purpose, tho' not that
I could read. And many also had small clocks or pocket-watches beside them, yet the
hands moved not, they were not wound.
Q. Were not the hours marked?
A. There were marks, but not as those of our world.
Q. How large was this chamber?
A. Not broad more than ten or twelve feet; more long, it may be twenty foot; and tall as
broad.
Q. How was it lit?
A. By two panels upon the ceiling that gave a hidden light, tho' less strong than from that
light outside, the maggot's eye.
Q. How, panels?
A. They seemed of clouded glass, milk-glass as I say; yet hid all behind, and whence
came this light.
Q. Were there no hangings, no furniture?
A. None when we came. Yet when we were entered the lady touched her finger upon a
precious stone beside her, and that door through which we had come closed of itself, as it
had opened, upon some secret design; and the silver steps likewise folded back of their
own will. And then she touched another stone, or the same; and there fell from both walls
as 'twere a bench or sitting-places. I know not how, unless also by some spring, upon a
hinge, like secret drawers in a chest. And there she invited us to sit, his Lordship and
Dick on one side, I on the other. And mine I sat upon seemed covered with a white skin,
finest shagreen, yet was soft as a down bed to my nether parts. Then went she to the far
end of the chamber and touched another stone, which bared a cupboard, in which stood
many flasks and bottles in a cloudy glass, like unto a 'pothecary's shop, and some it
seemed held powders, others of liquid, I know not. One of these flasks she took, it
seemed to hold such as Canary wine, for it was golden, and poured of it into three small
crystal glasses, not cut, tho' marvellous light to hold, they were so thin; and to each of us
brought one, so a serving-maid might. First I would not drink, fearing some potion, for all
I saw his Lordship did not fear to swallow,, nor Dick neither. Until she came back to
where I sat and smiled again down at me, where by taking my glass and drinking a little
of it, she made proof I need fear for nothing; and gave me the glass back, and so I drank.
'Twas not as it seemed, of wine, but more of some fruit, it had of the taste of fresh
apricocks, or jargonelles, yet more sweet and subtle, and soothed my throat, that was dry.
Q. It tasted not of spiritous liquor? Of brandy or gin?
A. Of juice from pressed fruit.
Q. Next.
A. Next came she and sat beside me close; and reached above my head and touched a
blue stone upon the wall. Of a sudden all was dark, there was no light inside the chamber,
yet some outside that passed through those small windows I spake of at the first, that
were as eyes - and I have forgot, from this inside seemed not as from out, not of green
glass, no, clear as any, not flaw nor bubble. And I should have been mortal afraid again,
had not her arm fallen about my shoulder to comfort, and her other hand found mine in
the darkness and pressed it, to comfort also. 'Twas as if she would assure she neither
meant nor would bring harm, but held me as she might her child, to calm all these my
alarms at what did pass my understanding.
Q. She held you close?
A. In friendship or sisterhood. So we might sometimes at the
bagnio, when we had leisure, or waited.
Q. And next?
A. There came a greater prodigy than all, for where was the chamber's end, that stood
before the maggot's head, was of a sudden a window upon a great city we glid above, as a
bird.
Q. What is this?
A. It was so, I tell thee.
Q. And I tell thee not, 'tis too much.
A. I swear by Jesus, it happened so, or so seemed.
Q. This fine chamber of precious stones flew out of the cavern in an instant and above a
great city? I am not your green gosling, mistress, by the heavens am I not.
A. 'Tis in my telling I deceive thee. In naught else. I tell thee what I saw, tho' how I saw it
I know not.
Q. This is more fit for chapbook than any ear of reason. I believe thee a cunning whore
still, with all thy talk of hammers and saws, dust and chips.
A. I tell truth. I beg thee, thee must believe.
Q. Was there not that in the potion you were given which brought this fantastick vision?
A. I felt no drowsing nor sleep; and all most real, while we flew above this city, much
else besides, as I shall tell. Notwithstanding it was done in part by some good magic, as
in a dream, for I might see by those smaller windows we moved not from the cavern, its
walls still stood outside.
Q. How great was this window by which you saw the city?
A. Three feet by four, more long than high.
Q. Yet you say you might see this machine you were entered in moved not from the
cavern?
A. No.
Q. You were bewitched, or drugged, or both.
A. It may be, certain I was transported. Through this window we saw not as we might
will, through glass ordinary. 'Twas as some other would have us see: here, from afar, here
close; here to this side, then to another. I would fain turn my eyes to look aside, or back
to see again; but could not. ln vain my eyes would linger, I must see as it saw.
Q. A window cannot see, mistress. You were not in your proper senses. And what city
was this you seemed to fly over?
A. Exceeding beautiful, like none upon this earth that I have seen or heard speak of. All
built of white and gold, and everywhere was parks and plaisances, fair streets and malls,
gardens and green orchards, streams and fishponds. 'Twas more rich-peopled countryside
than city. And over all, there was peace.
Q. How know you they were orchards? Did you not fly far above?
A. Yet were they small trees set in rows, as orchards, and so I took them. And among
them, that joined all, fair great highways that seemed paved of gold, where went people
and shining carriages, tho' no horse pulled them. Yet they moved.
Q. How moved?
A. I know not. Nor walked they upon the golden streets, neither legs nor feet, and yet
they moved, the very paving moved, and bore them along. Tho' they could move as we,
for in a field we passed above were two rings of maidens dancing, and in another men
also, albeit in lines; and others we saw that walked like us.
Q. How danced they?
A. It did seem they sang as they danced, and the maidens did show most graceful
motions, so they did sweep a floor, then threw their faces to the sky in joy; and the men
danced while they made to broadcast seed, then mowed it in pretence, the like, though
with faster motion. This land did worship cleanliness of spirit, for many I saw swept in
truth with broom and besom upon the paths and golden malls, so to show they could not
abide uncleanliness. While others did launder by the streams. And the dancing men did
rejoice in the bounty of the Lord. On all was a sweet order, in gardens and orchards, I
doubt not in their houses also.
Q. Seemed they as us in their outward?
A. Of many nations. Some white, some olive or yellow, some brown, others black as
night. I could not see all, they were too far below. `Twas so we stood upon a great tower,
and yet one that moved, it might have legs.
Q. And what clothes?
A. Why, all as the three ladies were dressed, in those same silver trowses and smocks,
whether men or women. We passed above so swift I saw not all; for all was no sooner
glimpsed than gone, and new appeared.
Q. Were not those that were black savages naked?
A. No.
Q. Saw you no churches?
A. No.
Q. No sign of God nor His religion?
A. All sign, yet no wont sign. No church, no priest, nothing of such.
Q. Nor heathen temples, I know not?
A. No.
Q. No palaces or great buildings? No 'changes, hospitals, courts of justice?
A. None of those, save fine large buildings where it seemed all did live in common,
without distinction nor difference. The most lay without fences or walls and scattered
among the green, not crowded close nor smoking foul. All fair, each like
to a great farmhouse in its field. All green, as high summer. And the sun shone on all, like
to June eternal. So now do I call this happy land that we was shown.
Q. You call it how, mistress?
A. It is June Eternal.
Q. Alias, castles in Spain. In what manner were these their houses built - of stone or
brick? Had they thatched roofs or tiled with slate?
A. Neither, for they were not of this world, such as I know. With walls of white, most
smooth, so the inside of a sea shell, and roofed and doored in gold; and of all kinds, some
of a figure of great tents, others with strange gardens upon their roofs, that were flat, yet
others round, like great cheeses; and many fashioned else beside.
Q. How know you their doors and roofs and roads were gold?
A. I do not, 'tis what they seemed. And I saw also of these great common houses that
each was for many to inhabit, and not the one family, as it is most often in this world;
likewise some were for men to dwell in, and others for women alone, and II this
separation to be seen in all else beside. In one place there were many gathered, of both
sexes, that did listen to one who spoke, in the open air; yet did they sit most strict
divided, the women upon the left, the men upon the right, so to say it was decreed they
must be apart there, as they must live apart in their houses.
Q. Saw you no married couples, no lovers, whatever it may be?
A. No, none. It is not so, in June Eternal.
Q. What is not so? Do they live as Romish monks and closeted
nuns? Did you see no children?
A. Not children of the flesh. The flesh, and all its sins, is not , there. If it were, June
Eternal could not be.
Q. Saw you none working?
A. Unless within their gardens and their fields, for their pleasure.
Q. Were there no shops, no criers of goods, no markets?
A. No, none. Nor workshops nor mills, that I could see.
Q. Were there not soldiers, men who bore arms?
A. None bore arms.
Q. This is not to be believed, mistress.
A. Not to be believed in this world.
Q. And where was your lady, while this your aerial journey lasted?
A. Upon the bench beside me, and held me always, until I leant my head upon her
shoulder as I watched.
Q. Was she warm of body?
A. Yes, as I
Q. What made you of this phantasmatick city you was shown, albeit you dreamed?
A. That it was whence she came, and not of this world, but some finer one, that knows all
where we know nothing. Its dwellers like us in some appearances; in others, unlike, and
most unlike in their seeming peace and prosperity. For also saw I no poor, no beggars, no
cripples, no sick, not one who starved. Nor saw I those who here parade more rich and
magnificent, neither; 'twas plain all were content to be of a sameness in their
circumstance, that none might be without; as they were chaste, that none might sin. Not
as it is with us, each man and woman's heart cased in iron by their greed and their vanity,
and forced thereby to act and live for themselves alone.
Q. I would have what you saw, mistress; not what your rebellious new-found democracy
now puts upon it.
A. I know not democracy.
Q. The rule of the common mob. I smell it in thee.
A. No, it is Christian justice.
Q. Enough of it, call it how you will.
A. 'Tis true, I saw but passing outward of this world. Yet saw I not soldiers nor guards,
nor any sign else, such as gaols or those in chains, to show some did not agree with this,
or did evil, and must be punished and prevented.
Q. I say enough.
A. Thee must doubt, I'll not blame thee. For then was I too in my this world's mind, and
must doubt myself, and wonder men and women should live in such accord and harmony,
when even they of one nation cannot do so here below, let alone they of many mixed. For
there, was no sign of war, nor destruction, nor cruelty, nor envy neither; but life eternal. I
tell thee, though I saw it not at the first, this was very Heaven itself.
Q. Or what thou'dst have Heaven to be. That is not the same.
A. Thee must hear, master Ayscough. For now we flew lower and lower, more close to
this blessed land of June Eternal, and came so to rest upon the ground, in a meadow of
grass and flowers. Where stood about a tree three waiting, two men and a woman to greet
us. And behind them, at the meadow's end, I saw men and women mowing and cocking,
and children, as upon a haymaking. Yet did I mark that all these were dressed unlike all
others there, in robes and gowns of many hues; and the two men that waited beneath the
tree were robed in white, and the woman beside in white.
Q. Did you not say, you saw none working? What is this else?
A. They worked not as we.
Q. How, not as we?
A. They worked because they would, not that they must.
Q. How knew you this?
A. That they sang and rejoiced; and some rested, or played with the children. Then did I
see that these two men whitegowned beneath the tree were those same two, the young
and the old, I had seen before, in that night at the temple. Now he the younger I called
carpenter then, who had pointed above, he stood with a scythe upon his shoulder, he
came fresh from the mowing; and the older man bore a white beard and stood with in his
hand a staff of wood, in the shadow of this tree, yea, beneath its leaves and fruit, they
were as oranges, bright among the green above his head. And he had the air of one both
most gentle and most wise, who was lord of all he surveyed, yet now worked not; yet
must all look to him as their father and their master.
Q. He seemed of what nation, this aged man?
A. Of all nations, neither blackamoor nor white, neither brown nor yellow.
Q. This is not answer enough.
A. 'Tis all I may give. There was a more wonder yet, for the woman that waited through
the window was she I rested beside upon the bench within the maggot, whose hand yet
lay in mine. Which did the so confuse me I must look back to her behind me as we sat,
and lo, by some great miracle it was she I thought, that sat tnere still, tho' she appeared
also outside the window, and different garbed, in her gown of white. And this beside me
now smiled on me as a sister might; even as she might tease, upon some riddle placed,
while she waits to hear its answer. Then of a sudden she leant forward and kissed me with
her lips upon mine, in purest love, so to declare. I should not fear what I saw in the
window, that she both might hold me and stand where I saw her outside, beside the old
man beneath the tree; who now did reach his hand to make her come closer. Which
gesture did most plainly say, she is mine, of my flesh and blood.
Q. That she did appear in the two places at once, doth it not make proof certain you
dreamed?
A. Clear proof to thee; to me, no dream. And no dream that I too did seem to walk there,
upon the meadow.
Q. In all this, what of his Lordship? Did you not observe how he watched this vision
through thy window? Seemed he possessed by it, in belief of it; or disbelieving?
A. I thought not of him, nor of Dick, as it passed, and the least, at this moment that I say.
Before, I did once look to where they sat across the chamber, and his Lordship looked
then not through the window, but at me. 'Twas he would the rather watch how I was
struck by all, as in a theatre, sat he near a lady, than watch the all himself.
Q. Doth this not suggest he had seen it before - that you were brought before what he
knew already?
A. I know alone that he did smile, when he saw I looked to him, and showed with his
hand toward the window, so to say, Behold this, not me.
Q. How did he smile?
A. As he had never smiled to me before; as one might to a child, that she must watch to
understand.
Q. And Dick, what of him?
A. He did watch as one 'mazed, like to myself.
Q. Very well. Return to this meadow.
A. As I say, it seemed I did walk upon it, for my nose smelt the flowers about us, and the
sweet mown grass, and I heard the birds sing, throstles and larks their happy babble, and
the haymakers likewise.
Q. How did they sing? Heard you words, had you heard the air before?
A. The air seemed such, one of olden times, that yet I had heard when I was small, tho'
my parents brooked no music in their faith. Yea, it seemed to me my ears had heard it.
Q. Do you recall it still?
A. Alas, I do not.
Q. Speak on.
A. Then was it as I walked in Paradise, in life eternal and happiness everlasting, out of
this cruel world and all its evil, out of my own most miserable sins and vanity, for which
now I conceived I was about to be forgiven. I walked in a sea of light, all was light, I
knew no shadow in my soul; and as I went towards these three, it seemed no ordinary
passing of time, of one far more slow, like to the motions of a dream. Then did I see the
old man raise an arm and pluck a fruit hung on a branch above his head, that he held out
to she the mother, and she took it from him, and held for me to take as I came. Not as that
great grace it was, more simple present, that I might eat; which I did crave with all my
soul. Yet tho' l would hasten my step to take it, I could not; and it came to me that he who
stood with the scythe was son to the aged man, and she also of a smiting likeness, they
were of one family. Then it was when first some tongue, some utmost joyous tongue, did
stir in my mind, that I knew who these three truly were. Master Ayscough, I speak of it to
thee more plain now than it was to me at this first, when it was but a trembling, a
suspicion, a whisper, I know not, of what was to come. Still I was as thee, I must doubt
all the most strange circumstance in which this had place. Thee must know I was brought
up Quaker, never to think so of divinity, as in bodies or breathing persons, but of their
spirit alone and their light inside of me. For the Friends say, There is no true spirit in
image, and no image can be of the true spirit. Then too was I not a great sinner, how
should I expect myself worthy of this? But now came the strangest, for he with the scythe
pointed to the uncut grass beside him, where I must look, and there hidden was laid his
twin, it seemed asleep upon his back, with his scythe beside him, tho' strewn with flowers
as one dead. Yet he smiled as he slept; and upon the face of he who pointed was that
selfsame smile. And yea, ten thousand times yea, I will hide no more. These two men
were one, the only one, the man of men: our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us, yet was
resurrected.
Q. What, you are in Heaven now? From whore you are grown saint?
A. Thee may mock, thee may mock, I speak now what I did not see till after. What
others, the saints, might see in a trice, I saw in confusion. 'Tis not as people say, truth
may come in one second; it may come more slow, and so 'twas for me. Yea, I must mock
myself, that I was so slow. I tell thee, undeserving sinner I may be, there was I brought
certain, most certain, within the presence of the Father and the Son. Yea, tho' they stood
simple as two labourers in the field, 'twas they; but there was I their simplicity's fool. And
this beside, that still I did not know she against whose shoulder I lay. Yea, there was I
fool most, alas, and blindest.
Q. No more of riddles. Speak now - who was this woman?
A. No woman, but queen of queens, greater than the greatest lady. She without whom
God the Father could not have made His works, whom some would call the Holy Spirit.
She is Holy Mother Wisdom.
Q. The Holy Mother, you would say? The Virgin Mary?
A. A greater even. Holy Mother Wisdom, 'tis she the bearing spirit of God's will, and one
with Him from the beginning, that takes up all that Christ the Saviour promised. That is
both His mother and His widow, and His daughter beside; wherein lies the truth of those
three women grown one I saw first appear. She is that which liveth always, and shall be
my mistress alway.
Q. Woman, this is rank blasphemy. 'Tis writ clear in the Book of Genesis that Eve came
of Adam's seventh rib.
A. Were thee not born also of a mother? Thee's nothing without her, master, thee are not
born. Nor was Eden born, nor Adam nor Eve, were Holy Mother Wisdom not there at the
first with God the Father.
Q. What, and this great mother, this magna creatrix, doth hold thee in her arms, like to
some fellow trollop in thy bagnio? Didst thou not put it so?
A. 'Twas loving kindness, and her mercy. None so sinful they may not be saved. And
thee forget, I knew her not in my blindness. Else should I have been on my knees before
her.
Q. Enough of thy possibilities. What next?
A. Her kingdom shall come to be, and Christ's also, and far sooner than this wicked world
allows. Amen, I am witness.
Q. Then witness, woman, an end to thy new-making sacred truth, thy preaching-
prophesying. What next in the cavern?
A. Most terrible, most bitter after sweet. I did run in the heavenly meadow, to take that
fruit Holy Mother Wisdom did there offer toward me, I had believed it almost within my
hands. Of a sudden all was dark, yea darkest night. Then was there light again, but on
such a scene I pray I may never see twice, for it was of most desperate battle, a field
where men fought like tigers, and the sound thereof about us, of clashing iron, of oaths
and cries, of pistol and musket and fearsome cannon, and the groans of the dying
intermingled, blood and the cannons' smoke. I cannot tell thee all its gashly deeds and
cruelty, nor what terror I felt, for the battle did seem so close its soldiers must break in
upon the maggot's chamber where we sat. Then would I turn my face to Holy Mother
Wisdom, in great horror at this change, to seek her solace; and found greater horror still,
lo, she was not there, nor his Lordship nor Dick, no not nothing of what had been, all
great darkness. and I alone in it.
Q. You were still in the maggot s chamber? This battle you were shown was seen through
the window, as before?
A, Yes, tho' I had seen, nor heard nor felt, no other to leave. And now was alone, nay,
worse than alone, locked in most awful prison with Antichrist for boon companion. I tell
thee, there was I forced to watch more evil and cruelty than I had known possible, and
each scene worse than the last.
Q. It was more than this scene of battle?
A. Of many, not all of battle, nay, of each foul crime and sin: of torture, of murther and
treachery, of the slaughter of innocents, never saw I Antichrist so clear, and the cruelty of
man more savage than the wildest beasts, a thousand times worse upon his own than their
worst upon him.
Q. This is what you told Jones, tho' with different cause and circumstance to it?
A. I told some, not all. 'Tis not to be told.
Q. And you as one burnt in a sea of flames, is it not so?
A. Yea, there was a girl-child of fourteen years run from a house put to fire by soldiers,
most sorely burnt therein, her clothes aflame, and it rent my heart not one there did take
notice of her agony, save to mock and laugh at it, d would I could have torn them limb
from limb. I did spring from where I sat and ran to the window to succour, for she came
toward me; but oh my soul in vain, I should have died a hundred times to reach her, for I
saw myself in her, as I was before I sinned; yet stayed the glass stronger than a stone wall
between us, dear God I could not break it, tho' the poor child was burning there not three
feet from me and cried and wept most piteously. I see her still, I would e'en weep now for
how she reached her hands for help, so she was blind, and I so close, tho' I had been ten
thousand leagues apart for all I could avail.
Q. This and thy other cruel visions - were they in appearance of this world?
A. Too like this world, too like, there was no love; all cruelty, killing, pain. All meted
upon innocents, upon women and children, and nothing to end it.
Q. I ask again. Recognized you face or place of this world among them?
A. I doubt it was this world; but not that such a world may be.
Q. They were not of this world?
A. Unless it were Cathay, for their faces were such they portray of Chinamen, upon pots
and the like, more yellow skinned than we, the eyes narrow. Yet twice I saw beyond the
window, what seemed three moons that shone upon a scene of carnage, and made all
more dreadful by their light.
Q. You were not mistaken - three moons?
A. The one larger, the two other smaller. But stranger black marvels still: great carriages
that bore cannon within, and went faster than the fastest horse; most swift and roaring
winged lions, that flew as hornets in a rage, the which did drop great grenadoes upon
their enemy and made untold destruction upon them - why, whole cities laid to ruin, like
'twas said London did look the morrow of the Great Fire. And else, great towers of smoke
and flame that burn, all below, made hurricane and earthquake where they rose, visions
so dire they make this world we live in seem kind by the comparison. Yet do I know all
its seeds may be found in ours, alas all we lack are their devilish arts and ingenuity to be
the same, as cruel also. Man is evil not by himself alone, nay, 'tis by will of Antichrist.
The longer he rules, the more are we doomed, and all shall end in fire.
Q. Thou art like all thy kind, woman, ever thou'dst credit the worst most. Was there
nothing but doom through thy window?
A. All cruel, all cruel.
Q. Therefore without God. How may such a world be truth? That some are cruel and
unjust, it may be; that all are so, 'tis neither true nor seen.
'Twas a prophecy; so may this world become.
Q. A Christian God would not allow it to pass thus.
A He destroyed the Cities of the Plain, for their sins and false idols.
Q. They were few among many cities. Those that worshipped truly, and believed His
Word, He did not harm. But enough, return to thy well-called maggot.
A. I was before the window, the burning of that innocent girl, I must see her die before
my eyes; whereon I sank in despair upon the chamber's floor, I would watch no more -
nor could, for there came a great fog upon the window's glass, and silence, that in mercy
hid all behind. Now of a sudden was there light within the chamber. At the far end I
espied his Lordship, yet most strange, I first did not know him, for he wore as those from
June Eternal wore, their silken smock and trowse, no wig beside. Yet he did look upon
my face and sadness with kind pity, so to say he brought no more tidings of suffering, but
relief of it; and came to where I lay, and lifted me to carry to the bench, where he did lie
me gentle on my back, then stooped close above my face and stared into my eyes with a
loving care and tenderness such I had never known in all my dealings with him. Forget
me not, Rebecca, he said, forget me not; at that did kiss me soft upon the brow, as a
brother might. Still did he stare into my eyes, and 'twas as if his face was become one
with He I had seen in the meadow in June Eternal, that does forgive all sins, and to all
despair bring peace.
Q. I shall not forget thee either, mistress, I'll grant thee that. Is it this, thy crowning piece?
His Lordship grows the Lord of All, the Redeemer?
A. 'Twill not fit thy alphabet, so be it. Yet so was it not to me. I knew such joy I must
sleep on it; and did.
Q. Must sleep? Who not doting idiot should sleep at such a juncture?
A. I cannot tell, save I must close my eyes upon that tender face above, that our souls
might join. 'Twas so a loving husband, that willed me with his love to rest.
Q. Was it not more than your souls that joined?
A. Shame on thee, to think it.
Q. Did he not give thee some potion also?
A. That of his eyes, no more.
Q. Thy gossip Holy Mother Wisdom, did she riot appear?
A. No, nor Dick neither. 'Twas he alone.
Q. And where didst wake, in Heaven again?
A. No Heaven, but a sore bed to lie upon, the cavern's ground where first we came, tho' l
knew it not at the once, and would believe myself still where d had slumbered, and most
sweet rested. Too soon it came upon me I had suffered some great loss, was cold and stiff
beside, for all my May-queen clothes was gone, every stitch. Next I did mind me of Holy
Mother Wisdom, at first so she had come in a dream, as thee'd believe; then knew it no
dream, she was departed and I most sore bereft, of worse than my clothes, my soul cast
naked back in this present world. Then in a rush, so a tumble of autumn leaves, came
further memory, of those three figures in the meadow, which only now I saw what they
had been, our Father and His Son, both the living and the dead, and 'he beside, and their
haymakers saints and angels; nor did I forget he who had brought me to this holy
knowledge. And misery, I smelled the sweet summer fragrance of June Eternal, that still
lingered faint upon the damp cavern air, and knew certain I had not dreamed, but lived.
My tears did flow, to think such had come and gone from me before I knew them truly. I
tell thee I did feel it more cruel than all that other cruelty I had seen. Yea, I was vain still,
still the harlot, I thought only of myself, one scorned and rejected, that had failed a great
test upon me. Poor fool, I knelt there on the stone and prayed I might be taken back,
where I had slept so sweet. No matter, my soul is wiser now.
Q. Enough of thy soul- was there light to see within the cavern?
A. Small. I might see.
Q. The maggot was gone?
A. Gone.
Q. As I thought - thou wert practised upon. Such an engine could never pass within, nor
out. None of this had substance outside thy woman's head; or what little it had thou hast
maliciously nursed and let grow inside thee like that worm in thy womb.
A. Thee may say. Deny what I am become, do what thee will, to me it matters not, nor to
Christ's truth. 'Tis thy own soul shall rue the day.
Q. Enough. Did you not search within the cavern? May his Lordship not have been asleep
in some corner, as yourself? Was there no sign?
A. There was sign. When I made at last to leave, my foot did stumble on his Lordship's
sword, that lay still where he had thrown it.
Q. Did you not pick it up?
A. No.
Q. And searched not to see if his Lordship might lie there?
A. He was gone.
Q. How gone?
A. Within where I last saw him.
Q. How know you this, were you not asleep?
A. I was, and I know not how, save that I am.
Q. Can you deny that he may have left some otherwise than in your engine?
A. I cannot, in thy alphabet; in mine I can, and do.
Q. You say, he was brought to your June Eternal?
A. Not brought, he is returned.
Q. What that these your holy visions had stripped you of your clothes, like common
thieves?
A. All Holy Mother Wisdom stole was my sinning past. That was no theft, she would
send me back with new clothes for my soul, and did, for I wear them still, and ever shall,
till I meet her again. I came out new-born from her spirit's womb.
Q. And most egregiously lied, did you not, so soon as Jones came up with you?
A. 'Twas not to spite him. Some are born broad and heavy, like ships, they may not be
turned by their conscience alone, nor Christian light. He made it plain he would use me
still, and I would not be used. I must make service of my wits, to escape his design.
Q. As thou dost now, to escape mine.
A. I tell thee truth, which thee won't have. In this thee's great proof theeself I must lie to
be believed.
Q. Downright lies or unchaste parables, it is all one. Now, mistress, it is grown late, but I
am not done with you, nor will I have you this night conspiring with your man to make
more parables still. You shall sleep beneath this roof, in the chamber where you dined, it
is clear? And shall speak to no man unless my clerk, who will watch you close as any
turnkey.
A. Thee's no right, and least in God's eyes. '
Q. I might have thee flung into the town gaol, mistress, where thou'dst sup on a crust and
water, and sleep on lousy straw. Argue more, thou shalt see.
A. 'Tis to my father and my husband thee must tell that. I know they wait.
Q. Cease thy impudence. Be gone with thee, and thank Heaven for my mercy. Thou dost
not merit it.

TEN MINUTES later three men stand stiffly across the room from Mr Ayscough, close
by the door through which they have entered, as if to venture further might risk infection
of some kind. It is clear they are a deputation of protest, and as clear that the lawyer has
changed his mind as to Rebecca's impudence. When she had left with her turnkey he had,
as earlier that day, walked to the window. The sun had only just set, and dusk had hardly
begun, but the square was far less busy than it had been that morning. One thing in it had
not diminished, however. Below the window, on the facing street-corner, still stood those
same three male figures, as sombre as the Erinnyes, and as implacable; but now behind
and beside them stood ten others, of whom six were women, three elderly, three younger,
and all dressed as Rebecca had been. One might have assumed it a group chancegathered,
were it not for this quasi-uniform, and even more in the way that all thirteen pairs of eyes
seemed fixed on one point only: the window where Ayscough had appeared.
He was made out; and in a ragged but rapid sequence, thirteen pairs of hands rose
in prayer to their breasts. The prayer was not offered. It was a statement, not a
solicitation; an obscure challenge, despite the lack of cries, of hostile or threatening
gestures. The group showed nothing but solemn, intent faces. Ayscough had stared down
at these pillars of righteousness for a few moments; then withdrawn in both senses of the
word, to face his returned clerk, who silently showed a large key in his hand, that with
which he had locked Rebecca in. He went to his desk and started to sort his sheets of
scrawled, indecipherable paper together, preparatory to a start upon its laborious
transcription. Suddenly Ayscough had spoken, it seemed crossly and curtly.
The clerk had looked surprised at what was commanded, but said nothing; then bowed
and left the room again.
The middle of the three men is the tailor James Wardley, who is the shortest, yet
has visibly the most authority. His hair is grey and, as is his two companions', long and
straight; his face worn and lined, that of a man older than his fifty years. He looks a
humourless plain-dealer; or would have done so, did he not wear steel-framed spectacles.
They bear peculiar pieces of dark glass on their arms, to shut out all side-light, and this
apparatus gives an abiding impression of myopic but intent malevolence, for the eyes
behind the very small lenses do not shift their gaze from the lawyer's. Neither he nor the
other two have removed their Quaker hats, and unconsciously show that feature common
to all members of extremist sects, whether political or religious, forced to consort with
more normal human beings: an awareness, both defiant and embarrassed, of how locked
away they are from conventional society.
Rebecca's husband stands gaunt as ever and visibly ill at ease. He seems, despite
his prophetic enthusiasm, distinctly awed by this formal present - far less a potential rebel
than a mournful outsider involved by chance. Unlike Wardley he stares at the floor
between the little lawyer and himself. One might almost believe he had not wished to be
present. But Rebecca's father is another matter. He wears a dark brown coat and breeches,
and seems of Wardley's age: a strong, square-set man, who means not to give an inch,
and is as determined in face as his son-in-law seems at a loss. If Wardley's stare is steady,
his is bold, even aggressive; and his hands by his side are clenched, as if for a fight.
Wardley is what he is by cantankerousness and love of argument; not that he lacks
faith in his beliefs and visions, but above all he enjoys that part of their exposition and
defence which allows him to mock his enemies' illogic (not least their smug contentment
in a grossly unjust world) and also - how sweet is bile - then to dispatch them to future
damnation. In him the spirit of Tom Paine - as of countless seventeenth-century
quarrellers, in the past - is alive; he is not a true French Prophet only in as much as his
eternal nature, non-conforming and uncomfortable, has found very different outlets in the
course of history.
Rebecca's melancholy husband is in truth no more than an ignorant mystic, who
has picked up the language of prophetic visions and yet is sure his utterances come by
divine inspiration: that is, he is self-gulled, or innocently self-believing. To speak so is
anachronistic. Like so many of his class at this time, he still lacks what even the least
intelligent human today, far stupider even than he, would recognize - an unmistakable
sense of personal identity set in a world to some degree, however small, manipulable or
controllable by that identity. John Lee would not have understood Cogito, ergo sum; and
far less its even terser modern equivalent-,1 am. The contemporary I does not need to
think, to know it exists. To be sure the intelligentsia of John Lee's time had a clear,
almost but not quite modem, sense of self; but the retrospective habit we have of
remembering and assessing a past age by its popes, its Addisons and Steeles, its
Johnsons, conveniently forgets how completely untypical artistic genius is of most human
beings of any age, however much we force it to be the reverse.
John Lee is, of course; but as a tool or a beast is, in a world so entirely pre-
ordained it might be written, like this book. He laboriously reads the Bible, and so does
he hear of and comprehend the living outside world around him - not as something to be
approved of or disapproved, to be acted for or against; but as it simply is, which is as it
always would or must be, an inalienably fixed narrative. He has none of Wardley's
comparatively emancipated, active and quasi-political mind, his belief that a man's
actions may change the world. His prophecies may predict such a change, but even in this
he is to himself but a tool, a ridden beast. Like all mystics (and many novelists, not least
the present one) he is baffled, a child, before the real now; far happier out of it, in a
narrative past or a prophetic future, locked inside that weird tense grammar does not
allow, the imaginary present.
You would never have got the tailor to admit that the tenets of the French
Prophets were simply convenient to his real nature and its enjoyment; and even less to
consider whether, had some miracle brought him national power instead of the mere
leadership of an obscure and provincial sect, he would not have been quite as grim a
tyrant as the man his sinister spectacles vaguely foreshadowed, Robespierre. These
various defects in his partners made Rebecca's father, the carpenter Hocknell, the most
straightforward and in many ways the most typical of the three.
Both his religion and his politics were ruled by one thing, the ;kill in his hands.
He was a much more practical man than either Wardley or John Lee; a good carpenter.
Of ideas in themselves he took little account, and regarded most as he regarded ornament
in his sister trades of joinery and cabinet-making - superfluous, and transparently sinful in
God's eyes. This marked tendency in Dissent towards severity of ornament, this stress on
structural solidity, good workmanship, sobriety of taste (at the expense :)f fancy,
elaboration, useless luxury and all the rest), came in the beginning, of course, from
Puritan doctrine. The aesthetic of a society of God-fearing Sobersides had by the 1730s
(or ever since 1660) largely been brought into contempt and discredit by the rich and
educated; but not among those like Hocknell.
Plain carpentry had become a religious template with him; and so did he judge
much else besides the working of wood. What mattered to him was that a thing, an
opinion, an idea, a man's way of life, should be plain, exact to its purpose; well built, well
pinned and morticed, well fitted to its function; and above all, not hidden by vain
ornament from what it truly was. What did not fit these homely precepts taken from his
trade was evil or ungodly. Aesthetic justness had become moral justice; simple was not
only beautiful, it was virtuous; and the most satanically unvirtuous piece of work of all,
grossly obvious beneath its unseemly and excessive ornament, was English society itself.
Hocknell was not such a bigot he refused to fit ornamental wall-cases, over-
carved mantels, whatever it might be, on demand; but counted it all devil's work. For fine
houses, fine clothes, fine carriages and a thousand other things that hid or travestied or
ignored the fundamental truths and elementary injustices of existence he had no time at
all. His principal truth was the truth of Christ, which the carpenter saw rather as
substantial and precious pieces of seasoned timber left abandoned in a yard than as a
fixed structure or house. They were there to be properly used and built by such as him.
The metaphors he used in his own prophecies tended very much to this kind of imagery;
the present house was rotten and must fall, while far better materials lay to hand. His
prophecies were plain beside those of his son-in-law, who seemingly had a close
speaking and seeing acquaintance with the Apostles and various Old Testament figures.
The carpenter hoped rather than firmly believed Christ's second coming was near; or
believed, like so many Christians before and after him, that it must be true because it
ought to be true.
It ought to be true, of course, because the Gospel may very easily be read as a
political document; not for nothing did the medieval church fight so long to keep it out of
the vulgar tongues of Europe. If all are equal in Christ's sight, and as regards entry
qualifications for Heaven, why are they not in human sight? No degree of theological
obfuscation or selective quotation justifying the Caesars of this world can answer that.
Nor did the carpenter forget the trade Christ's worldly father followed; and indeed drew a
fierce pride from the parallel, perilously close to the sin of vanity.
In ordinary terms he was a touchy, short-tempered man in many things, and
adamant for his rights, or as he saw them. They had included the patriarchal right to
command his daughters' lives and expel the one who had lapsed so flagrantly. Rebecca
had feared his reaction most when she returned. She had had the sense to seek her
mother's forgiveness first, and gained it - or rather, gained it if her father would allow.
She was then brought straight into his presence by her mother's hand. He was at work in a
new-built house, hanging a door; on his knees, about a hinge, and unaware of them, until
Rebecca spoke the one word, Father. He had turned, and given her the most terrible stare,
as if she were the Devil incarnate. She had fallen to her knees and bowed her head. Most
strangely his face began to work beneath its terrible stare; he had lost control of it, and
was in agony. The next moment she was snatched into his burly arms; and into a tide of
mutual sobs stemming from a much older human tradition than that of Dissent.
Yet surrender to attacks of intense emotion was an essential part of both its being
and its practice, perhaps not least because it stood so deeply against the aristocratic, then
the aping middleclass, and now the universal English tradition in such matters; which
dreads natural feeling (what other language speaks of attacks of emotion?) and has made
such an art of sangfroid, meiosis, cynicism and the stiff upper lip to keep it at bay. We
may talk coolly now in psychiatric terms of the hysterical enthusiasm, the sobbing, the
distorted speech in the gift of tongues, all the other wild phenomena found in so much
early Dissenting worship. We should do better to imagine a world where, once again, a
sense of self barely exists; or most often where it does, is repressed; where most are still
like John Lee, more characters written by someone else than free individuals in our
comprehension of the adjective and the noun.
Mr Ayscough walks from his table and sweeps past the three by the door - or more
exactly, tries to sweep, since he is shorter even than Wardley, and can no more truly
sweep than a bantamcockerel could pretend to be the old English gamecock of the inn
backyard. At any rate he does not look at the three faces of Dissent, and manages to
suggest by his expression that he is being very improperly put upon. The clerk gestures
the trio to follow s master's back, and they do so, with the sardonic scribe behind them.
The five men file into the room over the inn yard, Mr Ayscough leading. He goes
to the window, but does not turn. He oins his hands beneath his open coat at the back, and
stares out at the now dusk-filled yard. Rebecca stands by the bed, as if hastily risen from
it, and evidently surprised by this solemn delegation. She does not move to greet them,
nor they she, and there is a moment or two of that awkward suspension characteristic of
such meetings .
`Sister, this person would have thee rest here this night, against thy will.'
`It is not against my will, brother Wardley.'
`He hath no right in law. Thee be not charged.'
`I am obliged in conscience.'
`Hast thee asked counsel of Jesus Christ?'
`He says, I am obliged.'
`Hast thee not been ill treated in respect of thy state, both of soul and of body?'
`No. I have not.'
`Hath this man not wickedly tried to break thee of thy faith?'
`No.'
`Thee art sure?'
`Yes, I am sure.'
`Hath he not told thee thee must say these things, or thee shall suffer after?'
`No.'
`Be not afraid if he would taunt or corrupt or howsoever force thee from the light,
sister. Speak truth entire, and nothing but Christ's truth.'
`I have, and shall.'
Wardley is clearly set back by this calmness. Mr Ayscough still stares down into
the yard; one may suspect it is now partly to hide his face.
`Thee's sure that what thee dost is best in Christ?'
`Most sure, brother.'
`We would pray with thee, sister.'
But now Ayscough turns, and sharply. `You may pray for her, but not with her.
You have her word, I do her no ill, are you not done?'
`We shall pray with her.'
No, you shall not, sir. You have had the right to question her on what is pertinent.
I gave no right to hold a praying meeting also.'
`Friends, ye stand witnesses to this. Prayer is called impertinent.'
The clerk, who stands behind the three men, steps forward and reaches for the arm
nearest him, that of Rebecca's father, to encourage him to turn and go; but his touch is as
if scalding, for Hocknell twists round and catches his wrist, clamping it as in a vice; then
forces it down and stares fiercely at the clerk.
`Touch me not, thee ... devil.'
Wardley puts a hand on Hocknell's other arm.
 `Still thy righteous anger, brother. They shall be judged hereafter'
Hocknell looks for a few moments little inclined to obey; at last throws down the
clerk's wrist, and turns back to face the room.
Tis tyranny. They have no right to forbid prayer.'
`We are among infidels, brother.'
Hocknell looks across at his daughter. `Daughter, kneel.'
Rebecca does not move, in the silence that follows this abrupt paternal command;
and nor now do the men, since they feel it below their dignity to kneel before she does.
Her husband stares at the floor between them, more than ever as if he wished he were not
there; while Wardley stares beyond her into a middle distance. Now she comes in front of
her father, and smiles.
`I am thy daughter in all. Fear not, I shall not be bent again. I am Christ's daughter
also, now.' She pauses, then adds, `I pray thee, father, go in peace.'
Still the three stand, plainly doubting whether a woman can, or should, decide
such a matter. They regard the face before them with its innate meekness; and that has
also something other, a kind of simplicity, a levelheadedness, almost a judging of them.
A sceptic or an atheist might have suspected a contempt for them, for the way their faith
had deformed them, and their sex also; in which he would have been wrong. She felt pity,
not contempt, and in no way doubted the substance of the faith. Mr Ayscough had
seemed largely indifferent until this point; now he might be seen watching Rebecca
closely. It is Wardley who breaks the impasse.
‘More love, sister. Christ’s spirit be with thee.’
Her eyes watch her father's still angry ones.
`More love, brother.'
She picks up her father's hand and raises it to her lips; there seems some hidden
allusion to a past event, some previous taming of his rancorous temper. He does not look
appeased, and searches for something in her steady eyes, the faint smile, perhaps a simple
answer to the question of why she knows him, but he does not know her. He is like a man
shown, at this late stage of his life, a glimpse of something he has never recognized
before: a lightness, affection, a last echo of her former life; a thousand miles from solid
timber and moral judgements by setsquare, and so unplaceable by him. Yet there is no
hint of this when it comes to her husband. She turns and takes both his hands, does not
kiss them, or his face. Instead they exchange a look, that seems almost one between
strangers, despite their joined hands.
`Speak truth.'
`Yea, husband.'
And that is all. They go, and the clerk follows. Mr Ayscough is left alone with
Rebecca, and still watching her. She glances almost shily back at him, then meekly down.
For some moments he goes on watching her; suddenly, without further word, he leaves.
The door once closed, there is the sound of a key being turned in a lock. Rebecca listens
as his footsteps die away, before turning to the bed, and kneeling. Her eyes stay open, and
her mouth does not move. She stands again, and lies on the bed. Her hands begin to feel
her still only slightly swollen belly, and she cranes up for a moment to look down at it;
lets her head sink back and smiles, much more fully than before, up at the ceiling.
It is a strange smile, strange in its innocence. It shows no vanity or pride, no sense that
she has handled a situation well, no indication of a response to the awkward stiffness of
her three brothers in Christ. It seems much more a reflection of some deep inner
certainty; not of a kind she has actively earned, but of one she has been given, is simply
now in, beyond her willing. Rebecca shares one thing with her husband besides a general
faith: she too has a very indistinct sense of what defines and is common to every modern
ego. She smiles in fact because Christ's grace has just granted her her first prophecy: the
child inside her will be a girl. We should say today she has discovered she would like it
so; and completely misunderstand what she feels. Her smile is not that of such a personal
knowledge, and delight in it. It is the smile of one who has heard, is now written by, an
annunciation.

The Examination and Deposition of

James Wardley
the which doth witness but will not swear,
this fourth day of October
in the tenth year of the reign of our
sovereign Lord George the second,
by the grace of God King of Great Britain
and of England, &c.

MY NAME is James Wardley. I am tailor by trade. I was born in the year of 168 5, at
Bolton on the Moor in this county. I am married.

Q. Now, Wardley, the hour is late, my business with you is brief. I will not dispute with
you over your beliefs, I wish to ascertain only some facts, that touch upon Rebecca Lee.
She is one you count of your flock, your meeting, what you may call it?
A. I am no bishop nor vicar, to count souls like a miser his guineas. We live in
fellowship. She is sister, and believes what I believe.
Q. You teach the doctrine of the French Prophets, is it not so?
A. I teach truth, that this world is near its end by cause of its sins; and that Jesus Christ
returns, once more to redeem it. That whosoever shall show that faith in Him, and live by
His light, shall be saved. And all else shall be eternally damned.
Q. They to be damned are all those who do not follow you?
A. All those that follow Antichrist, that has ruled since the first church of the Apostles
ended; and hear not the Lord's word, revealed by grace of prophecy.
Q. You say all religion since then is Antichrist?
A. Until the Friends first came, this hundred years past. All else are possessed of the
Devil's great I. Go off, great I, and come not nigh. So say we.
Q. Believe you not in predestination, as the Calvinists?
A. Nay, and nor doth God.
Q. What is false in it?
A. It saith man may not change in the living Christ, nor war the flesh and put a cross
upon sin, if he so choose, as he should.
Q. Draw you this doctrine from the Bible?
A. Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God. The Book is good
witness, and much wisdom; yet is not all. So say we.
Q. How not all - is it not sacred truth, and infallible?
A. We say 'twas writ by good and holy men, they lied not by their lights. Such were of
their understanding then; in some things, not certain truth. 'Tis but words, that are fallible
in their season. The Lord was never beholden to letters, nor the Book his last testament;
for that is to say, He now is dead; which is vile heresy put about by Antichrist, so the
sinners may sin in the more peace. He is not dead, He lives, He sees all, and soon shall
come among us.
Q. I am told, you have no belief in the Holy Trinity.
A. That it is all male, and woman no part of it, we will not credit.
Q. Christ may come again in the form of woman, is it not so you blasphemously
proclaim?
A. What blasphemy lies in that? The first and greatest sin of all was the fornication of
Adam and Eve, who were guilty both and equally. Man and woman that sprang from
their loins, may be saved both; and may save both. Both may be in Jesus Christ's
likeness; and shall.
Q. Believe you He may be seen now in this world, tho' it be in secret, brought from
Heaven?
A. Christ is no secret. This world's present state doth answer thee. Had He been seen, it
had not been as it is, all blindness and corruption.
Q. What of Holy Mother Wisdom?
A. Who is she?
Q. Do you not so call the Holy Spirit?
A. Nay.
Q. You have heard it so called?
A. I deny thee.
Q. Nor Heaven, the life everlasting, called June Eternal?
A. Thee's been sold more rotten eggs than good, master. Heaven hath no special season,
'tis no more June than any other month.
Q. You forswear all carnal pleasure?
A. The carnal nature is mansion of Antichrist, there will we not enter. What frees us of
his chains is chastity, naught else. So say we, and do our best to live.
Q. This last I ask - doth by your faith the flesh of true believers survive death?
A. All flesh is corrupt, of those who have the light or not. The spirit alone is resurrected.
Q. This comes not of you alone, but of all who have declared themselves French
prophets?
A. Thee may judge. Thee may read of Misson and Elias Marion. Thomas Eames that be
gone to the Lord nigh these thirty years past. Sir Richard Bulkeley likewise. Thee may
solicit John Lacy, who liveth in this county till this day, that I know well, he is old now of
seventy-two years; and hath witnessed to the truth far longer than I.
Q. Very well, to my present purpose. You are persuaded Rebecca Lee doth believe as
you, as these you have named?
A. Yes.
Q. It is not by her husband's will, or her father's, to please both or either? As is common
in all religion, not only yours?
A. No. She is of our faith of her own conscience, for I have questioned her thereon, and
my wife also, who knows her better.
Q. Know you of her past - that she was whore in London?
A. She hath repented.
Q. I ask again - are you cognizant of her former life?
A. I have spoken to it with my brethren, and my wife with our sistren, and we hope she
shall be saved.
Q. But hope?
A. Jesus alone shall save, when the doom is done.
Q. You believe her sincere in repentance for her past life?
A. Aye, most earnest for salvation.
Q. To wit, she fits your beliefs, and is fanatickal in them?
A. I will not answer thee that. I come in peace.
Q. Did you not quit the Quakers upon this matter of peace - were you not born one?
A. I was born a friend of truth, and shall die one, but with this difference, praise the Lord,
for Christ's word I must fight. I treat not Christ's enemy as no business of mine, as they
now have wont to do. If such a one deny me in matters of the spirit, I must deny him
back.
Q. Did they not ban you from their meeting-house here?
A. I might still go if I was silent. Such is to say, a man may walk, if he will but wear
chains. And I will not, for Jesus Christ my master's sake.
Q. Were you not ejected by force from their meeting, this two years past?
A. I would prophesy His coming, and they would not bear it nor hear it.
O. Did you not say that civil authority was not to be borne by such as yourself, what you
called true Christians? And that civil authority was most signal instance of the sins for
which this world is doomed?
A. I said 'twas not to be borne when civil authority would make us do or swear against
our conscience. I did not say it was not to be obeyed in all else. Should I be before thee if
I believed other?
Q. I am told you would make all wealth and property to be shared commonly, and have
likewise spoken so.
A. I have prophesied it shall be so, when God's vengeance is done, among those who are
saved. I have not spoken it is to be done now.
Q. You maintain, it would be a better world, if it were done.
A. I maintain it shall be a better world, when it is done; as it shall be, by God's will.
Q. This world shall be a better place when it is overturned?
A. Christ overturned. We have good warrant.
Q. To bring riot and rebellion, is it not so?
A. Thee hast no proof for this, and there is none.
Q. You are how many here, of the French Prophets?'
A. Some forty or fifty, and some where I was born, in Bolton. And in London some, also.
Q, Then you are not strong!
A. Many littles make a mickle. Christ had less, when He began.
Q. Is not the reason you are not in seditious rebellion this, you are too weak to bring it to
success; but that you should, if you were stronger?
A. Thee shan't snare me in thy cunning supposings, master lawyer. We obey the civil law
in all matters civil, we hurt no man, unless it be in his conscience. We would make
rebellion against sin, yea, we will go sword in hand against sin, which is the soul's
saving. There is no law against that. And when we are strong, there shall be no civil
rebellion; for all will see we live in Christ and shall join us. Then shall there be peace and
true respect among men.
Q. The law demands obedience to the established church and its authority, does it not?
A. Aye. And Rome was once the established church.
Q. The Protestant and established church of this kingdom is as evil and corrupted as that
of Rome, is it how you say?
A. I say all churches are made of men. Men are of flesh, which is born corrupt. I do not
say all men of the established church are corrupt. Hast thee read A Serious Call? I will
not judge he that wrote it, William Law, that is of thy church, an evil man. Nay, he puts
most others in it to shame, that are blind as mouldwarps to Christ's light.
Q. Which is to say they are not fit for what they are. This is plain invitation to rebellion
against them. Just so were our forefathers made to fall into their errors and intolerance
this century past. You are damned of your own mouth, and of history beside.
A. And thee of thine own, if thee'd make an evil man, or a blind, fit to be what he is
because he is what he is. Thee may call the Devil good and fit, by such an argument.
Thee'd not buy thy meat off a bad butcher, nay, nor go to one of my trade that sewed ill.
But thee'll not qualm to hear the Word of Christ betrayed, coined false as by any forger.
For lo, if he wear bands, and carry a dog's-tail of alphabet letters after his name, he may
drink, he may whore, he may do what he will, for he is fit.
Q. Is this your peace and respect among men? Mr Fotheringay shall hear of it.
A. Is this thy no disputing upon my beliefs? And much good may it do him.
Q. Enough. I will know this. Hath the woman Lee prophesied at your meetings?
A. Nay.
Q. Hath she spoken in any way, publicly or privately, of what brought her to her new
piety?
A. Save she had grievous sinned and stood sore shent by her past life.
Q. She hath not talked of any particular occasion to make her change her ways?
A. Nay.
Q. Nor place nor day?
A. Nay.
Q. Nor of other persons present, if there were such an occasion?
A. Nay.
Q. You are certain?
A. She is meek, as she should be; and lives now in Christ, or would live in Him.
Q. How, would live? Is she not persuaded yet?
A. She is not yet moved to prophesy. Which comes by Christ's grace, for which we pray.
Q. That she may rant with the best of you?
A. She may be given the glorious tongue of the light, and proclaim it, as my wife doth,
and others.
Q. She is till now deficient in this?
A. She hath not prophesied.
Q. May it not be that she deceives you?
A. Why should she deceive?
Q. To pretend she is no longer what she was, tho' at heart she remain so.
A. She lives for Christ, so she may one day live in Christ. She and her husband are poor,
as bare stone are they poor, he earns not enough for them to live by. Why should she
feign to live so, when she might live else, in luxuriousness and lechery, as she did in thy
Babylon?
Q. Do you not supply to their needs?
A. When I may, and her brothers and sisters in Christ also.
Q. Is this charity particular, or given to all in need?
A. To all. For so said George Fox and the blessed first brothers, the soul's tabernacle must
be decent fed and clothed before the light of truth may pierce to the soul itself. And I'll
tell thee why they said, they saw about them the greatest most of mankind live in misery,
worse than brutes; and saw also those who might and should relieve them, they that had
more than sufficient to clothe and feed themselves and theirs, did not, from their selfish
vanity and greed. And further, how this lack of charity did stink as a carrion in the Lord
Jesus Christ's nostrils, and shall damn all who are so blind. Now call us rebels if thee
will, for yea, we are rebels in this, and call our giving most good and fellowly, and best
mirror of Jesus Christ's true commonwealth. Call us rebels, thee call Him rebel also.
Q. Christ gave in compassion. This is not your case. You give to suborn they who know
no better from their rightful station.
A. Is rightful station to starve and go in rags? Why man, thee should walk in the street
where the sister lives. Thee's eyes, hast thee not?
Q. Eyes to see she is well hid behind your coat-skirts, and provided for, in this miserable
town.
A. So well hid, thee's found her.
Q. She has been sought many months.
A. Here, I have a guinea upon me I was paid but yesterday for two coats I have made.
Lay one of thine to it, and I will give both in Toad Lane to those thee think in their
rightful station, that yet starve and live worse than beggars. What, thee won't? Don't thee
believe in charity, master?
Q. Not in such charity that goes to the nearest gin-shop.
A. Nor tomorrow, neither. I see thee's a careful man. Look thee, did Jesus Christ not give
for thee, and far more than a guinea's worth? Think'st thee He was so careful as theeself
and said, Mayhap I'd best not redeem this man, he is weak, my blood shall go to the gin-
shop?
Q. You grow insolent, I will not have it.
A. Nor I thy guinea. We are well matched.
Q. I say, there is possibility she did great crime.
A. She has done no great crime, save she was born Eve. Thee knows it well as I.
Q. I know she is most suspicious close to a great liar.
A. Come, I know thee by thy repute. They say thee a fair man, though strict in thy
master's service. Thee'd deny repute with me, so be it, I am well used to such. Thee'd
break me and all who believe as I upon thy books of law, that are eleven inches in their
foot no more than custom made iron to wall the rich against the poor. We shall not be
broke, nay, try thy worst, it shall never be. All thy rods shall be but flails, to make us the
better grains of wheat. I'll tell thee now a tale of my father's time, in the year of
Monmouth, that was also of my birth, '85. For Jesus be praised, he was a Friend of Truth
ever since he had met George Fox, who first saw the light, and his wife at Swarthmoor;
and was brought to gaol upon a trumpery charge at Bolton. Where while he lay there
came one Mr Crompton, who was magistrate and to judge him, and would exhort him to
mend his ways and adjure the fellowship of the Friends. Whereat my father would not be
swayed, and spake so well of his beliefs that in the end 'twas the magistrate was left the
more shaken in his own. For in the end he spake to my father aside and said this: there are
two justices in this world, and in one was my father innocent, which was the justice of
God; and guilty only by the other, that was men's. And three years after was this
magistrate cause of great scandal, for he threw off his chains and came to us, tho' it cost
him dear, great loss in many things of this world. Who did greet my father thus when first
they did encounter in fellowship, saying, It is now for thee to judge me, friend, that I
wove so poor a piece before; yet now I know justice without light is warp without weft,
and will never make fair cloth.
Q. The bench was well rid of him. A nation is lost which distinguisheth not law from sin.
Crime is of fact, that may be proven or not. Sin is for God alone to judge.
A. Thee's blind to truth.
Q. And thou art blind to what all men other have judged and think. Once sin is made
crime, gross tyranny doth ensue, such as the Inquisition hath plainly shown among the
Papists.
A. Inquisition sits well in thy mouth, master lawyer. Men think, men think - aye, most
men think. And most to this life, and what shall best suit their sinning lives in it. And
little to that court above, where all shall be charged. There shall thee find whether sin is
judged of a farthing's weight beside thy law, that is given of Antichrist.
Q. No more. Thou art a most obstinate fellow.
A. And ever shall be, so long as I am Christian, praise the Lord.
Q. I will tomorrow have no unrest from thee or thy sectaries, is it understood? No, nor
standing there below. I warn thee, cool thy mischievous temper. Else will I summon Mr
Fotheringay straight, who knows what I am about, and my enquiry just and proper. Be
off.
EARLY THE NEXT morning Rebecca is ushered into Ayscough’s presence, in the same
room as the previous day. It is quite a large one, with a massive and bulbous-legged
seventeenth-century table also. This is not a converted bedchamber, but used for an
occasional dining-room, club-room, private meeting-place as the inn requires. Rebecca's
place is six feet of polished oak from that of her interlocutor. Most surprisingly he stands
to greet her, almost as if she were a lady. He does not bow as he would have done to such
a person, yet faces her and gives her a small nod of acknowledgement, and gestures her to
her seat. Already a bone tumbler of water waits on the table before it; need there, it
seems, is foreseen.
`You are well rested, mistress, you have broke your fast?'
`Yes.' '
`You have no complaint of your lodging?'
`No.'
`You may sit.'
She sits, but he remains standing. He turns to John Tudor, who has sat himself to
one side at the end of the table, and makes a quick gesture of the hand: what first is to be
said is not to be recorded.
`I must praise you for your conduct yesterday eve, that you gave no countenance
to the troublous malice Wardley and your father showed. You gave good example there.'
`They meant no ill.'
`There we must disagree. No matter, mistress Rebecca. An august parent may
differ in all else from a humble one. But in this, the loss of a son, they are as one, and as
deserving of our concern. Is it not so?'
`I have told all I know.'
Ayscough looks down into those fixed and now obscurely puzzled eyes, lost by
this change of attitude in him. After that last answer he tilts his head and wig slightly in
his characteristic way, as if he expects her to say something more. But she does not, and
he walks away to the window, and looks out thoughtfully; then turns to face her again.
`Mistress Rebecca, we lawyers must be thrifty. We must glean our fields more than other
men, we must hold the smallest grain of truth precious, the more so when there appears
great dearth of it. I would ask more of what your present piety must find it offensive to
have made quick again.'
`Ask. I would not forget I sinned.'
Ayscough contemplates the waiting, unyielding face in the light of the windows
he stands by.
`Mistress, I will not rehearse the tale you told me yesterday, it is fresh in your
mind. I would say this first, before we begin. If, having had this last night to reflect, you
should now wish to change your sworn evidence, you shall have no blame. If aught of
consequence was left out, if you told not exact truth by reason of fear for your state or
any other cause, you shall not suffer. On that I give you my word.'
`I have told truth in all.'
`To the best of your belief all passed as you say?'
`Yes.'
‘His Lordship was transported to Heaven?'
'Yes.'
 `Mistress Rebecca, I might wish it were so, nay, I wish it so. But I have an
advantage of you. You knew his Lordship for scarce more than a month, when he did
hide much from you, as you have admitted. I have known him for these many years,
mistress. Alas he I knew, and many others likewise knew, was not he you portray.'
Rebecca makes no answer. It is as if he has not spoken. Ayscough waits, then
continues.
`I will tell you a little of him, in great confidence, mistress. The attention he
bestowed upon you would astound his own family or circle, who counted him the
churlishest man alive towards your ex. Why, in that he was called Poor John, closer to
dead fish than human flesh. Nor in his previous life, mistress, had he shown the
least respect for established religion, despite his rank. He was no more seen happily on
his knees in church than swallows out of their winter mud. I may believe you were eager
to leave your former life, most ripe for whatever should assist you in that, very well. It is
his Lordship providing that assistance, and you but a common strumpet, mistress, which
he had never set eyes on in his life till a month before. That, on my life, I cannot credit.'
Again he waits for her to reply, again she does not. He walks back to his chair
across the table, with her eyes still on his. He might perhaps have hoped for some
weakening, some defensiveness in them, but they retain that same strange blend of
meekness and fixity as before, almost as if she is deaf to all reason. He goes on.
`I speak not of much else, mistress, that I likewise cannot credit. Of your being
brought to a chief place of pagan idolatry to meet Our Lord and His Most Sacred Father,
in most impious circumstance, and scarcely the less at a Devonshire cavern, and there
more improbable still in all else. Of poor husbands and carpenters being made divine, this
female figure the Holy Spirit beside; why, that Wardley tells me is not even known
among your own prophets, nor your June Eternal neither. Mistress Rebecca, you are no
common fool; nor woman that has not seen the world. Would you not, if you heard such a
tale as yours from another, doubt either the teller's reason, or your own? Would you not
cry, I cannot and will not believe this absurd and blasphemous tale, it must be got up to
bubble and deceive, to blind me from some much plainer truth?'
Still Rebecca will not answer beyond staring at him, though clearly she now must
make some response. What happens is in fact what has happened a number of times in
this interrogatory. She is extremely slow to answer. It is not the look, or seems not the
look, of one searching for words, hesitant and embarrassed; but much more a strange
pause, as if she must have Ayscough's words first translated from a foreign language
before she can frame a reply. She lacks completely Wardley's aggressive promptness and
sharpness of repartee; on occasion it is almost as if she answers not for herself, but waits
until some mysterious adviser puts one in her mind.
`I answer that most doubted or disbelieved when Christ first came. I have told
truth plain, I can no more.'
`You are too modest, mistress. Why, Claiborne said you had as well been actress
as what you were. Have you not admitted there was no truth in what you told Jones? You
may say it was forced then upon you to lie, but not that you did not lie.'
`It was not falsehood upon great matters.'
`To be brought to paradise to meet God Almighty and His Son is no great matter?'
`So great it may hardly be said in words. I knew not then how to say it in words, I
know it not still, to thee. Yet so did it come to pass, and I was given sight of Jesus Christ
and His Father; which filled my soul with balm and greatest joy by Their presence, yea, a
pleasure more than mortal.'
`The Almighty a yeoman, the Redeemer a haymaking labourer, is that seemly?'
`Is God the Holy Father not so because he sits not in glory on a throne, is Jesus
Christ not Jesus because He groans not on a cross? Angels not angels because I see them
not with wings, that they bear sickles in their hands, not harps or trumpets? I told thee, I
was brought up to count all images of godliness false, of Satan. What I did see was
shadows of the light alone, seen of my body; of my soul I saw the light, and first-last
object of my love.'
`You may see with your eyes what you please, since all you see is counted false?
Is it not so?'
`What I see with my eyes is of the body carnal, not certain truth, which is of light
alone. I see no less true or false than thee in carnal seeing, or any other man and woman.'
Ayscough is left, after this exchange, in a dilemma, though he conceals it. A
modern person would not have had a shadow of doubt that Rebecca was lying, or at least
inventing. Gods, except for an occasional Virgin Mary to illiterate Mediterranean peas-
ants, no longer appear; even in Ayscough's time such visions were strongly associated
with Catholic trickery, something good Protestants expected and despised. Yet his
England, even his class of it, was still very far from our certainties. Ayscough, for
instance, believes in ghosts; he has never seen one himself, yet has heard and read too
many accounts, and by no means all from old wives and dotards, not to credit some of
them. Ghosts and spirits did not then come from an idle, fancy-nursing imagination, they
came from the very real night, still largely unlit, of a lonely England, that still held fewer
human beings altogether than a fraction of modern London.
Ayscough has certainly supported the repeal of the Witchcraft Act (though not for
Scotland) in this very year. But this is largely because he now associates the witchcraft
cases he has heard of, even attended as a younger man, like the occasional uses of the
ducking-stool, with defective law and always disputable evidence. He does not say to
himself there has never been witchcraft; rather that its worst aspects have lapsed. That
some malign and wicked coven in a remote part of Devonshire still follows ancient
practices remains very far from the bounds of possibility. He may feel, he does feel,
Rebecca is nine parts hiding truth in her holier vision (against which he has his own
knowledge of his master's son to argue, and an ancient dislike of him muted behind
respect for rank); but there remains an irreducible one part, of possible truth, he cannot
quell. He will never reveal it; yet there it sticks, a nagging thorn in his side.
`You will not change your evidence? I repeat, you shall not suffer.'
'Nor from truth shall I suffer. I will not change.'
`Very well, mistress. I give you this great favour, that were we in a court of law,
you should not have. Yet you will not have it. So be it, and upon your head if you prove
false. Now we shall begin upon oath.' He sits down and glances to John Tudor at the
table-end. `Write all.'
Q. Let us keep to thy carnal seeing, for all its words may be false. Are you certain you
had never, before his Lordship came to you at the bagnio, seen him?
A. No, I had not.
Q. Nor heard speak of him?
A. No.
Q. Your services were often taken in advance, was it not so?
A. Yes.
Q. Was it so with his Lordship?
A. It was writ in Claiborne's book, friend of Lord B……, under my name.
Q. How long in advance was it writ?
A. She told me nothing of it till the morning of when he came.
Q. This was her usual custom?
A. Yes.
Q. And you saw not what was entered, but was first informed by what she read out?
A. I knew not who he was till after, as I said.
Q. You went out sometimes upon the town? To routs, ridottos, the theatre, elsewhere?
A. On occasion, but never alone.
Q. Then how?
A. In larking, when we must always be with Claiborne and her bully-boys about us.
Q. What is larking?
A. To snare sinners to the bagnio. Those who were lured and asked for assignations were
told they might have them at the bagnio only.
Q. You or your companions never made private assignations?
A. We suffered if we were found to cheat her.
Q. You were punished?
A. We should dine with the bully-boys. 'Twas called so. And then were we treated worse
than any punishment by law. She ruled us thus. Better die than dine, we were used to say
among ourselves.
Q. You yourself were never so treated?
A. I have known who were.
Q. None the less, you were to be seen in public places. Might not his Lordship have first
seen you so?
A. If he did, I saw him not.
Q. Nor Dick?
A. No.
Q. After you had met, did his Lordship never say to suggest he had seen you before? That
he had long sought to meet you, or words of that ilk?
A. No.
Q. He might have heard of you, notwithstanding? There was gossip of you about the
town?
A. Alas.
Q. Now this - did you ever, to any whatsoever, confide you were not happy with your lot
and would be rid of it?
A. No.
Q. Not in the bosom of some fellow whore?
A. I might trust none. Nor any else.
Q. Was not his Lordship's assiduity after you had met, when he could take no ordinary
pleasure in you, most unaccustomed?
A. He had pleasure in hope, so it seemed.
Q. He gave you no sign you was chosen for purpose other than the hope then alleged?
A. No. Not one.
Q. He asked you of your past, did he not?
A. Two or three questions, not more.
Q. Did he not ask you of your life in the bagnio? Whether you were not tired of it,
perchance?
A. He asked of it, but not whether I was tired, tho' most men do. 'Tis nine parts fear of
their own sin.
Q. How is that?
A. Is it better a man fears he sins, yet still will sin? Some did like to call whore and still
worse at the height of their animal passion; others by the names of those they love, yea,
even to those of their wives and God forgive them, their mothers, sisters, daughters. And
others be speechless animals like those they use. All that dwell in the flesh are damned,
but those last, not most.
Q. What doctrine is this? They that sin as coarsest brutes are less to be blamed than they
who sin with conscience of their culpability?
A. God is now; or He is not.
Q. I follow you not, mistress.
A. He judges men by what they are, not what they would be; and most blames not those
who know no better, but those who do.
Q. God has seen fit to open His mind to you concerning this, is it so?
A. What harm have we done thee, master Ayscough? We mean thee no harm, why should
thee be so resolute to harm us, to scorn when we speak plain? Our beliefs come from
God, yea; but we are humble in them, also. We do not say they are revealed to us alone;
nay, to all else beside, so be it they worship not the Antichrist. I say this: they who dwell
in the flesh are damned, more great or more small it matters little, they are damned.
Q. To my point. Believe you, before you had left London, his Lordship had made
especial enquiry to find if you were apt to his purpose, to wit, you would quit the bagnio
if you might?
A. I had no inkling before the temple.
Q. Must he none the less not have discovered such? Were you not chosen, mistress, take
that how you will?
A. I was saved, not chosen.
Q. That is one. You must be chosen to be saved.
A. I knew not one nor t'other then.
Q. Very well, let this rest for now. I will follow where you'd lead me with your damning.
May man and woman not dwell sometimes in the flesh, if they be lawfully wed? Why
answer you not? Come, are they not enjoined to procreate?
A. They shall not live in June Eternal.
Q. Did you not say you saw children there?
A. Of the spirit. They were not carnal flesh, as us. Thee'd scorn we do abhor all sin of the
flesh, and would cross it. I tell thee all I saw there in June Eternal were spirits of they
who did fight while they lived against this evil sin, and are now rewarded. In their reward
lies holy proof of what we believe.
Q. Is this the doctrine of the French Prophets?
A. And of Christ beside, that married not.
Q. All pleasure of the flesh is sinful?
A. Most this one, it is the source of all sin else. Unless we cross it, we shall not be saved.
Q. I ask again, mistress. Is your man one with you in this, or the rather, not one?
A. I'll answer thee again. 'Tis between Christ and us, 'tis not thy business.
Q. Why should you not answer, Yes, he agrees, we live in Christ? Is it this, you may not
agree? (Non respondet.) Very well, let your silence speak for you. What make you now
of his Lordship's part in your story? Why think you he should choose you? Why, of all
others he might have saved, if it were his purpose, did he come to you, and none other?
A. I was in need.
Q. Are others not in as great a need, and far the less sinners?
A. What I was is ashes, it is punishment for my long and wilful blindness.
Q. That answers not my question.
A. Christ's mercy comes oft where it seems least deserved.
Q. There I'll not dispute, mistress.
A. It cannot be for what I was, nor what I am, tho' that is better than what I was. It shall
be for what I do.
Q. What shall you do?
A. What women are in this world to do, whether they will it or not.
Q. All this has taken place that you may be by child?
A. The child I bear is but the carnal sign.
Q. Sign of what?
A. More light and more love.
Q. The child shall bring them, or you by giving it birth shall do so?
A. She shall bring the more.
Q. What, are you so certain she shall be of your sex? Answer.
A. I cannot, in thy alphabet.
Q. Mistress, there is one and one only alphabet, that is plain English. How are you certain
of this?
A. I know not, save I am.
Q. And when she is grown, I doubt not she shall preach and prophesy.
A. She shall be handmaid to Holy Mother Wisdom.
Q. Is it not to a most wicked and blasphemous greater station still that you aspire for her?
(Non respondet.) Have I not plumbed thy depths? Is it not so among thy prophets? Do
they not most impiously assever that when Christ is come again, He shall be changed to
woman? May God forgive me for uttering the very thought, dost thee not in secret believe
there is now carried in thy womb such a woman-Christ?
A. No, no, I swear no, I am not so vain, I have never said this, even to my inmost heart.
Q. Said it, thou mayst not. I wager thou'st thought it.
A. No, I say no. How should such a one come from so great a sinner?
Q. How indeed, unless she believed herself grown saint - as well she might, having been
vouchsafed to meet God and His Son, and the Holy Spirit beside. Do you deny that by
your prophetick lights such a Christ in petticoats may come?
A. I deny with all my soul I have believed it she I carry.
Q. Be not so modest, mistress. You have been honoured by the most high. Why should
you not believe a diviner seed than that of Dick at work inside you?
A. Thee would snare me. Thee knows not what it is to be woman.
Q. I have a wife, and two daughters both older than you, and grand-daughters beside.
What is woman? Mistress, i have heard that riddle, and had it answered.
A. No riddle. As I was used when whore, so I may be used still. And all women beside.
Q. How, all women are whores?
A. Whores in this. We may not say what we believe, nor say what we think, for fear we
be mocked because we are women. If men think a thing be so, so must it be, we must
obey. I speak not of thee alone, it is so with all men, and everywhere. Holy Mother
Wisdom is not heard nor seen, nor what she might bring if she were let.
Q. What she would bring, we'll pass. I'd know what you would bring in the womb,
mistress.
A. She I carry, yea, she shall be more than I, I am but brought to bring her. That she shall
be Jesus Christ who comes, I say I am not worthy, nor so vain. Whoever she shall be, I
shall not weep, no, but shall thank the Lord with all my heart I was given her. And 'tis
time I tell thee this more. His Lordship was not lord in this world alone, but in a far
greater, that he must conceal. What I took as his cruelty was his kindness, tho' I saw it not
at the first, and sign also he saw this world's people do live in the night of Antichrist. He
spake most often in such a manner he might not be obliged to say what he was, unless to
those that grace awakened. Yea, he was as one that finds himself in a country at war with
his own, where he must dissemble his true allegiance; yet would not hide all, to those he
might trust or had hope in. Mistake not, I do not say he was He of the Book. I say he was
of His spirit, and both spake and did for Him, in His name. I spake this yesterday of his
Lordship and his man, how in much they seemed as one. And now do I see they were as
one in truth, Dick of the carnal and imperfect body, his Lordship of the spirit; such twin
natures as we all must hold, in them made outward and a seeming two. And as Jesus
Christ's body must die upon the Cross, so must this latterday earthly self, poor
unregenerate Dick, die so the other half be saved. I tell thee now again I believe that other
self shall be seen no more upon this earth, no not ever as he has been; yet is he not dead,
but lives in June Eternal, and is one with Jesus Christ, as I saw. There, I have said it plain,
too short and plain, and thee will not believe.
Q. You say, his Lordship was carried away upon this maggotmachine, it was sent
divinely to bear him from this world?
A. Yes.
Q. Despite he first hired you and set you to great lewdness?
A. So I might see there lay the road to Hell. He took no part nor pleasure in it.
Q. Despite his other self, this carnal self you speak of, this brute Dick, did take such
pleasure?
A. For which he must die. It became not, after that first, base or lewd pleasure; but as I
said, pity and affection, which it surprised me I felt so strong, as I said; and could not
understand it should be thus. Now I know he who wept in my arms was the fallen half,
the flesh, the shadow beneath the light, and suffered in such knowledge; so Christ, when
He cried was forsaken.
Q. Despite most of all, that none other has seen this in them? I gave you truth there,
mistress. The master disdainful of all expected of his noble rank, disobedient of his
gracious father, disrespectful of God, rebellious to family duty, the servant closer kin to a
beast than to a human being; so might be said of them, so were they to all the world save
you.
A. I care not what other people believed. I know only what I believe myself; and shall do,
till I die.
Q. You say his Lordship must conceal, he must dissemble his true allegiance, to wit that
he is, or was, of the spirit of the Redeemer. How is this, mistress? Is it so Our Lord
conducted himself - did He not most eximiously hold truth above all else? Why, does the
Evangel ever bear report of Him concealing and dissembling, like some two-faced spy in
fear for his own skin? What say you to that? Is it not blasphemy even to think it?
A. The Pharisees are grown strong.
Q. What mean you by that?
A. Christ cannot come as He would to this world, it is too dark with sin. He shall come
when it is purged of Antichrist, in all His glory. In these presents He should be crucified
again, if He were known to be among us, and did teach as He taught before; and the more
so, should He come as woman. All would be as thee, and put him to mock and scorn,
crying that God cannot partake of the sex of Eve, it is blasphemy. He shall come when
Christians are grown true Christians again, as they were at the first. Then shall He come
as He is, or She as She is.
Q. Meanwhile there are ventured only surrogates and agents, is it so?
A. Thee'd see all by this world's lights. Hast thee not read the Apostles? Except a man be
born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God. Things seen are temporal; unseen, is eter-
nal. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. So did
God frame this world. Thee'd keep me still cunning harlot, thee'd keep his Lordship still
disobedient son, and Dick, mere beast. If so thee see, so it must be, thee cannot change.
Once only born, thee must live by thy lights, willy-nilly.
Q. Mistress, this stinks of rank pride, for all your face of humility.
A. I am proud in Christ, but naught else. I will speak for His light, notwithstanding I
speak it ill.
Q. And in defiance of all common and prescribed belief?
A. Christ's kingdom is not must. If a thing must be, it is not of Christ. A harlot must be
always harlot, is not Christ. Man must rule always over woman, is not Christ. Children
must starve, is not Christ. All must suffer for what they are born, is not Christ. No must
by this world's lights is Christ. It is darkness, 'tis the sepulchre this world doth lie in for
its sins.
Q. Now you would deny the very heart of Christianity. Doth the sacred Bible not
prescribe our duty, what we must do?
A. It tells what it is best we do, not what we must; for many do not do it.
Q. Must we not obey Christ?
A. If first we are free not to obey Him; for He would have us choose Him freely,
therefore we must be free also to choose evil and sin and darkness. There is no must in
that. So have I heard Brother Wardley speak. Christ dwells always in tomorrow, in hope
however much we sin and are blind today, tomorrow the scales shall drop and we be
saved. And further, how all His divine power and His mystery must lie in this, that He
tells us man may change of his own will; and by His grace, so be redeemed.
Q. This your belief you have taken of Wardley?
A. Also of my own mind, when I look upon my past life, and this present.
Q. Does not this belief, that man may change, the which any reasonable man may
approve in matters of the soul and its redemption, not show itself a most opprobious and
dangerous principle when it is carried into matters of this world? Must it not lead to civil
war and revolution, to the upsetting of all lawful order? Does it not become the most
wicked notion that every man must change, and be brought to his change by bloody force
and cruel tumult if he will not do so of his own free will?
A. Such change is not of Christ. Even though it be done in His name.
Q, Is not this why the Prophets have parted company with the Quakers - who will not
take sword in hand for their beliefs?
A. 'Tis no more true than wheaten bread is brown. We would conquer by our faith and by
persuasion alone; not by the sword. Such is not Christ's way.
Q. Then now you deny Wardley. For yesterday he did proclaim to me he would go sword
in hand against those who did not believe as he did; and made other contumacious threats
upon the present government of this nation.
A. He is man.
Q. And seditious.
A. I know him better than thee. Among his own, he is kind and compassionate. And of
good sense, except where he is threatened by persecution.
Q. I tell thee, he has no good sense, and one day soon shall suffer for it. No matter,
enough of thy sermoning. Let us come now to Dick. You would make more of him than
any who knew him before. Do you say behind his outward there was hidden one less
lacking?
A. He did suffer for what he was, he was no beast in that.
Q. Do you say as much, he understood far better than most supposed?
A. He understood he was fallen.
Q. And else beside? You have said most high things of his master. What make you of
this: was it not Dick who did seem to lead on the last morning? He, not his Lordship, who
seemed best to know when you should leave the highway, as when you should dismount
and proceed afoot? He who did first mount above while his Lordship and you did wait
below?
A. Some knowledge in him there was that more complete men, even such as his
Lordship, lack.
Q. You saw nowhere evidence to conclude either had been in these parts on previous
occasion?
A. None.
Q. It must seem that Dick had known the place, by what he did? You have no suspicion,
by what means he knew?
A. He knew not of God by rote; yet of his heart. As beasts may return home, though lost
at great distance from it, and no man to guide them.
Q. Do you maintain, your June Eternal and your visions was as home to him?
A. He did greet Holy Mother Wisdom when first she came to us so a faithful dog long
kept from its mistress, who now must fawn upon her.
Q. Jones said he did run from the cavern before you came out yourself as one in great
fear and horror, that had but a single thought, to escape. What dog does so, having
refound its mistress?
A. One that cannot cross its sin, and is not fit.
Q. Why doth this Holy Mother Wisdom, that will show such kindness and mercy to you,
show none to a poor creature? Why is he let to run off and commit this great sin of felo de
se?
A. Thee'd have me answer what only God can answer.
Q. I'd have thee answer what I may believe.
A. I cannot.
Q. Then I'll put such an answer in thy mind. Might he not in his ignorance be moved by
one likely cause alone, that he did see his Lordship killed before his eyes, or snatched
away, in some manner henceforth lost to him as protector?
A. I know not what passed, I slept.
Q. Mistress, first, he leads you to this place, which doth further lead to the presumption
he knew what should pass there; yet despite this, what doth pass doth bring him to end his
days. Is not this most dark?
A. All is dark if God wills it.
Q. And dark also, woman, tho' falsely so, if you yourself will answer thus, and play the
self-elected saint among the clouds, above such flim-flam things as common reason. I
marked it when first I told you Dick was dead. What woman hears the father of the child
she bears is dead, and makes so little cry and to-do as you? As if she but hears of a
nobody's death? Yet who declares herself later more enamoured of him than of any other,
she, why she of all women, who's known more lovers than stinking flesh has blow-flies?
Who answers now she cannot tell, she cannot know, the matter is of no consequence?
What of this?
A. This of it, I do bear his child, and yet my heart rejoices he is dead; and that for his
sake, not mine. Now he shall rise again, without his sins.
Q. Is this your Christian fellowship?
A. I say again, thee'd have me mirror of my sex, that thine has made. I will not suit. I
have told thee I was harlot still, I did sate his lust; for so was he, lust incarnate, as bull or
stallion. Can thee not see I am changed, I am harlot no more, I am Christ's reborn, I have
seen June Eternal? I will not suit. By faith the harlot Rahab perished not with them.
Q. Thou art worse than reformed harlot. Thou art bishopess, woman, why, thou'dst dare
to make a theology of thy foolish fancyings, thy flibberty-gibberty dreamings with thy
June Eternals here, thy Holy Mother Wisdoms there - what right hast thou to coin such
names, when even thy fellow conventiclers know them not?
A. I have told them to none save thee, nor shall not. Other names beside I have not told
thee, nor shall not. All are no more than words in this world, tho' signs to greater than
words hereafter. Are thy steeple-house hymns and anthems evil, that use words to rejoice
in the Lord? Are they not to praise Him, 'less licensed by government?
Q. Watch thy tongue.
A. If thee'll watch thine.
Q. This is brazen impudence.
A. 'Twas not I that provoked it.
Q. Enough. It was this, to thy mind Dick died by guilt of his lust for thee?
A. So he might cross and deny his fleshly self, that sinned.
Q. Thou wast never by child before?
A. No.
Q. Tho' with more than ample chance. How many times wast thou ridden, of a busy
night? (Non respondet.) A pox on thy piety, answer. (Non respondet.) No matter, I may
guess. What of this bastard thou'dst palm off on thy man?
A. My barrenness was Christ's will; and His will, that I am what I now am. My husband
shall be her father in this world, as Joseph to Jesus, she shall be no bastard.
Q. What of its father not in this world?
A. Thy world is not my world, nor Jesus Christ's neither.
Q. I will have it said what thou'dst hide from me, woman. Which is the most father in thy
unruly mind-is it Dick or is it his Lordship?
A. His Lordship is what he is, no less, no more; which is not father in this world.
Q. But in another thou dost count him so?
A. Of the spirit, not the seed.
Q. Is it not divinely appointed it is sin to rebel against the authority of man? Witnessed in
the Almighty's first act, and ever after?
A. 'Tis reported so, by men.
Q. The Holy Bible is false witness?
A. Witness from one side alone. Which fault lies in man, not in God or His Son. Eve
came of Adam's rib, so 'tis said in the second of Genesis. In the first 'tis said God created
man and woman in His own image, male and female created He them. Which Our Lord
Jesus Christ did further speak of in the Gospel of St. Matthew, the nineteenth chapter;
and there nothing of ribs, but of Moses, who did allow men to put away their wives. And
Jesus Christ said, from the beginning it was not so. Equal were they made.
Q. I do not believe thee a new-born woman, no, not one tittle, beneath thy plain cap and
petticoat. Thou hast found a new vice, that is all. Thy pleasure's now to fly in the face of
all our forefathers have in their wisdom told us we must believe; there hast thou
malignantly found shot to weight a base resentment. Thou wert drab to serve men for
their pleasure, was it not so? And now thou'dst have them serve thine, and put off the old
as a ribband, a last year's fashion, thou cunning jade. Religion is thy mask, no more. 'Tis
all the better to have thy unwomanly revenge.
A. Thee'll not snare me so.
Q. Snare, snare, what snare?
A. Thee'd have me say I am lost in revenge, as termagant or virago; and cannot answer to
the good reason for fear it be taken for the bad.
A. I'll tell thee my evil purpose. Most in this world is unjust by act of man, not of Our
Lord Jesus Christ. Change that is my purpose.
Ayscough stares at her, this assertion once made. Now it is he who is slow to reply. She
sits bolt upright in her armless wood chair, hands as always on her lap, intent on his eyes,
as if she faced the Antichrist in person. Her eyes may hold still some hint of meekness,
but her face seems pinched, determined to be obdurate, to concede nothing. Ayscough
speaks at last, it seems rather more of her, than to her.
`Thou art a liar, woman. Thou art a liar.'
There is no reaction in her expression. John Tudor looks up at her from his
shorthand, as he has often in the interrogatory, during such pauses. She stares. So it has
gone, since the beginning; always the lawyer on the attack, always Rebecca staring, slow-
answering in her manner. It has become obvious Ayscough's patience grows thin. He had
opted to begin in a kinder, more polite way than on the previous day; yet as things wore
on, knew she did not give to such pretended respect. Neither soft nor hard words would
break her, reveal the enigma she hid: what really happened. Once or twice his mind
slipped back to the days of the real question; interrogation aided by rack and thumbscrew.
By that method at least one had got to the bottom; but the Bill of Rights had ended such
procedures in England. Except for high treason, they survived only in wicked and
degenerate Catholic countries like France; and for all his faults Ayscough was English,
not French. That did not prevent him feeling a growing ill temper.
With Rebecca it was less, as it might be today, that she felt herself and her
religion insulted and disbelieved; she would have been surprised had they not been, and
acutely suspicious. Such scepticism and persecution were commonplace. It was far more
that this interrogation did not let the religion be fully seen - its right, its reason, its crying
need, its fierce being now. In truth these two were set apart from each other not only by
countless barriers of age, sex, class, education, native province and the rest, but by
something far deeper still: by belonging to two very different halves of the human spirit,
perhaps at root those, left and right, of the two hemispheres of the brain. In themselves
these are neither good nor evil. Those whom the left lobe (and the right hand) dominates
are rational, mathematical, ordered, glib with words, usually careful and conventional;
human society largely runs on an even keel, or at least runs, because of them. A sage and
sober god of evolution must regard those dominated by the right lobe as far less desirable,
except in one or two very peripheral things like art and religion, where mysticism and
lack of logic are given value. Like Rebecca, they are poor at reason, often confused in
argument; their sense of time (and politic timing) is often defective. They tend to live and
wander in a hugely extended now, treating both past and future as present, instead of
keeping them in control and order, firmly separated, like honest, decent right-handers.
They confuse, they upset, they disturb. So truly are these two human beings of 1736.
They speak for opposite poles, though long before such physical explanations of their
contrariness could be mooted. Rebecca is driven now to the very brink of her left-handed
self, that is her kind. At last she speaks, it seems almost to herself.
Thee play blind. Thee play blind.'
`Address me not so. I will not have it.'
She falls.
`Thee will not have it, thee will not have it. Thee's cloud, thee's night, thee's
Lucifer with thy questions, thee'd blind me with thy lawyer's chains, that blind thee worst
theeself. Can thee not see this world is lost? 'Tis not new sinning, 'tis oldly so, since time
began. 'Tis cloth a thousand and a thousand times rent and soiled, 'tis sin every thread, I
tell thee it shall never be washed clean nor newed again. No, never made new again by
thee and thine, nor its evil ways thrown off, that corrupt the innocent from the day they
are born. Can thee not see, thee and thine are blind?'
Ayscough rises abruptly from his chair.
`Silence, woman! I say silence.'
But Rebecca now does the unheard-of. She stands also, and continues her
denunciation; not slowly now, but rapidly, almost to the point of incoherence.
`How dost honour Heaven? By turning this present world to Hell. Can thee not
see we who live by Christ are thy only hope? Flee thy ways, yea, live Jesus Christ's ways
now forgotten. Thy sinning world doth mock and persecute, yea, it would bury them; thee
and thine are certain damned, and each day more. Yea, it shall come to pass, yea, His way
shall be resurrected, yea, so shall the sinners see, yea, we of faith shall be justified; and
thee and thy legion accursed in Antichrist damned for thy blindness, thy wicked ways. By
this we shall conquer, I tell thee Christ returns, it is prophesied, yea, His light shall shine
through every deed and word, the world shall be all window, and shining light, all evil
seen thereby, and punished in Hell, and none of the damned like thee withstand it.'
`I'll have thee thrown in gaol and whipped!'
`No, no, thee evil dwarf, thee'd bind me in thy evil snares, thee shall not. I tell
thee time past did never once return, thee cling to it in vain, 'tis now, 'tis now, I tell thee a
new world comes, no sin shall be, no strife more between man and man, between man
and woman, nor parent and child, nor master and servant. No, nor wicked will, nor
washing of hands, nor shrugging of shoulders, nor blindness like thine to all that breaks
thy comfort and thy selfish ways. No judge shall judge the poor, who would steal himself,
were he them; no, nor greed shall rule, likewise not vanity, nor cruel sneers, nor feasting
while others starve, nor happy shoes and shirts while any go naked. Dost thee not see, the
lion shall lie with the lamb, all shall be light and justice; dear God, dost thee not see, thee
cannot be so blind to thy own eternity, thee cannot, thee cannot . . . '
Ayscough throws a look at John Tudor, who has remained head down, rapidly
scribbling his shorthand.
`For God's sake, man, stir thyself. Stop her tongue.'
Tudor stands, hesitates a moment.
`I tell thee I see, I see, dost not see I see, it comes, it-'
Tudor moves to silence her; almost at once he stops. Something extraordinary has
happened. At that last `I see', her eyes have suddenly shifted. From staring at Ayscough,
they look away, to the corner of the room to her left, some fifteen feet from where she
stands. A small side-door there apparently leads to the adjacent room. It is exactly as if
someone has entered by it and now stands there, making further speech impossible. The
impression of this is so vivid that both Ayscough and his clerk look swiftly to the side-
door. It stands silently there, unopened. No one has entered. Of one accord they look
back to Rebecca, to see her still staring as before, it seems rooted, struck dumb; yet not
dumbfounded or amazed, on the contrary, tamed, almost like one grateful to be silenced.
All that previous, pinched and obstinate quality in her face has mysteriously passed away.
Whatever she sees, her expression is more that of a dawning smile, curiously timid,
childlike and expectant, brought unexpectedly face to face with someone she trusts and
loves.
 Ayscough looks quickly round to the door again, then to Tudor, who answers his
unspoken question.
`No one entered?'
`Not a soul, sir.'
The two men stare a moment at each other. Ayscough looks back at Rebecca.
`She is in a fit. See if she may be woken.'
Tudor moves closer, then stopping a yard short of the tranced girl, gingerly
reaches out a hand and shakes her arm, as if she were a snake or some dangerous animal.
Still Rebecca stares towards the door.
`Harder, man, harder. She won't bite thee.'
Tudor goes behind her, and moving her chair back, takes both her arms. At first
she seems oblivious, but as he continues to shake there comes a small cry from her, as of
pain. It is low, more love, than true pain. Slowly her eyes find Ayscough who still stands
facing her across the table. They close immediately and her head sinks.
`Make her sit.'
Tudor places the chair behind her.
`Sit, mistress. It is past.'
She sits as if will-less, her head sunk deep; then raises her hands to her face, and
begins to sob, it seems at first in shame, as if she would hide this collapse into emotion.
Ayscough leans forward, hands on table.
`What is this, what saw you then?' Her only answer is a deeper sob. `Water, give
her water.'
`Let her be, master. 'Tis like the vapours. 'Twill pass.'
Ayscough scrutinizes the sobbing woman a little longer; then goes abruptly to the
side-door to open it. But there he is defeated; though he tries twice, three times, with
increasing irritation, it is locked. He walks more slowly back to the window and stares
out; but sees nothing. The irreducible one part of his mind stands as shaken as Rebecca
herself, though he does not admit it; nor looks back as her sobs rise, become
unshameable, racking her body, rending in their intensity. Only when they become less
frequent, does he turn again. He sees his clerk has managed to persuade her to drink, and
stands with a hand on her shoulder, though she still sits with her head bowed. After a
minute Ayscough goes back to his chair. He watches her bent head for a few moments,
then gestures Tudor back to his seat.'
`Are you returned within your senses, mistress?' She nods her bowed head. `We
may proceed?' Again she nods her head. `What came upon you then?' She shakes her
head. `Why stared you so, toward the door?'
At last she speaks, though without looking up. `At what I saw.'
There was none there. Why answer you not? I will forgive you your ranting and
your insolence, your words most insulting of me. I would know what you saw, that is all.'
He folds his arms across his breast, and waits, but in vain. `Are you ashamed of what you
saw?'
Then he has Rebecca's eyes, as she straightens up to face him, and once more puts
her hands on her lap. Her face gives him a shock, for it holds a faint but perceptible
smile. He will long remember it.
`I am not ashamed.'
 `Why smile you?' She continues smiling, as if it is sufficient answer. `It was a
person?'
`Yes.'
`A person of this world?'
`No.'
`Did you believe it to be Our Lord, the Saviour?'
'No.'
`She you call Holy Mother Wisdom?'
`No ,
`Mistress, no more of this coyness. You did stare, it seemed at one who stood
behind, that had entered. Is it not so? Come, who was it?'
Her face has lost its mysterious smile; it is as if only now she remembers where
she is, before an enemy. Yet in what follows of the interrogatory, Rebecca is not to seem
the same. One knows she will not win, and cannot win; neither in this historical present,
nor in the future. One knows, and she does not.

A. He you would find.

Q. His Lordship? You maintain, you saw his Lordship stand here in this very room?
A. Thee will not believe.
Q. What expression bore he?
A. As my friend.
Q. What clothes wore he? As those he wore when you travelled into Devon? As those in
your dream?
A. As those he wore of June Eternal.
Q. Did he open the door to enter, and close it behind?
A. No.
Q. He came then as a ghost, an apparition, that takes no account of what is obstacle to
ordinary flesh?
A. He came.
Q. Did he not speak?
A. He needs no words.
Q. You were not surprised to see him so? Answer me, mistress. Is it not this - you have
seen him so on other occasions since the first of May? Is it not so? Answer. It is so or it is
not? Did you not tell false at the very beginning, when I asked if you had had any
communication whatsoever with him? What is this else?
A. Thee will not believe.
Q. Such is no answer. Have you or have you not seen him, it may be not as here today,
none the less so you may say, I have seen him?
A. He is my friend.
Q. So you may say, you have seen him?
A. I have known him close.
Q. As a less fanciful might say, I have felt his spirit close?
A. Most close.
Q. Have you as here, seen him as it seemed in the flesh?
A. What is the flesh?
Q. I grow angry. This you must know.
A. He was not in this world's flesh; yet as he is.
Q. Has his Lordship never, on such occasion you felt his spirit close, addressed you?
A. Not by word. In the spirit.
Q. How in the spirit - has he ever said, do this or that, believe this or that I tell you?
A. In the soul.
Q. Your soul is told what it must do and believe?
A. That what it does and believes is right.
Q. Has the spirit or what you will of his Lordship never spoken of himself, where his
flesh might now be?
A. No. It has no need.
Q. You are certain it is in your June Eternal?
A. Yes.
Q. Have you told any other, your man, your parents, your friends and gossips, whosoever
it might be, of these conversations?
A. No.
Q. None can bear witness to this, that you have had such visions, spiritual conversation',
what you may call it?
A. None but he, and our master Jesus Christ.
Q. How often has this been since the first of May? Shake not your head, mistress. You
may say in the general. Is it often or not? Many occasions, or few?
A. When I have need.
Q. Often, or less?
A. Often at the first.
Q. The more rarely the more latterly?
A. Yes.
Q. Is it not most common among your co-religionaries they make publick their visions
among you, thereby to prove the efficacy of their conviction? Why said you nothing of
this to anyone, mistress?
A. It is not of such presence they may believe.
Q. Did you not say, his Lordship is of the spirit of Jesus Christ? Is
that not presence enough?
A. It is not time that he was seen.
Q. Your fellows should not acknowledge him, if you were to tell of what passed this last
April? They should not understand this great worth you put upon him? They see not so
far as you?
A. I have seen him among us, where we meet; most plain, yet my brothers and sisters not.
He would not yet be seen by all.
Q. Shall you tell them, in time to come?
A. They shall be told.
Q. By whom, if not you?
A. Truth will out, and all but the damned shall see.
Q. Why dost thou ever speak the word as a cat laps cream? Is this Christian, that you
should so often rejoice in the damnation of others?
A. I rejoice not. 'Tis thee and thy kind most in this world that do rejoice; yea, that nothing
may change, that thee and thine have brought about a hell worse than Hell itself for all
below thee on this earth. I ask thee plain, is that Christian? Thee knows I am a simple
woman, thee's a subtle man of law. Can thee and thy law answer the plain question? Thee
knows 'tis so. Can thee tell why, can thee justify?
Q. To each his deserts. It is appointed so.
A. The most rich deserves the most. Yea, it is appointed; but not by will of God, by will
of rich men alone.
Q. Were it not God's will, He would not allow it.
A. That He has not struck is no proof He shall not. Thee'd twist His patience into a
justifying.
Q. And you, mistress, His anger to satisfaction of your own resentment.
A. Mercy is money loaned. One day it shall be paid back, or he who pays not shall suffer
for it, and be made most terrible example of. All shall be dust and ashes, all shall be such
fire I saw.
Q. Still you prophesy. Of what may come you speak as if it were already come; which
speaks far more to your present intemperate desire than to what time shall bring in truth. I
ask again. How shall you change this present world?
A. By living as we should and would, which is by Christ's light and word.
Q. If you prove so contrary and obstinate in all, mistress, then I prophesy you shall be
forbid, and with good cause. Answer not, I will be led no more into such idle disputation.
I am almost done with you, for the now. First I admonish you, and most severely, of these
following matters. You shall not speak of what has passed here, nor of what passed
earlier this year. Neither to your man, nor your father, nor Wardley, nor any else beside.
Nor shall you speak of those same things to prove your faith, to make of his Lordship in
your meetings what he never was. In this you shall not now or ever more be prophetess.
Is it understood?
A. As Herod must be understood.
Q. I will not have truth nor untruth from you. But silence, in the both cases. I demand
your sworn oath thereon, and signed upon this paper before me. Have you letters to write
your name?
A. If thee and thine think they may prison God's truth, I'll be thy bar to prove thee wrong.
I may write my flesh's name.
Q. I warn thee. Think not you may speak despite this, I shall not know. I shall know, and
shall make you curse the day you speak.
A. So 1, that I did break my given word.
Q. This is not all. I require likewise your oath sworn and signed upon what you did swear
at the beginning: which is, you have not in any common sense, that is, without your
visions and spiritual conversations, seen or spoken with his Lordship since the first of
May last, nor had communication with him, nor news by third party whatsoever of him.
You may state no more than this: what is become of him, you know not.
A. I will sign.
Q. Do you smile, mistress?
A. Thee'd pin me fast upon the least, and toss aside the most.
O. I'll have thee pinned in gaol, if thou dost make light of this. I would make light of all.
I warn you one last time. If you have lied and I shall at any future time discover such, it
shall be with you as you said yourself of mercy not paid most duly back. All the just
wrath of his Lordship's family, and my own, shall fall upon you. You shall be made most
terrible example of. I shall deserve no less.
(Here was the said solemn affidavit read to the deponent, that she did sign with her name,
and it was witnessed duly.)
Q. Very Well. You may go, I'll have no more of you at this present. Think not you are
free. You shall attend, if called upon, to answer further.

Rebecca stands. John Tudor looks slowly up from the end of the table at his master, as a
man watches, even though it is his master; things are not as expected, in something they
surprise. Ayscough stops Rebecca as she would move.
`There is a last matter, that is done against my advice. I would the rather see thee
flogged for thy insolence, had I my way.' He pauses. `I am instructed to give thee this,
against thy lying in.'
Ayscough feels inside a waistcoat pocket, then pushes a small golden coin across
the table, a guinea.
`I do not wish it.'
`Take. It is commanded.'
`No.'
`Thy new pride wishes it not. Nothing else.'
`No.'
`Take. I shall not ask again.' Rebecca looks down at the coin, and shakes her head.
`Then I give thee what thou must take.' They stare at each other. `A prophecy. Thou'lt be
hanged yet.'
Still Rebecca stares at him.
`Thee's need also, master Ayscough. I give thee more love.'
She goes, and Ayscough begins to collect his papers. After a few moments he
reaches for his rejected guinea and shoots a fierce glance towards John Tudor, as if he
would vent an anger on him. But that worthy is no fool; his head is down.
 Manchester, the 10th October.

Your Grace,

Your Grace will here read much I doubt he will credit, yet I trust he will give me
leave to say that I think we deal not here with a tissue of cunning-ordinary lies, or such a
tale as a common female rogue might invent to save her skin; for were she truly cunning
of the kind, she should surely have found better than such extravagance as this, nor
thereby put her wretched skin at such risk. In brief, in so much as the woman Lee is
concerned, we may say as the ancient father, Credo quia absurdum, it is most (if at all) to
be believed because it is impossible to be believed. For much it is plain she was grossly
practised upon by his Lordship and his man, and that their practice did but swell and
ripen those unseemly resentments she had gained from her life in the bagnio. I am
persuaded she lies little in any ordinary sense, that is, as to what she believes of these
events and their nature and meaning; as non obstante I am persuaded that her evidence is
false in the substantial truth of what passed.
Here I must first state to Your Grace what is not clear writ, of her fit of seeing.
This appeared to me neither malignantly rehearsed, nor else in its nature than is said
common among her kind of superstitious sectary. I did find more suspicious a manner
upon her when she was recovered; as to which I may not easily explain, 'twas as if she
now put on anew a part of her hid till then: a strumpet's insolence, such as I did meet with
in her former mistress, Claiborne. It is recorded, she did smile: but not her ill-disguised
scorn that I should ask her if she were not ashamed at what she saw. Yet even this
impudent and forward contempt in her was neither politic nor cunning if she but purposed
to deceive. I should rather believe this, her fit made her the more determined in her wilful
pride, or the more careless of what her manner might betray of disrespect for my enquiry.
Yr Grace will observe she shows little and often no reason nor logick in her
beliefs, and he may censure me that I pressed not more hard to expose such patent
muddled foolishness. I pray Yr Grace will take my word, such as this may not be
humbled so, nay, are driven by it farther into their apostacy, and finally grow bound
irrevocable to it. I know her unlettered kind, they would rather first be burnt at the stake
than hear reason or recant; they are obstinate to death, most blindly opiniatre, as fixed
and resolute in this, tho' it be in unreason and for all their womanishness in outward, as
any man in a far better cause. They are like those put under a spell by some legendary
romance, that once heard, they cannot shake off; but are its foolish slaves thenceforward.
Nothing shall persuade them it be false. Lee is the more strong in this her perversity, Yr
Grace will divine, for that the rota fortunae did bring her greatly above her destined
station, notwithstanding it were by vice and immodesty. She was never, as is the
commonalty of her sex, brought to know God's wisdom in decreeing for them their
natural place as helpmeet to man, in house and home alone.
In short Your Grace may believe me this, she is not to be broken easily of her new
ways. There was, apart from that instance I have cited, in her general manner of
answering less pertness and contradiction than may appear in the written words, as almost
to say on occasion she was sorry to answer thus boldly, yet must by her faith. I count this
small pence in her favour, who loses far greater sums in all else. In most she is of an
obstinacy of belief Yr Grace's servant hath seldom encountered; as is seen in what she
declared of his Lordship's secret nature and character, which (Yr Grace must know but
too well) most signally denies all credible knowledge; likewise in what she would hope
of this bastard she carries.
'Tis plain this borders upon, nay is, the rankest blasphemy; yet to her it counts
(tho' she did not, like a veritable madwoman, claim full certainty) as not without
plausible expectation. Yr Grace may feel she is eminently prosecutable in this her claim,
it is most easy proven vile insult upon all decent religion. Yet time, I doubt not, shall
soon enough make sufficient example of her culpable foolishness therein, and
punishment for it of a kind her arrogance may least bear; besides that I trust Yr Grace
will upon reflection agree, such a plainly impious assertion is best not published. Such
gross delusion of prophecy, 'tis well known, doth always attract its adherents among the
idle and credulous mob. Dogs the like are best let sleep in silence; I need not to point out
to Yr Grace what further consequence might ensue were this most infamous one awoken,
and let run in the publick street. Such as she are far less dangerous when they are
common miscreants, the base dross of this world, puellae cloacarum, than when brought
to a specious piety.
I judge all of her religion here in this town pernicious, and so also doth Mr
Fotheringay, that hath had more dealings with them, for though they honour in outward
the civil law they show no respect for it among themselves, nay speak of it as tyranny and
say it shall be overthrown in time to come. To all argument of those that would
remonstrate or dispute with them, they are deaf - Mr F. says, as if they speak not a
common tongue, and are French exiles still among us. Wardley has been heard say so
much: that it is futile and nugatory to dispute religious matters with ordinary Christians,
for they are Turks in their ignorance and shall be damned for it.
Mr F. has a spy among them, they are close watched, and he tells me he shall act
to prevent them so soon as good case be found; the which he doubts not long in coming.
But they are close people, and bold in their own defence, Your Grace may adduce it from
this present case. Yet to our purpose, I do believe Lee, howsoever misled, firm in this her
quarrelling new faith. She refused Your Grace's charity not as one that was
notwithstanding tempted to take it, but one who saw (may God forgive her) the Devil's
money, and would not have it, though offered in pity. That she is of strong will, for all
her sometimes guise of meekness, there is no doubt. When Your Grace did say, upon his
view of her, this was no ordinary woman, he was as just as he is accustomed. I will add
no more on her account.
Your Grace did me the honour to say, this one week past, that I should not hide
my conclusions by reason of the natural reverence I must harbour for his most eminent
rank. I shall now, though it be with the greatest reluctance, obey his wish; and tears also
must I weep, that the most probable truth I have come to should be so bitter. Your Grace,
I shall compendiate it thus: I may hope, yet may not in reason believe, his Lordship still
lives. This I must ground not only upon that of which Yr Grace is already cognizant: his
Lordship's having drawn upon no part of his allowance nor revenue since last he was seen
in this world.
I take also into account the death of his man Thurlow. Your Grace knows what
devotion the fellow showed to his master through all their lives together. I cannot credit
he died of his own hand by any cause except this: like the dog in human form that he was,
he knew his beloved master dead and wished to live no more. It is true he did not as in
most cases, he did not die in melancholy at his master's side. Yet must I still assume that
such a death was what drove him to the most desperate end he than gave himself. The
place where his felony de se was done was well searched, and in my presence, as I said. I
fear now we were mistaken, I may conjecture it passed thus, in brutal simplicity; that
Thurlow saw his Lordship die within the cavern; did then run from it in extremest horror,
as Jones did report; but did later, after the wench and Jones was gone, and it may be not
before the next morning, return there to see what in his simple wits he would not believe
he had first seen; and finding there what he had most feared, his master's corse, did inter
it in that place, or more likely carry it as he could to some place other we know not of;
then only, that most direful task done, did he run off, and hang himself in his despair.
Upon this conjecture must I alas hazard further, which I shall come to, as to reason for his
Lordship's death.
To this must be added what is proof only by negation, yet must grow in strength
with passing time; to wit, no word is heard of his Lordship since the dark first of May,
neither of his then taking ship nor of his being now settled in some foreign city. It may be
said he was most able to embark in secret, perhaps from some port other than Bideford or
Barnstable, and where we have not enquired; and may now live in equal secret where he
went. Why then should he not take his servant? In such matters, where we have no
certainty, we must judge by probability. It may not, alas, ,be said that it is more probable
he doth now live in retirement abroad. As Your Grace knows, not one of those our agents
and ambassadors to whom I have written on this behalf, hath made such answer as we
hoped.
Yr Grace's command doth now oblige me, if he will thus far grant me my most
melancholy supposition, to state how his Lordship may have come to his tristfully ill-
starred end. Yr Grace, I would believe him foully murdered, if I might; by the hand of
any of those we know to have been there, I cannot; by hand unknown, again I would
believe, were there any evidence or probability to it. Yr Grace knows as well as I, there is
not; nor that Thurlow should not defend him, were either such the case. Horresco
referens, I am reduced to this: his Lordship's death was self-given. In this Thurlow did
but do as in so much else, that is, did follow in his master's footsteps.
I will not repeat all in his Lordship's past Your Grace knows better than I, and that
has so often excited Yr Grace's disapprobation and paternal distress; yet must I believe
here we may best ground explanation of what occurred last April - I speak not only of
those philosophical pursuits his Lordship has these last years followed in such headstrong
disobedience to Your Grace's wishes; but more deep, in the most contrary spirit that
allowed, nay drove, his Lordship to indulge them.
It is but too well known from history such pursuits may lead their follower out of
the noble world of reason, of commendable and useful enquiry, into the black labyrinth of
the Chimaera; into matters most plainly blasphemous, and as plainly forbidden to
mortals. I must believe now, this is what passed with his Lordship. He did seek wickedly
to pierce some dark secret of existence, and moreover grew besotted by it, it may well be
because he could not accomplish his grand design, as is most often the case. I do not say
the account the woman Lee gave Jones is to be believed exact; yet may it be nearer truth
than what I am myself here told by her. I do not say she lied knowingly in this; yet was
led by means obscure to credit the opposite of what was truly intended. Your Grace will
ask by what means, and there I cannot answer him, save I do not doubt there was a
natural proclivity in Lee that his Lordship had observed, and did see also it might be
made his tool, to further his own ends.
Nor do I doubt as to the general drift of the grand design. I will not weary Your
Grace by adducing how much in his Lordship's past must suggest there was ever in him
some perverse principle that drove him to deny what reason and filial respect might have
most expected him to believe - nay, not only to believe, but in view of his most fortunate
rank, to maintain and uphold. We have all on occasion heard words and opinions from his
Lordship's mouth that offend both divine wisdom and its reflection in this world below - I
would say, the wisdom by which this world doth best conduct and govern itself, its
sagacity in matters civil and political. It may be his Lordship felt a respect for his noble
father which did most often prevent him from speaking before him in his darker vein.
Even when he did, in other circumstance I have been witness to, I have heard the ladies
declare him a tease, no more; and gentlemen not find in him beyond a fashionable cynic,
who cares more for the mark he makes in polite society than for his immortal soul. Even
with those more discerning in their censure, I have heard the blame for his views put
upon his being a younger son, and his holding a (but too familiar) rancour thereat.
I may here repeat what Sir Rich'd Malton did remark recently to me in London,
upon the abolition of the Act against Witchcraft, which was this: that tho' the old hags be
counted gone, there were impudent libertine philosophers enough to take their place.
There are many such in London, Your Grace, who make no bones in professing to
believe in nothing beyond their own pleasures in debauch; that care outwardly not a
farthing for Church and Religion, nor King and Constitution neither; that would turn
Musulman to gain a place or particular favour. Yet these are not what Sir Rich'd spoke of,
they are no more than slaves of a pernicious fashion of the times. Nos haec novimus esse
nihil, for there are worse beside, far worse. These above do declare themselves openly
what they are. These I speak of do most largely conceal behind a mask what they truly
believe and would work upon in matters civil and political; or more subtly they but show
enough to make themselves believed fashions slaves, as is his Lordship's case above.
They make their outward impudence their mask, as foxes, the better we may not see
where they truly tend, nor their true black tergiversation beneath.
This twelve-month gone I did chance to ask his Lordship upon what he was
engaged in his inquiries, and he did answer, I thought then in his manner half in sour jest,
Why, how I may make a man of a toad, and a fool, into a philosopher. Upon which I
remarked it seemed he would usurp upon divine prerogative. To which he replied I was
mistaken, since the world showed us it was easy enough to make men into toads, and
philosophers into fools, and so must it be the Devil's prerogative he would usurp. I must
now believe, Your Grace, that in that exchange lay some part of a confession he might
have declared, had the occasion not been trivial and in passing. In truth he would doubt
all: birth, society, government, justice, so to say in some more adept world their present
provisions and dispositions should be found evil and corrupt. Yet he was ever not bold
enough, or too cunning, to speak these things outright.
By such weakness or fear, Your Grace, must I believe he did come finally to what
passed in April. He would persuade one who was in this comparatively innocent, nay,
gullible beside, to prove the point he dared not make himself, in her guise of seditious
religion. In plain words, this world that is must be upset. Now that this one was a she, and
whore besides, may seem a madness in him, to launch such a venture on so small and
miserable a bark; yet-it may be she was freighted but for a first proof and essay, to see if
a simple woman of pleasure might not be turned into the fanatick she is become, to serve
his secret ends. Those are such no thinking man could countenance, for they place the
judgement of a person's worth not upon his condition but upon himself; not on birth, but
upon the mere fact of being. This is clear behind the drift of our French Prophetess: all
are to be counted equal. Such as she may place such dangerous belief upon religious
grounds. It is plain their general spirit is rabid political, of the mob, to destroy the sacred
laws of inheritance, among much else. They would break this nation to pieces. I doubt his
Lordship cares one whit for their religion; these their other desires, they are his also.
Yr Grace, by such sad presage must I come to this: in that he would break the
world which bore him, and to which he owed all, why, even unto those means that
allowed him to pursue such ends, was his Lordship broken himself. Fiat experimentum in
corpore vili; and in that doing he did become vile to himself, he was hoist on his own
petard. In what is said of him and his behaviour upon his journey, we may see he was oft
in secret doubt of it, his enterprise misgave him long before it was concluded. How can
he not not have perceived he forsook the pursuit of scholarship for common trickery,
such as at Stonehenge? Whereby he raised the light into the sky and made appear those
two figures blasphemously passed off as the Almighty and His Son, we know not. He
stayed behind when all was done, I doubt not that those he had hired should be paid, and
all evidence of trickery cleared away in the night; and likewise at the cavern, though there
it is to be noted we know not what passed except by Lee's testimony, which is more of
gross fantasy than credible fact; and I believe there put upon her not by any outward
melfeasance and deceit, but far more likely by means of drug or potion, or by black art of
some kind.
Here I must believe conscience did mercifully put a stop upon his Lordship's
venture; that at the last he did acknowledge to himself he was upon madness, in unholy
union with all decency abhors; and driven to it by a malevolent and unreasoning hatred
and resentment not only of his noble father, but of the sacred principles of all respectable
society and belief. His Lordship's youngest sister did once remark to me that her brother
was as a pendulum, never to be still nor found in the same humour from one minute to
the next. In that black Devonshire cavern 'tis most probable he did find himself to swing
away from all he had done, and to regret it with a violence unaccustomed even in him;
and in such violence did end his wretched days. Your Grace, I cannot say positively it
was so. Yet must I guess it most likely so, and with this only to commend it: that coming
to recognize he had sinned most heinously, he must condemn himself to no less than he
did, as only proper expiation of his awful crimes.
Your Grace will not, I trust, take offence I put my conclusion so baldly, since it is
at his behest. He himself, as he will no doubt recall, did once vouchsafe to this his most
humble servant that were it not all evidence denied, and not least the unimpeachable
testimony of physiognomical likeness, he should believe his Lordship a changeling. I fear
Your Grace was not mistaken: he may justly conclude that in all matters but of blood, his
Lordship was indeed as a changeling, and not his true son.
Your Grace did also ask me in what manner he should best broach this matter to
his most esteemed spouse; and here I shall respectfully propose to him there is one
consolation to be drawn, viz., in this our unknowing we are not obliged to declare the
worst of his Lordship, as I have here with great reluctance but upon best probability
stated. We may not easily believe what the woman Lee declares him to have been and to
have become, against all past belief and family knowledge; yet Yr Grace may judge it
should be allowed some colour of extenuation, to allay maternal concern. And
furthermore, that he is now disappeared, it may be said it is because he knows himself not
worthy to be Yr Grace's son, and would but relieve Yr Grace of his presence. May it not
be said that perchance he lives still in some foreign land, where none may break the
secret of an incognito; where he may now acknowledge to himself that he has given Yr
Grace great hurt, and would trouble Yr Grace no more? And advanced in hope that he
reflects upon the injustice he has done, and shall in due time return to ask Your Grace's
forgiveness?
These lines are written in some haste, not to delay dispatch, as Yr Grace will
understand; and will know in what sadness also and fear of having failed Your Grace, in
not bringing matters (despite most diligent effort) to more happy conclusion. Man would
of his nature know all; but it is God who decrees what shall or shall not be known; and
here must we resign ourselves to accept His great wisdom and mercy in such matters,
which is that He deems it often best and kindest to us mortals that we shall not know all.
In the bosom of that great mystery, I most humbly suggest, should Your Grace seek
comfort; as in the more earthly solace of his noble wife and noble son the Marquis (who
doth, unlike his poor brother, so preeminently enshrine his father's virtues), of those most
charming ladies his daughters likewise. Alas, the one flower may wilt and fade; the others
still may console the more.
I shall be before Your Grace very soon upon his reading of this dispatch, and his
to command. In closing now, I beg Yr Grace to accept my most respectful sympathy for
this unhappy conclusion upon inquiry; and ever the most sincere assurance of untiring
diligence in all his affairs, from his humble servant,

Henry Ayscough

FROM THE ROOM outside there comes a murmur of voices, mostly female, a group
waiting quietly for some event; though the event of this twenty-ninth of February, as it
happens, has taken place, and the three men present, Wardley, Hocknell, John Lee, are
but new admitted from where they were recently sent, which was to stand in Toad Lane
outside. Rebecca lies alone on the rough bed in the inner cellar; on her back, her face
spent, impassive, seemingly almost sullen now it is over. It is noon, a strange time to be
abed, and already she would rise; yet knows she cannot and must not. Of a sudden the
voices outside cease; they listen. Now there is a shadow in the door, and she cranes her
head up. John Lee stands there, with the new-swaddled baby clasped tight in his right
arm, posing for a picture of a man at a loss; a picture he does not lessen : by removing his
hat, slowly and as if by reluctant afterthought, before this echo of afar greater birth,
though in similar humble circumstances. She looks only at what he holds cradled in his
right arm. His grave and awkward-peering face would seem to be about to announce the
end of the world; but then again, by afterthought, it shows the ghost of a wintry smile.
`All is well, thee?'
`Most well, husband.'
`I prayed for thee, and her new soul.'
`I thank thee.'
And now he steps forward and taking the new-born infant, as absurdly tight-
bound as a parcel, in both hands passes it down to the hands raised to take it. The
appalling custom of swaddling was, among the more emancipated (and thanks to the
philosopher Locke), already near its end; but not yet, alas, among the poor. The
blacksmith-seer watches while the parcel is set beside her. She stares at it with that
strangely paradoxical intensity, halflove, half doubt, both objective and subjective, both
certain and wondering, of the young mother first faced with what has come from inside
her ... this long-drowned creature risen from the ocean depths, yet miraculously still alive.
It is very plainly not divine; its face crinkled, obstinate, still more in the sea than the air.
It opens its eyes for a long moment, it seems almost stunned by the revelation of this
wretched and shadowy world it is born into; yet already there is a hint of azure, of vacant
sky, in them. A time will come when people shall remember those eyes, their blue
candour and their brisk truth, that was far from vacant.
John Lee replaces his broad-brimmed hat.
`I have bought thee both a handsel.'
She takes her eyes up from the child, and smiles faintly, secretly incredulous at
such secular grace.
`What be it, then?'
`But a bird. Would thee see?'
`I would see.'
He turns and goes back into the other room; then returns at once holding a small
square object, swaddled with cloth as the child, and which he holds by an osier handle.
Now he holds it above the bed where she may see, and pulls the cloth away. It is a
goldfinch, in a tiny wicker cage, barely seven inches square. The brilliantly coloured little
bird takes alarm and flutters against the brown bars.
"Twill grow more tame, and sing.'
She reaches up her free arm, timidly, to touch the minute cage.
`Thee must hang it by the door, in the light.'
`Aye.'
And he stares still for a time at the bird, which now cowers in a corner, as if it
means more to him than the face beside Rebecca's on the bed. But then he swathes the
cage in the cloth again and holds it down by his side.
`The Lord has given me this last night a name for her.'
`How a name?'
`Mary.'
`I promised the Lord she shall be Ann.'
`Wife, thee must obey. We are not to deny the gift. It spake clear.'
‘I deny no gift.’
 `Yes, thee would. It is not fit, at such a time. What the Lord has given, we must
receive.'
`What else was given?'
`That she shall see the Lord Jesus come again.'
`We may call her both.'
`Two names is vanity. One sufficeth.'
For a moment she says nothing, staring up at him. She looks down at the rough
blanket that covers her. `I tell thee, John Lee, when the Lord Jesus come again, He shall
be She, and the mother must know Her name.'
He stares down at her without answering, uncertain whether such levity deserves
reprimand or is so far-fetched it may in these circumstances be ignored. At last he stoops
and lays a clumsy hand upon her shoulder, a quarter in blessing, a quarter in forgiveness;
and a full half in sheer incomprehension. Like so many seers, he is blind to the present.
He straightens.
`Sleep. And when thee wake, thee'll know to obey.'
He leaves, carrying the cage; and for a moment or two more the young woman on
the dark bed still stares down at the blanket. He speaks in a low voice outside, perhaps
something about the goldfinch. There is a silence, then the voice of the bird, from by the
cellar door: a silvery little tintinnabulation, its flight-call, piercing the sombre rooms like
sunlight; and conscience-piercing also. But William Blake is yet to come.
Now Rebecca looks down at the tiny creature in her arms. There is something of a
wonderment in her eyes, at this other, this intruder into her world; she bends and very
gently kisses its pink and wrinkled forehead.
`More love, Ann. More love, my love.'
The infant's features begin to contort, a preparatory paroxysm to crying. It begins
to bawl. A few seconds later, its mouth brought for a first time to the mother's breast, the
bawling has stopped. Outside, the low voices start again. Rebecca nurses, with her eyes
closed, sunk within feeling, this affirmation of her selfness no words she knows can
describe, or that she would have had describe even if she knew them. For a moment she
opens those meek brown eyes and stares into a dark corner of the room, as if someone
stood there watching; then closes them again. After a while she begins slightly to rock,
and there comes the barely perceptible sound of a hum. She has begun a slow lullaby, the
baby lies stilled. It is very simple, and seems to be of two repeated phrases only.
Vive vi, vive vum, vive vi, vive vum, vive vi, vive vum ... it is clear they are not
rational words, and can mean nothing.
 Epilogue

READERS WHO know something of what that Manchester baby was to become in the
real world will not need telling how little this is a historical novel. I believe her actual
birth was two months before my story begins, on 29 February 1736. I know nothing in
reality of her mother, and next to nothing of various other characters, such as Lacy and
Wardley, who also come from real history. They are here almost all invention beyond
their names. It may be that books and documents exist that might have told me more of
them in historical terms than the little I know: I have consulted none, nor made any effort
to find them. I repeat, this is a maggot, not an attempt, either in fact or in language, to
reproduce known history.
I have the greatest respect for exact and scrupulously documented history, not
least because part of my life is (in a very humble way) devoted to it; but this exacting
discipline is essentially a science, and immensely different in its aims and methods from
those of fiction. I have mentioned Daniel Defoe (who died in 173 r) only once in these
pages; which is poor recognition of the admiration and liking I have always felt for him.
A Maggot is not at all meant to be in any direct imitation; he is, in any case, inimitable.
To following some of what I take to be the underlying approach and purpose in his
novels, I happily confess.
A convinced atheist can hardly dedicate a novel to a form of Christianity. None
the less, this one was partly written out of a very considerable affection and sympathy for
the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing, better known as the
Shakers, of which Ann Lee was the founder. To most people now, I imagine, Shaker
means little more than a furniture style and an ultra-puritanism superficially akin to the
asceticism of some monastic orders (such as the Cistercian) from the opposite religious
extreme. Orthodox theologians have always despised the sect's doctrinal naivety;
orthodox priests, its fanaticism; orthodox capitalists, its communism; orthodox
communists, its superstition; orthodox sensualists, its abhorrence of the carnal; and
orthodox males, its striking feminism. I find it one of the most fascinating - and proleptic
- episodes in the long history of Protestant Dissent.
This is not only for social and historical reasons. Something in Shaker thought
and theology (not least in its holding that a Holy Trinity that has no female component
cannot be holy), in its strange rituals and marvellously inventive practical life, in its
richly metaphorical language and imaginative use of dancing and music, has always
seemed to me to adumbrate the relation of fiction to reality. We novelists also demand a
far-fetched faith, quite often seemingly absurd in relation to normal reality; we too need a
bewildering degree of metaphorical understanding from our readers before the truths
behind our tropes can be conveyed, can `work'.
England had already, of course, had an age of outspoken dissent (and self-
discovery) in the 1640s and 1650s; Ann Lee's came late, historically. Only a very few
years after she was born, in the April of 1739, a dissatisfied yet ordained priest in the
Church of England stood on Kingsdown, a hill then outside the city of Bristol, and spoke,
rather than formally preached, to a large and happenstance gathering of the Bristol poor,
consisting mainly of miners and their families. Many of his listeners began to weep,
others were so disturbed and moved they fell into a catatonic trance. To be sure they were
very rough, illiterate, easy to work upon; such cathartic phenomena are now both
anthropologically and psychologically well understood. But on Kingsdown something
more than the speaker's charisma was involved. Quite simply his audience was being
given light. It was as if they had all been blind or (as many of the miners truly had) living
in darkness till then.
I suspect we owe quite as much to all those incoherent sobs and tears and
ecstasies of the illiterate as to the philosophers of mind and the sensitive artists.
Unorthodox religion was the only vehicle by which the vast majority, who were neither
philosophers nor artists, could express this painful breaking of the seed of the self from
the hard soil of an irrational and tradition-bound society - and a society not so irrational it
did not very well know how much it depended on not seeing its traditions questioned, its
foundations disturbed. Can we wonder the new-born ego (whose adolescence we call the
Romantic Age) often chose means to survive and to express itself as irrational as those
that restrained it?
Now I hate modern evangelism, with its spurious Madison Avenue techniques and
general loathsome conservatism in politics. It seems almost always unerringly based on
the worst, most backward side of Christianity, an insidious supporter of whatever is
retrograde in contemporary thought and politics; and thereby denies the very essence of
Jesus himself. Nor do I think any better of this same trait in many other religions, such as
Islam. But what happened with John Wesley (the man above) and Ann Lee and their like
in the eighteenth century is quite different: an emotional enlightenment beside, almost in
spite of, the intellectual (and middle-class) enlightenment the siecle de lumieres is
famous for. They had, Wesley by his energy and transparent strength of conviction, Ann
Lee in her obstinate (and immensely brave) determination and her poetry - her genius for
images - a practical vision of what was wrong with their world. Ann's vision was more
thoroughgoing than Wesley's, a fact that we may attribute in part to her sex, but perhaps
above all to the fact that she was uneducated; that is, unsullied by stock belief, learned
tradition, and the influence of the other kind of enlightenment. At heart people like Ann
were revolutionaries; one with the very first Christians of all, and their founder.
Their efforts (especially John Wesley's) were, as always, one day to breed a
narrow-minded bigotry, an inward tyranny as life-stultifying as the tyrannies they first
tried to end, or fled from. But I speak here of that first fuse, that spirit that was in them at
the beginning, before the organized business of religious conversion and gaining
adherents en masse came, and dimmed and adulterated their fundamental and highly
personal example and force. One of the saddest ironies in all religious history is that we
should now so admire and value Shaker architecture and furniture, fall on our knees like
Mies van der Rohe before the Hancock Round Barn; yet totally reject the faith and way
of life that made these things.
The Shakers had purely English roots, but were very soon persecuted out of
England. In Manchester the real Ann Lee was first to be a mill-girl, then fur-cutter for a
hatter, then a cook in an infirmary; she was to marry (Abraham Stanley, another black-
smith) and to bear four children by him, all of whom died young. . She set out for
America in i774, accompanied by only a tiny handful of fellow-believers. Her husband
deserted her almost at once there, and for several years her `family' were harried as much
as in England. The growth, maturity and decline of the United Society all took place in
America. Much of both the fixed dogma and the practices of the Society in its gathered
communities was developed after Ann's death in 1784, by disciples like Joseph Meacham
and Lucy Wright; but behind all (not least in the great revival of the i 840s) lie the seeds
of Ann's very special personality.
It is easy enough now to dismiss much of the aftermath of her memory, the spirit
drawings, the `dictated' songs and music, the trance states, as naive religiosity, and at
least partly a product of the sexual abstinence for which the Society was famous (and
whose dangers it was well aware of, in terms of the `conversation' and other rituals it
evolved to compensate for that deprivation). A similar wild and suspect religiosity may
be found before Ann's time, in those early French Prophets whose names I have Wardley
cite.
Yet something haunts the more serious side of the United Society's life that
cannot be so easily dismissed. It is an aspiration, a determination to escape mere science,
mere reason, convention, established belief and religion, into the one thing that excuses
an escape from such powerful social gods, the founding of a more
humane society ... all that is conveyed in `more love'. It was almost as if Ann Lee and the
early Shakers foresaw that, if not Antichrist, then certainly Mammon, the universal greed
in each for more money, for more personal wealth and possession, would one day rule
this world and threaten to destroy it. Our present world is as deaf as poor Dick to Anne's
appeal for simplicity, sanity and self-control. `Gathered' or community Shakerism is now
virtually extinct, its faith too plain, its rules too radical, for twentieth-century Adam and
Eve. Yet for me something else in it does not die.
Dissent is a universal human phenomenon, yet that of Northern Europe and
America is, I suspect, our most precious legacy to the world. We associate it especially
with religion, since all new religion begins in dissent, that is, in a refusal to believe what
those in power would have us believe - what they would command and oblige us, in all
ways from totalitarian tyranny and brutal force to media manipulation and cultural
hegemony, to believe. But in essence it is an eternal biological or evolutionary
mechanism, not something that was needed once, merely to meet the chance of an earlier
society, when religious belief was the great metaphor, and would-be conforming matrix,
for many things beside religion. It is needed always, and in our own age more than ever
before.
A historically evolved outward form, adapted as in a plant or animal to cope with
one set of conditions, is doomed when a new set appears; as in my view not only the
United, but Western society as a whole, only too plainly shows. What the Shakers
`crossed', or condemned, in the society and world they had to inhabit may seem to us
quaint and utopian, their remedies hopelessly unattainable today; but some at least of the
questions they asked and the challenges they flung seem to me still unanswered.
In so much else we have developed immeasurably from the eighteenth century;
with their central plain question - what morality justifies the flagrant injustice and
inequality of human society? - we have not progressed one inch. One major reason is that
we have committed the cardinal sin of losing the old sense of mediocrity: that of a wise
and decent moderation. It is betrayed in the way we have twisted and debased the word
(as our sense of individual self has grown) to its modern sense. This is the hidden price,
as in the Greek gift at Troy, put by nature upon our twentieth-century consciousness of
and obsession with self. A species cannot fill its living space to absurd excess in number;
and still so exalt excess, the extreme, non-mediocrity, in the individual. When excess
becomes synonymous with success, a society is doomed, and by far more than Christ.
I have long concluded that established religions of any kind are in general the
supreme example of forms created to meet no longer existing conditions. If I were asked
what the present and future world could best lose or jettison for its own good, I should
have no hesitation: all established religion. But its past necessity I do not deny. Least of
all do I deny (what novelist could?) that founding stage or moment in all religions,
however blind, stale and hidebound they later become, which saw a superseded skeleton
must be destroyed, or at least adapted to a new world. We grow too clever now to
change; too selfish and too multiple, too dominated by the Devil's great I, in Shaker
terminology; too self-tyrannized, too pledged to our own convenience, too tired, too
indifferent to others, too frightened.
I mourn not the outward form, but the lost spirit, courage and imagination of
Mother Ann Lee's word, her Logos; its almost divine maggot.