An affecting history of an inn-keeper in Normandy/An Affecting History of an Inn-Keeper in Normandy

THE

HISTORY of an INN-KEEPER,

IN

NORMANDY.

Oh Reaſon! ever be my friend, my guide!
⁠And from thy dictates never let me ſtray:
Do thou o'er every Sentiment preſide,
⁠And be my Pilot thro' life's thorny way!

Some dream that they can ſilence when they will
The Storm of paſſion, and ſay, "Peace, be still;"
But "Thus far and no farther;" when addreſs'd
To the wild wave, or wilder human breaſt,
Implies authority that never can,
That never ought to be the lot of man.

WHEN a man narrowly ſcrutinizes into his own heart, how little ſatisfaction ariſes from ſuch an inſpection! His goodneſs many times extends no further than to languid and impotent reſolutions; whence he hath the mortification to ſee, that his virtue is daily periſhing in its bloffoms; while vice deeply roots itſelf in the corruption of his nature, derives additional ſtrength from the luxuriance of the ſoil, and is hourly making bold advances to maturity. At the ſame time that prepoſſeſſions and prejudices enthral his mind, they likewiſe enervate the powers of exertion, and thereby preclude to the captive all proſpect of enlargement. Paſſions are clamorous, temptations are numerous, and reaſon too frequently is of inſufficient force to ſilence the former, and to repel the latter. Thus his breaſt reſembles a chaos, where diſcord, darkneſs, and ⟨confuſion⟩ maintain their empire, and triumph over the boaſted authority of man. Diſappointed, and diſpleaſed with the picture, which his own boſom exhibits of himſelf, he ⟨is⟩ naturally led to enquire into the cauſe of ⟨this⟩ involuntary deformity Some writers have endeavoured to ſolve all difficulties by affirming, that the creation of ſuch a ſtrange compound as man, was neceſſary, to preſerve a due ſcale and gradation of Beings. Others aſcribe all our errors and defects to the fall, and thereby impute to the firſt parents of mankind, the moral evil diſcoverable in the ſpecies. But without entering upon a diſcuffion of theſe ſubjects, I would obſerve ⟨that⟩ the human mind in its present ſtate wears the appearance of an ancient ſuperb ſtructure, which hath formerly been injured, and defaced by hostile fury. There still remain strong marks of its primitive grandeur, although ſeveral of its noblest apartments are so miserably maimed and neglected, ⟨that⟩ they are now become, as it were, an heritage for the dragons of the wilderneſs.

It is a common observation, that neither ⟨the⟩ best of men are exempt from faults and follies, nor the worst altogether destitute of worth and virtue. But sometimes there is such a mixture of good and bad qualities, so great a contrariety both of sentiment and conduct in the same individual; that when we ourselves ſit upon the trial of such a character, we are even constrained to suſpend our sentence; and our judgement is not only embarraſſed by the intersperſion of ſlighter crimes; but it is also frequently perplexed and obstructed in its deciſions when actions of the blackest turpitude have been perpetrated by men, whose general behaviour hath correſponded with the ſtricteſt rules of virtue and benevolence. Hiſtory, ſacred and profane, furniſhes us with ſtriking inſtances of the brightest excellencies, and the fouleſt blemiſhes, concentered in the ſame perſon. Oftentimes that predominant paſſion, which conſtitutes the very heroiſm of goodneſs, ſhall aggravate every feature of vice, if once it be inliſted under the banner of wickedneſs. That natural warmth of St. Peter's temper, which rendered his zeal for his injured maſter ſo conſpicuous, betrayed him into the moſt horrid oaths and execrations. But there is no neceſſity of a recourſe to ſuch diſtant examples, we ſhall find ſufficient ſcope for reflection upon topics of this nature amidſt the occurrences of our own times. Nor will the ſubſequent ſtory be a bad comment upon the hints already advanced; or too faint an illuſtration of the deplorable conſequences, which now and then follow upon an unlimited indulgence even of the beſt of human paſſions.

An innkeeper at a town in Normandy had eight children. His wife, whom he loved with the utmoſt tenderneſs, died of a fever, after fourteen years cohabitation. He was inconſolable for a while; but at length he emerged from his grief, and transferred all his affection to the fruits of his marriagebed. The income ariſing from the profits of his buſineſs, was an incompetent maintenance for his family. Hence ſeveral of his ſons and daughters, when they had attained to a proper age, quitted their father's houſe, and entered into ſervitude. So ſtrong was the innholder's attachment to his children, that he regarded their departure in the light of a temporary baniſhment. However, there yet remained at home his eldeſt and his youngest ſon, who practiſed every filial duty to ſupply the deficiency of his abſent comforts. Prior to this period commenced the last war betwecn France and Great Britain: In the progreſs whereof the French compelled into the ſervice a multitude of young fellows, who were averſe to the profeſſion of arms. It unhappily fell out, that the innkeeper's youngest boy, a lad about ſixteen years of age, was ſeized upon by a recruiting party, and hurried into Flanders. The distreſs of the poor father at this melancholy incident, would probably have been inſupportable, if his brother, who was the minister of the pariſh, had not uſed every argument, which reaſon and religion ſuggested, to alleviate the pangs of the bereaved parent. But although a courſe of time had aſſuaged the ſeverity of his ſufferings, yet his ſorrows were occaſionally quickened by the piteous tales the youth tranſmitted to him, of the many hardſhips he underwent abroad; by repeated applications of this neceſſitous ſon for money; and by the inability of the father to gratify the preſſing requests of a ſtarving child.

After ſome years were elapſed, there rode an officer into the yard of the inn; who alighting from his horſe, called aloud for the landlord. The maſter of the houſe obſerving, that his gueſt by his apparel was a man of rank, approached him with deference. At which time the officer, fixing his eyes ſtedfaſtly upon his hoſt, acquainted him, that he was juſt then arrived from Tournay, and had been deſired to inform him of his ſon's health. The landlord's fond heart bounded at the mention of a perſon ſo exceedingly dear to him, and he was urgent with the gentleman to perpetuate his converſation upon this engaging theme. But the ſoldier replied, that he was neceſſitated to pay a few viſits in the town, and would take a more favourable opportunity to ſatisfy every enquiry of his hoſt.

About ten o'clock at night the gentleman returned to his inn, and told the landlord, that he had invited ſeveral friends to dinner the next day. Wherefore he directed a plentiful and elegant entertainment to be provided. At this protracted ſtay of his gueſt the innholder ſecretly rejoiced, hoping thereby to hear many particulars about his boy in the Netherlands. The officer complaining of fatigue, and deſiring to be conducted to his bedchamber, the man of the houſe catched up a candle, and lighted him to his apartment. No ſooner were they both entered, but the gentleman drew a purſe of gold from his pocket, and gave it to the landlord, with a charge to take care of ſo valuable a depoſit. Then wiſhing him a good night, and reminding him of the morrow's engagements, he ſhut the door, and haſtened into bed.

The following day the Abbe called upon his brother, and with great complacency in his countenance, enquired after the Officer's health. The innkeeper told him, that the Officer was well, and had ſet out early in the morning on his return to the army. It is impoſſible, rejoined the Abbe with a ſmile. That very Officer will moſt aſſuredly dine with you to day, and give you ſuch a hiſtory of your ſon, as muſt be productive to yon of a degree of joy, very little inferior to rapture. The landlord was aſtoniſhed at theſe myſterious words, and aſked his brother, if he was formerly acquainted with the gentleman. To which the miniſter made anſwer in the affirmative. Who is he? ſaid the innkeeper with great emotion. The whole ſecret, returned the Abbe, ſhall be revealed to you at dinner. Hereupon the innholder appeared extremely agitated, and peremptorily aſſerted the departure of his gueſt at break of day. Indeed it cannot be ſo, replied the Prieſt. There is a happineſs in reſerve for you, my dear brother, which my heart ſtruggles to diſcloſe. But the obligations I am under of ſecrecy, will not permit me to unfold this intereſting riddle.

The maſter of the inn, whoſe face abundantly beſpoke the perturbation of his breaſt, ſtared upon the miniſter with a peculiar wildneſs in his eyes, and ſeemed entirely deprived of all power of utterance. Ah! my brother, cried the Abbe, this is too, too much. I cannot any longer keep you in this painful ſtate of ſuſpence. I beſeech you to recollect the features of the military gentleman. Pray tell me, if you cannot trace out the lineaments of your darling ſon, uuder the badge of diſtinguiſhed merit. This eclairciſſement had nearly proved fatal to the landlord, who turned very pale, trembled in every joint, and immediately ſunk down in a ſwoon. The aged churchman blamed himſelf for the temerity of his proceedings, and wiſhed a thouſand times, that he had ſuppreſſed this affecting part of his narrative. But ſince he could not retract his story, he cheriſhed hopes, that a fuller explanation of every circumstance might deliver his brother's mind from this distraction of contending paſſions. Wherefore, when the unhappy man was recovered from his fits, the miniſter ⟨tenderly⟩ intreated him to compoſe the ⟨turbulency⟩ of his thoughts; and further informed him, that his ſon, by a late ſignal diſplay of valour, had been rewarded with an hundred louis d'ores and a lieutenancy. That the dear youth, noticing the officious aſſiduity of his father, preſently inferred from thence his parent's ignorance of him; now diſguiſed, as it were, by his improved ſtature, and the ſuperiority of his attire. That pleaſed with this uncommon adventure, he had apprized his friends thereof, and appointed them to dine with him, that they might ſhare the joys of the family upon his diſcovery of himſelf. To all which the Abbe ſubjoined, that this worthy and amiable child had brought his indigent father a purſe of money, to obviate his preſent neceſſities, and to prevent future anxieties.

Scarce had the uncle mentioned this ſuperlative inſtance of filial goodneſs, before the innkeeper dropped to the ground, writhed with frightful convulſions, while the eccleſiaſtic looked with inconceivable ſurprize upon the ſervants, who ſtood ſpeechleſs round their ſeemingly dying maſter. Amidſt theſe ſcenes of confuſion, the maid recollected, that there was a vial of hartſhorn drops in a cloſet pertaining to the bedchamber, where the officer had lain the preceding night. As ſhe was running up ſtairs for the medicine, ſhe was purſued by the miniſter, who endeavoured to arreſt her in her flight, that he might learn from her, if it was poſſible, the true cauſe of theſe ſtrange and formidable occurrences.

With thoughts more diſturbed and embroiled than the ſtormy deep, he entered the chamber; where, finding that his ſtrength and ſpirits were haſtily departing from him, he threw himſelf upon a couch, which was accidentally at hand. After he had continued a few minutes in this fainting ſtate, he opened his eyes, and thought that he ſaw ſomething like an human form lying under the bed. The figure powerfully attracted his ſight for a while. But when the Abbe had gazed long enough to aſcertain the reality of the object, he ſtarted up from his recumbent poſture, and collecting all his ſhattered powers into one effort, eagerly dragged the body from its concealment. To his inexpreſſible conſternation, horror, and anguiſh, the mangled corps proved to be the remnains of the military ſtranger. The pious clergyman, penetrated through his very ſoul at this ſhocking ſpectacle, fetched a deep groan, and inſtantly fell dead upon his murdered nephew.

By this time the inn-holder was reſtored from thoſe dreadful contorſions, which had threatned his immediate diſſolution. Raiſing himſelf out of the chair, in which his domeſticks had ſeated him, he deſired to be taken before a magiſtrate, to whom he confeſſed every particular of this bloody tragedy. It ſeemed that the eldeſt ſon was the firſt who propoſed the deſtruction of the officer. The father heard the overture with deteſtation; but the young man having bound himſelf in a joint bond with his father for the payment of a large ſum of money, and hourly expecting his parent and himſelf to be thrown into a jail, urged the neceſſity of making the ſoldier's purſe their own property, as the only expedient to ſecure themſelves from the miſeries of confinement. The father warmly, remonſrated againſt the purſuit of ſuch impious meaſures; and likewiſe obſerved, that the guilt thereof would be highly inflamed by the extraordinary confidence which his gueſt had repoſed in him. The ſon intimated that he thought it cruel uſage to be made ſubject to the penalties of a bond, for which he had received no pecuniary conſideration, and which he had entered into upon no other motive than the preſervation of his father from the reſentments of his creditors. The parent bewailed their complicated misfortunes; but perſiſted in ſuffering the utmoſt extremities, rather than embrue their hands in blood. When the young fellow noticed, that his arguments made no impreſſion, he then artfully enumerated the ſore afflictions which his youngeſt brother endured in Flanders from cold, penury, and toil. Nor did he fail to inſinuate, that now an occaſion preſented itſelf of ſuccouring the wretched youth, who was daily ſurrounded with famine, diſeaſe, and death. The pitiable father burſt into a torrent of tears, and haſtily ſaid, Whatever we are to do, let us do it immediately.

Thus the lacerated heart, although it had reſolutely maintained its ground againſt the piercing ſollicitations of poverty, the approaching terrors of a priſon, and the importunate clamours of an undone child, nevertheleſs fell a ſudden ſacrifice to the inordinate tranſports of parental affection.