The Wayfarers

by J. C. Snaith

I suppose there must have been a nice tone of verisimilitude in this tissue of lies, or a ring of truth in my tone, or an expression of perfect veracity in my eyes, for the landlord put never another question to us upon that matter, but accepted my heart-moving tale with a mien of deep solicitude. I think I must be unusually gifted in this particular, since this bold story worked on his credulity to such a remarkable degree. And either our supposed misadventures or my command of great oaths must have invested us in the landlord's mind with the indisputable evidences of high quality, for his obeisances grew profounder for the recital, and though by our own confession we had not a penny about us with which to requite him, he proposed to entertain us to the utmost of his capacity.

"Your lordship and your ladyship will doubtless prefer an entirely private apartment in which to sup," says he. "If you will very kindly bear with this one while a fire is lighted in another, I will go about it at once, and also prepare you as good a meal as it is in the power of this poor place to furnish."

However, as I was rather taken than otherwise with the appearance of the solitary occupant of this room, and even more so by the rare warmth and comfort of it, I was fain to suggest that if our company was not disagreeable to the present occupant, we should be well content to stay where we were, and take our supper in his society. And, indeed, the frank, amused, wonderfully naïve countenance he turned on the innkeeper, and the air of perfect good-breeding with which he asked the honour of our company at his table, promised excellent companionship to follow. I having gratefully accepted his offer, he very politely insisted that I should choose the wine, adding that our host kept a very tolerable cellar, and paid a particular compliment to the Burgundy.

In a variety of amiable ways we were very well advanced in a companionship long before supper was served. Our friend, in addition to his handsome looks and elegant manners, appeared to have a good deal of knowledge of the world. His tastes, too, seemed extremely refined. He was well versed in Dryden, Virgil, and Shakespeare, and passed the highest encomiums on the genius of Mr. Henry Fielding. He contributed some excellently apposite remarks to the long-standing controversy respecting the merits of the author of Tom Jones in comparison with those of the author of Clarissa. To my extreme gratification he declared strongly for the former, whereon Mrs. Cynthia, following the fashion of her sex, took up the cudgels very warmly for the latter.

"My dear madam," says our friend, laughing in his musical tones, "the difference between those two authors is that between honest, searching brandy punch and tea twice watered with a good deal of sugar in it."

"That is doubtless the case," says Cynthia. "But whereas the one may degrade a man to the level of a beast,"—I will do her the justice of saying she laid no particular stress on this simile, neither did she look at me, greatly to my relief—"the other is perfectly harmless, wholesome and stimulating. Mr. Richardson's morality hath never been impeached, but Mr. Fielding's hath never been defended."

"It is not always the person who lifts up his voice the loudest, madam, who is the most worthy to be heard," says our friend gravely. "Nor is it he who makes the best parade of his virtue who is invariably the most valuable member of society. I dare say Mr. Fielding would blush as much to be found out in a good act as Mr. Richardson would to be caught in a bad one; but for all that I would prefer to recommend myself to the author of the so-called loose and scandalous Tom Jones, than he of the so-called high-toned Clarissa, were I in need of a dinner and a guinea."

"Sir," says I, "you have put the gist of the matter excellently. You are one of the very few persons I have met who hath had the wit to draw this essential distinction between the characters of two such diverse writers. What the world is for ever failing to apprehend is that true morality, like true religion, has nothing to do with the profession of it; and that man who as often as not best serves his species is he who least pretends to do so."

Yet no sooner had I ventured to confirm the wisdom of my friend with my own opinion, than my dear Mrs. Cynthia began to take my interference as a personal matter aimed at her rather than at the argument. Thus in a truly feminine fashion she got upon her dignity and invested her championship of Mr. Richardson, and more especially her animadversion of Mr. Fielding, with several palpable references to my recent behaviour in his company. At least the unease of my conscience put this construction upon her replies, although when I reflected upon the matter afterwards I could find no grounds except those of my own guilty knowledge for supposing that she was at all acquainted with our meeting.

It was a real relief none the less when our heated discourse on morality was at last interrupted by the arrival of the first dish, a highly delectable loin of pork flanked with sage and onions. We sat down in much comfort and did ample justice to the fare. Our friend's manners at the table had all the elegance of good-breeding, whilst his conversation under the benign influences of excellent dishes and good wine was as entertaining and various as any one need listen to. He was at a loss on no subject whatever; and there was such an easy air of gallantry about him, too, as commended him extremely to the susceptible Cynthia, however they might differ in their opinions on the subject of morality. Indeed his mien was so winning and so perfectly acceptable withal to her ladyship, that I could have wished he had less of those graces to recommend him. For I'll swear that her eyes shone to his speeches, and there was a fine colour in her cheeks, however indignantly she may be moved to deny it. There was a sly humour in the fellow too, which as the meal wore on and the excellence of the fare warmed his heart, he manifested in various ways. To start with, he made more than one allusion to our supposed misfortune. What kind of a person was the highwayman, he asked in a tone equally pregnant with mischief and concern.