To the fame which Metcalf had acquired by various means, was now added that of a boxer, though he was far from being ambitious of celebrity in that way. Some little time after, Metcalf was called up at midnight by this very Bake, who, knowing by experience the prowess and powers of his late antagonist, had presumed to make a bet of five guineas, that Metcalf would beat a fellow whose company he had just left.—But Metcalf gave him to understand, that, although he had store of thumps for those who should treat him with insolence, he was no prize-fighter; and having no quarrel with the man in question, he (Bake) might fight or forfeit as he liked best.
Being desirous of getting a little fish, he once, unassisted, drew a net of eighty yards length, in the deepest part of the river Wharfe, for three hours together. At one time he held the lines in his mouth, being obliged to swim.
The following wager he laid, and won: He engaged with a man at the Queen’s Head at Harrogate, to go to Knaresborough Cross, and return, in less time than the other would gather one hundred and twenty stones, laid at regular distances of a yard each, and, taking one stone at a time, put them all into a basket placed at one end of the line.
Meeting with some company, amongst whom there was one of a boastful turn, Metcalf proposed to go against him from Harrogate to Knaresborough Cross, provided he would take the way which Metcalf should choose. To this the other agreed, believing that he could easily keep pace with Metcalf till he should arrive within sight of the Cross, and that he could then push forward, and beat him. But when they got within half a mile of the town, Metcalf quitted the road which leads over the High Bridge, and, knowing that his antagonist could not swim, made for a deep part of the river above Bridge, and divesting himself of his upper drapery, swam across; at the same time calling out jeeringly to his adversary, “that he hoped for the pleasure of his company up to the Cross.” The other, not liking to commit himself to the water, gave up the wager.
About this time, Dr. Chambers, of Ripon, had a well-made horse, which he used to hunt; but finding that latterly he became a great stumbler, he exchanged him with a dealer, who took him to Harrogate, and meeting with Metcalf, told him he had an excellent hunter to sell at a low price.—Metcalf desired to try how the horse leaped, and the owner agreeing, he mounted him, and found that he could go over any wall or fence, the height of himself when saddled. A bargain was soon struck; and this happening at the Queen’s Head, several gentlemen who were witnesses of the horse’s performance invited Metcalf to accompany them, two days after, to Belmont Wood, where a pack of hounds were to throw off.
These hounds were the joint property of Francis Trapps, Esq; and his brother, of Nidd, near Ripley. A pack superior to this was not to be found in the kingdom; nor were the owners themselves ever excelled in their attention to their dogs and hunters.
The wished-for day arriving, Metcalf attended the gentlemen, and the hounds were not long in finding. The fox took away to Plumpton Rocks, but finding all secure there he made for Stockeld Wood, and found matters in the same slate as at Plumpton.—He had then run about six miles. He came back, and crossed the river Nidd near the Old Abbey, and went on the East side of Knaresborough, to a place called Coney-Garths (where there were earths) near Scriven. Metcalf’s horse carried him nobly; pulling hard, and requiring proportionate resistance. The wind being high, Metcalf lost his hat, but would not stop to recover it; and coming to Thistle-Hill, near Knaresborough, he resolved to cross the river at the Abbey-Mill, having often before gone, on foot, over the dam-stones. When he got to the dam, he attended to the noise of the fall, as a guide, and ranging his horse in a line with the stones, dashed forward for some part of the way; but the stones being slippery with a kind of moss, his horse stumbled, but recovered this and a second blunder: the third time, however, floundering completely, away went horse and rider into the dam. Metcalf had presence of mind to disengage his feet from the stirrups, during the descent; but both the horse and himself were immersed over head in water. He then quitted his seat, and made for the opposite side, the horse following him. Having secured his nag, he laid himself down on his back, and held up his heels to let the water run out of his boots; which done, he quickly re-mounted, and went up a narrow lane which leads to the road between Knaresborough and Wetherby; then through some lanes on the North-East side of Knaresborough; and crossing the Boroughbridge road, he got to the Coney-Garths, where he found that the whipper-in only had arrived before him.
Here the fox had earthed, as was expected; and the other horsemen (who had gone over the Low Bridge, and through the town) after some time came up.—They were much surprised at finding Metcalf there, and attributed the soaked condition of himself and horse to profuse sweating; nor were they undeceived till (giving up the fox) they got to Scriven, where, upon an explanation of the affair, they laughed heartily.
In the circle of Metcalf’s acquaintance at Knaresborough were two young men, whose sister lived with them in the capacity of housekeeper; and she being of a jocular turn, would often, on Metcalf’s calling at the house, propose such whimsical schemes to him, as gave him reason to believe that to laugh and be merry was the chief business of her life. However, she one evening apprised him of her intention to pay him a visit in the night, and desired him to leave his door unlocked. A knowledge of the woman’s mirthful propensity made him at first consider this as a joke; but, on the other hand, he thought it possible that a real assignation was intended; and being too gallant to disappoint a lady, he told her he would obey her orders. Too sure for the future peace of Metcalf, the lady was punctual to her appointment; coming at the dead time of night to his mother’s house, unawed at passing by the church, whose sanction was wanting. It would be impertinent to detain the reader on the subject of the meeting: suffice it to say, that Metcalf too had unfortunately left his scruples at another house. In a few months after, this tender creature accosted him in the usual way—“I am ruined!—undone—lost for ever, if you do not make an honest woman of me!—” &c. &c.
Whatever compunction Metcalf might have felt in a case of confiding innocence, pleading for the only compensation in his power, he did not think his conscience very deeply interested in the present: besides, his heart was strongly attached to his first truly respectable and worthy mistress.—His business, therefore, was to pacify a troublesome client, which he did in the best manner he was able. The adventure with this dulcinea had happened previous to the above-mentioned hunt; but when Metcalf accompanied the gentlemen from the Coney-Garths to the village of Scriven, he there heard, on the authority of the landlord of the inn, that a woman had gone that day to filiate a child to him. He endeavoured to be merry on the occasion, alledging, that it could not be so, as he had not seen the woman for several years. This produced a laugh among the company; but with Metcalf it soon took a more serious turn. On his return to Harrogate he employed his fellow-fidler to procure a meeting between him and his favourite, Dorothy Benson, which was effected with some difficulty; and he took this occasion to inform her of his disgrace, judging it better to be before-hand with her, in a matter which could not be long concealed.—“Ah! John,” replied she, “thou hast got into a sad scrape: but I intreat thee, do not think of marrying her.” Having quieted the fears of his favourite on that score, he desired his assistant to go with him to Knaresborough, to sound the coast; but before they had got half way, his companion exclaimed, “Here is the Town-Officer coming!” Metcalf proposed walking smartly on, without noticing him; but when they got near, the Officer, who was a Quaker, called out, “Stop, I want to speak with thee.” He then explained his errand, and pressed Metcalf much to marry the woman; to which he replied, that he had no thoughts of marriage, and desired to know whether for thirty or forty pounds in money the matter might be made up. “Yea, friend,” said Jonathan, “perhaps I can settle the affair for thee on those terms.” On this, Metcalf observed to him, that he must go to Harrogate, his money being there. The Quaker agreeing, they went together to a public-house, where Metcalf called for a tankard of punch, drank part of it, and seeming very chearful, said, “I must go and collect my money: as it is in various hands, perhaps it will be an hour or more before I can return; so drink your punch, and call for more.” This pretext succeeding, he left Jonathan to regale himself at his own suit; and choosing the most private way to a thick wood, he there secreted himself all day. After some hours waiting, the man of the broad brim lost all patience, and set out in quest of his profane ward; when meeting a gentleman, he thus accosted him: “Friend! have thee, perchance, seen a blind fidler?” The gentleman replied, “I thought that a person of thy cloth had not wanted a fidler.” “I tell thee I want one at this time,” quoth the Quaker; who, after some other fruitless inquiries, went home.