CHAPTER XV.
Party spirit, in politics, ran very high about this time in London—it was in the year 1780. The ill success of the American war had put the people in ill-humour; they were ready to believe any thing against the ministry, and some who, for party purposes, desired to influence the minds of the people, circulated the most ridiculous reports, and excited the most absurd terrors. The populace were made to believe that the French and the papists were secret favourites of government: a French invasion, the appearance of the French in London, is an old story almost worn out upon the imaginations of the good people of England; but now came a new if not a more plausible bugbear—the Pope! It was confidently affirmed that the Pope would soon be in London, he having been seen in disguise in a gold-flowered nightgown on St. James’s parade at Bath. A poor gentleman, who appeared at his door in his nightgown, had been actually taken by the Bath mob for the Pope; and they had pursued him with shouts, and hunted him, till he was forced to scramble over a wall to escape from his pursuers.
Ludicrous as this may appear, the farce, we all know, soon turned to tragedy. From the smallest beginnings, the mischief grew and spread; half-a-dozen people gathered in one street, and began the cry of “No popery!—no papists!—no French!”—The idle joined the idle, and the discontented the discontented, and both were soon drawn in to assist the mischievous; and the cowardly, surprised at their own prowess, when joined with numbers, and when no one opposed them, grew bolder and bolder. Monday morning Mr. Strachan was insulted; Lord Mansfield treated it as a slight irregularity. Monday evening Lord Mansfield himself was insulted by the mob, they pulled down his house, and burnt his furniture. Newgate was attacked next; the keeper went to the Lord Mayor, and, at his return, he found the prison in a blaze; that night the Fleet, and the King’s Bench prisons, and the popish chapels, were on fire, and the glare of the conflagration reached the skies. I was heartily glad my father and mother were safe in the country.
Mr. Montenero and Berenice were preparing to go to a villa in Surrey, which he had just purchased; but they apprehended no danger for themselves, as they were inoffensive strangers, totally unconnected with party or politics. The fury of the mob had hitherto been directed chiefly against papists, or persons supposed to favour their cause. The very day before Mr. Montenero was to leave town, without any conceivable reason, suddenly a cry was raised against the Jews: unfortunately, Jews rhymed to shoes: these words were hitched into a rhyme, and the cry was, “No Jews, no wooden shoes!” Thus, without any natural, civil, religious, moral, or political connexion, the poor Jews came in remainder to the ancient anti-Gallican antipathy felt by English feet and English fancies against the French wooden shoes. Among the London populace, however, the Jews had a respectable body of friends, female friends of noted influence in a mob—the orange-women—who were most of them bound by gratitude to certain opulent Jews. It was then, and I believe it still continues to be, a customary mode of charity with the Jews to purchase and distribute large quantities of oranges among the retail sellers, whether Jews or Christians. The orange-women were thus become their staunch friends. One of them in particular, a warm-hearted Irishwoman, whose barrow had, during the whole season, been continually replenished by Mr. Montenero’s bounty, and by Jacob’s punctual care, now took her station on the steps of Mr. Montenero’s house; she watched her opportunity, and when she saw the master appear in the hall, she left her barrow in charge with her boy, came up the steps, walked in, and addressed herself to him thus, in a dialect and tone as new, almost to me, as they seemed to be to Mr. Montenero.
“Never fear, jewel!—Jew as you have this day the misfortune to be, you’re the best Christian any way ever I happened on! so never fear, honey, for yourself nor your daughter, God bless her! Not a soul shall go near yees, nor a finger be laid on her, good or bad. Sure I know them all—not a mother’s son o’ the boys but I can call my frind—not a captain or lader that’s in it, but I can lade, dear, to the devil and back again, if I’d but whistle: so only you keep quite, and don’t be advertising yourself any way for a Jew, nor be showing your cloven fut, with or without the wooden shoes. Keep ourselves to ourselves, for I’ll tell you a bit of a sacret—I’m a little bit of a cat’olic myself, all as one as what they call a papish; but I keep it to myself, and nobody’s the wiser nor the worse—they’d tear me to pieces, may be, did they suspect the like, but I keep never minding, and you, jewel, do the like. They call you a Levite, don’t they? then I, the Widow Levy, has a good right to advise ye; we were all brothers and sisters once—no offence—in the time of Adam, sure, and we should help one another in all times. ‘Tis my turn to help yees now, and, by the blessing, so I will—accordingly I’ll be sitting all day and night, mounting guard on your steps there without. And little as you may think of me, the devil a guardian angel better than myself, only just the Widow Levy, such as ye see!”
The Widow Levy took her stand, and kept her word. I stayed at Mr. Montenero’s all day, saw every thing that passed, and had frequent opportunities of admiring her address.
She began by making the footman take down “the outlandish name from off the door; for no name at all, sure, was better nor a foreign name these times.” She charged the footman to “say sorrow word themselves to the mob for their lives, in case they would come; but to lave it all entirely to her, that knew how to spake to them. For see!” said she, aside to me—“For see! them powdered numskulls would spoil all—they’d be taking it too high or too low, and never hit the right kay, nor mind when to laugh or cry in the right place; moreover, when they’d get frighted with a cross-examination, they’d be apt to be cutting themselves. Now, the ould one himself, if he had me on the table even, I’d defy to get the truth out of me, if not convanient, and I in the sarvice of a frind.”
In the pleasure of telling a few superfluous lies it seemed to be necessary that our guardian angel should be indulged; and there she sat on the steps quite at ease, smoking her pipe, or wiping and polishing her oranges. As parties of the rioters came up, she would parley and jest with them, and by alternate wit and humour, and blunder, and bravado, and flattery, and fabling, divert their spirit of mischief, and forward them to distant enterprise. In the course of the day, we had frequent occasion to admire her intrepid ingenuity and indefatigable zeal. Late at night, when all seemed perfectly quiet in this part of the town, she, who had never stirred from her post all day, was taken into the kitchen by the servants to eat some supper. While she was away, I was standing at an open window of the drawing-room, watching and listening—all was silence; but suddenly I heard a shriek, and two strange female figures appeared from the corner of the square, hurrying, as if in danger of pursuit, though no one followed them. One was in black, with a hood, and a black cloak streaming behind; the other in white, neck and arms bare, head full dressed, with high feathers blown upright. As they came near the window at which I stood, one of the ladies called out, “Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington! For Heaven’s sake let us in!”
“Lady Anne Mowbray’s voice! and Lady de Brantefield!” cried I.
Swiftly, before I could pass her, Berenice ran down stairs, unlocked—threw open the hall-door, and let them in. Breathless, trembling so that they could not speak, they sunk upon the first seat they could reach; the servants hearing the hall-door unchained, ran into the hall, and when sent away for water, the three footmen returned with each something in his hand, and stood with water and salvers as a pretence to satisfy their curiosity; along with them came the orange-woman, who, wiping her mouth, put in her head between the footmen’s elbows, and stood listening, and looking at the two ladies with no friendly eye. She then worked her way round to me, and twitching my elbow, drew me back, and whispered—“What made ye let ‘em in? Take care but one’s a mad woman, and t’other a bad woman.” Lady Anne, who had by this time drank water, and taken hartshorn, and was able to speak, was telling, though in a very confused manner, what had happened. She said that she had been dressed for the opera—the carriage was at the door—her mother, who was to set her down at Lady Somebody’s, who was to chaperon her, had just put on her hood and cloak, and was coming down stairs, when they heard a prodigious noise of the mob in the street. The mob had seized their carriage—and had found in one of the pockets a string of beads, which had been left there by the Portuguese ambassador’s lady, whom Lady De Brantefield had taken home from chapel the preceding day. The mob had seen the carriage stop at the chapel, and the lady and her confessor get into it; and this had led to the suspicion that Lady de Brantefield was a catholic, or in their language, a concealed papist.