The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

338 TOBIAS SMOLLETT
in the parish-crutch, if my own ars may be trusted, the clerk called
the banes of marridge betwixt Opaniah Lashmeheygo, and Tapitha
Brample, spinster; he mought as well have called her inkle-weaver,
for she never spun and hank of yarn in her life—Young ’squire
Dollison and miss Liddy made the second kipple; and there might
have been a turd, but times are changed with Mr. Clinker—O,
Molly! what do’st think? Mr. Clinker is found to be a pye-blow of
our own ’squire, and his rite naam is Mr. Mattew Loyd (thof
God he nose how that can be); and he is now out of livery, and
wares ruffles—but I new him when he was out at elbows, and had
not a rag to kiver his pistereroes; so he need not hold his head so
high—He is for sartain very umble and compleasant, and purtests
as how he has the same regard as before; but that he is no longer his
own master, and cannot portend to marry without the ’squire’s
consent—He says we must wait with patience, and trust to
Providence, and such nonsense—But if so be as how his regard be
the same, why stand shilly shally? Why not strike while the iron is
hot, and speak to the ’squire without loss of time?—What sub-
jection can the ’squire make to our coming together?—Thof my
father wan’t a gentleman, my mother was an honest woman—
I did’n’t come on the wrong side of the blanket, girl—My parents
were marred according to the rights of holy mother crutch, in the
face of men and angles—Mark that, Mary Jones.
Mr. Clinker (Loyd I would say) had best look to his tackle—
There be other chaps in the market, as the saying is—What would
he say if I should except the soot and sarvice of the young ’squire’s
valley? Mr. Machappy is a gentleman born, and has been abroad
in the wars—He has a world of buck larning, and speaks French,
and Ditch, and Scotch, and all manner of outlandish lingos; to be
sure he’s a little the worse for the ware, and is much given to drink;
but than he’s good-tempered in his liquor, and a prudent woman
mought wind him about her finger—But I have no thoughts of
him, I’ll assure you—I scorn for to do, or to say, or to think any
thing that mought give unbreech to Mr. Loyd, without furder
occasion—But then I have such vapours, Molly—I sit and cry by
myself, and take ass of etida, and smill to burnt fathers, and kindal-
snuffs; and I pray constantly for grease, that I may have a glimpse
of the new-light, to shew me the way through this wretched veil of
tares—And yet, I want for nothing in this family of love, where
every sole is so kind and so courteous, that wan would think they