The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER 53
come from the purlieus of Puddle-dock, but from the courtly
neighbourhood of St. James’s palace. One was a baroness, and the
other, a wealthy knight’s dowager—My uncle spoke not a word,
till we had made our retreat good to the coffee-house; where, taking
off his hat and wiping his forehead, ‘I bless God (said he) that Mrs.
Tabitha Bramble did not take the field to-day!’ ‘I would pit her for
a cool hundred (cried Quin) against the best shake-bag of the
whole main.’ The truth is, nothing could have kept her at home but
the accident of her having taken physick before she knew the
nature of the entertainment. She has been for some days furbish-
ing up an old suit of black velvet, to make her appearance as Sir
Ulic’s partner at the next ball.
I have much to say of this amiable kinswoman; but she has not
been properly introduced to your acquaintance. She is remarkably
civil to Mr. Quin; of whose sarcastic humour she seems to stand in
awe; but her caution is no match for her impertinence. ‘Mr.
Gwynn, (said she the other day) I was once vastly entertained with
your playing the Ghost of Gimlet at Drury-lane, when you rose
up through the stage, with a white face and red eyes, and spoke of
quails upon the frightful porcofine—Do, pray, spout a little the
Ghost of Gimlet.’ ‘Madam, (said Quin, with a glance of ineffable
disdain) the Ghost of Gimlet is laid, never to rise again—’ Insen-
sible of this check, she proceeded: ‘Well, to be sure, you looked
and talked so like a real ghost; and then the cock crowed so natural.
I wonder how you could teach him to crow so exact, in the very
nick of time; but, I suppose, he’s game—An’t he game, Mr.
Gwynn?’ ‘Dunghill, Madam.’ ‘Well, dung-hill, or not dunghill,
he has got such a clear counter-tenor, that I wish I had such
another at Brambleton-hall, to wake the maids of a morning. Do
you know where I could find one of his brood?’ ‘Probably in the
work-house of St. Giles’s parish, madam; but I protest I know not
his particular mew.’ My uncle, frying with vexation, cried, ‘Good
God, sister, how you talk! I have told you twenty times, that this
gentleman’s name is not Gwynn.—’ ‘Hoity toity, brother mine,
(she replied) no offence, I hope—Gwynn is an honourable name,
of true old British extraction—I thought the gentleman had been
come of Mrs. Helen Gwynn, who was of his own profession; and
if so be that were the case, he might be of king Charles’s breed,
and have royal blood in his veins—’ ‘No, madam, (answered
Quin, with great solemnity) my mother was not a whore of such