v 
 
 J°+. 
 
 s°<* 
 
 7 'V^-v v- 
 
 
 <o. 
 
 
 
WILMOT WARWICK, 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
Brief Extracts from Literary Publications Commendatory 
 of the Work. 
 
 " The Tales that follow the Life of Wilmot Warwick are fourteen in num- 
 ber, and are all very well told. /We have been particularly pleased with the 
 introductory one, which makes known the writer, and some of the most pic- 
 turesque, if we may use the term, personages that exhibit in the little 
 volume. It is entitled the ' Odd Gentleman ;' but though we recommend 
 the perusal of the whole book to our readers, yet we cannot deny ourselves 
 the pleasure of personally introducing ta their notice our facetious friend. 
 * * * Each Tale is good in itself; but^were we to express a preference, it 
 would be in favour of ' Christmas Night/ ' Henry Halworth,' and ' The 
 Painter's Account of Himself.' - * Let, however, every one read and decide 
 for himself. Of this we are quite sure, that whoever does peruse this little 
 work will rise refreshed from it, and will esteem the tone of tender, generous, 
 and manly feeling, that pervades the whole of it.*.* *"—JVetp Monthly 
 Magazine. 
 
 «« * * # j n fact, it is a novel, and a novel of a very superior order. It 
 consists of a series of Tales, picked up among, and written from incidents 
 during an excursion into the country. * * * His Tales are cleverly written , 
 are aptly chosen, and possess many gems of sentiment. ' The Haunted 
 Mill,' and the ' Smuggler,' are of a very powerful description, particu- 
 larly the latter. * The Wig' is the most lengthy, and for a portraiture of its 
 own peculiar feelings, is one of the most accurate delineations we ever pe- 
 rused * * * We shall now leave these morceaua to be digested by our rea- 
 ders, particularly those of the fair who condescend to honour our labours 
 with their attention ; assuring them, that when we say they are faithful pic- 
 tures of the human heart in its various situations, boldly and vividly painted, 
 we say no more than what they will willingly allow to be the truth.* * *" — 
 Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
 « # « * Several of his other sketches are as good as the one from which 
 we have taken our extracts. We would particularly mention 'The Poachers/ 
 and that entitled ' The Painter's Account of Himself,' as very graphically 
 told." — Monthly Revieiv. v 
 
 it * * # The Tales possess considerable merit, and, indeed, are better 
 worthy the notice of the public, than many works of fiction of much greater 
 pretensions. * * We regard the work as a clever production, and augur 
 favourably of the future exertions of the writer. * * *" — London fVeekly 
 Review. ^ 
 
 a * * * It is a collection of tales, written in a very pleasing manner. A 
 peculiar and somewhat affecting tone of pathos runs through some of them, 
 while a subdued raillery, combined with no small insight into human nature, 
 is apparent, and highly amusing, in others." — Age. 
 
 A SECOND VOLUME is nearly ready for the Pre**, 
 
THE 
 
 LIFE AND REMAINS 
 
 WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS FRIEND 
 
 HENRY VERNON. 
 
 " Thus baffled at every point, my affections outraged wherever they 
 would attach themselves; I became sullen, silent, and desponding ; and my 
 feelings, driven back upon myself, entered and preyed upon mine own 
 heart." 
 
 The Young Italian. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 JAMES RIDGWAY, PICCADILLY, 
 
 MDCCCXXIX. 
 
-pR <f g0 1 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SHACKELL AND BAYLIS, JOHNS ON*S-COURT, FLEET-STREET. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, Esq. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Among the volumes which belonged to my late 
 friend, none bear more evident marks of frequent 
 perusal than * The Sketch Book ;' and the numer- 
 ous marginal annotations throughout, fully testify 
 the great admiration in which he held the talents 
 of its Author. 
 
 Although to concur in a general opinion argues 
 no claim upon particular indulgence, I cannot 
 otherwise qualify the presumption of thus dedi- 
 cating to you a portion of his Works. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 HENRY VERNON. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Introductory 1 
 
 The Life of Wilmot Warwick 17 
 
 Remains — The Odd Gentleman 75 
 
 Christmas Night 87 
 
 The Haunted Mill 103 
 
 The Dead Arm, and Ghost of Caesar 125 
 
 The Odd Gentleman and Old Maid 136 
 
 Twelfth-Day 141 
 
 The Smuggler 153 
 
 The Poacher 169 
 
 The Wig 189 
 
 Travelling Companions 223 
 
 Henry Halworth 235 
 
 St. Valentine's Day 255 
 
 Gordon 269 
 
 The Painter's Account of Himself 297 
 
LIFE AND REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 " After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 
 
 I was one evening sitting alone in my dining- 
 room, reposing in all the luxury of a stuffed arm- 
 chair and slippers, and enjoying (if enjoyment it 
 may be called) that sensation of drowsy lassitude, 
 the natural consequence of a hearty meal, when our 
 appetite has been previously whetted by fasting and 
 fatigue. My eyes were fixed upon an old ancestral 
 portrait which hungabove the mantel-shelf, but their 
 " sense" had no more to do with it, than a ship with 
 the anchor from which she has parted in a gale. My 
 imagination, in short, boldly independent of all 
 reasonable bounds, flew about from one subject to 
 b 2 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 another, without resting on any — now carrying me 
 to the Black Hole at Calcutta — then taking a short 
 cut over Mont Blanc — and anon transplanting me 
 from the gloomy grandeurs of an Alpine solitude, to 
 the bustling purlieus of the Stock Exchange. 
 
 A great chasm in the centre of the fire might 
 reasonably have urged the necessity of a poker — 
 but it did no such thing — it gave a sentimental turn 
 to my reflections, and my heart yearned at the loss 
 of some friends, and the absence of others. Memory 
 then led me a long jaunt through the scenes of my 
 youth, retracing the harmless follies of my child- 
 hood, and reassembling the companions of my in- 
 fancy — Some, alas! were in their graves — and 
 Warwick, (poor Wilmot !) where was he ? 
 
 My thoughts were becoming confused. I shut 
 my eyes from very languor — opened them again — 
 closed them a second time — peeped once more 
 through my eyelids, and was about to sink into the 
 arms of " Nature's soft nurse," when the chords of 
 a guitar, struck by some itinerant musician, roused 
 me from my stupor. 
 
 Never was my mind more fitted for the full enjoy- 
 ment of dulcet sounds than at this moment, and the 
 beautiful little air of "Peseator delPonde," stole over 
 my wandering senses with a peculiar charm. The 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 singing was not amiss, and the accompaniment toler- 
 ably managed. " Give that fellow a shilling," said 
 T to my servant, who now came in with the tea 
 things — U Give him a shilling, Adam, and ask him 
 to play something else." 
 
 " I'll ask him to play something else, and give 
 him the shilling afterwards," replied the cautious 
 Adam ; nor could I refuse him an approving smile 
 at the time, though the recollection of his well 
 meant policy is now ever accompanied with a sigh ! 
 
 The poor musician gave me the due sum of me- 
 lody and departed. 
 
 He visited my door occasionally afterwards, al- 
 ways receiving his shilling ; and old Adam, who 
 dearly loved gossip, would sometimes exchange a 
 few words with him. He managed to learn that 
 the poor singer had seen better days, but vainly 
 attempted to discover his name, or any particulars 
 relating to his history. — " But, he is most likely a 
 discharged valet," the old fellow would say, and in 
 a tone which at once proved that he was not a little 
 displeased at having his curiosity checked. 
 
 " And pray, Adam/' said I, " what sort of a 
 looking man is he ?" 
 
 " Why, Sir, it is in general so dark that his 
 face and figure are not over plain to be seen ; but, 
 
6 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 from his grammar, and that like, 'twould seem as 
 though he were something of a gentleman — that is 
 to say, so far as I judge of him when he speaks Eng- 
 lish. As to the for run lingo in some of his songs, I 
 know naught about it. Sure enough, it must be 
 cold work for the poor fellow this weather ; for, 
 as I take it, he can't find much warmth, in thrum- 
 ming o 1 those cat-guts/' 
 
 " Next time he comes,'" said I, " tell him to 
 walk into the hall ; and, together with his shilling, 
 Adam, give him a glass of your home-brewed." 
 
 " Aye," replied Adam, " that be o' the right 
 sort, Sir ; if there be any thing particularly calcu- 
 lated to make me sing, it be a draught o' that same 
 home-brewed." 
 
 On the musician's next appearing, he was, ac- 
 cordingly, told to walk into the hall ; u but," said 
 Adam, (in relating the matter afterwards to his 
 master), " he would do no such thing: and, egad, 
 what's far worse than all, he took it into his head to 
 refuse my home-brewed, which," continued he, in 
 an affected tone of indignation, " will do more good 
 to his soul, than his music will to mine." 
 
 'Twas strange! — I went to the door myself, 
 intending to speak to the man, but he was gone. 
 According to' Adam's account, he did not seem 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 offended at being asked into the house ; but, on the 
 contrary, much affected by the intended kindness of 
 the offer; and it was in a tone of considerable agi- 
 tation, but totally free from pride, that he stated his 
 not being accustomed to enter people's houses in that 
 capacity — " in that capacity ?" — I was perplexed. 
 
 Although his visits to my door were from that 
 time discontinued, I could indistinctly hear him for 
 several succeeding nights, singing in the distance. 
 This gave additional impetus to my curiosity. I 
 thought once or twice of conferring with him in the 
 street — of following him home to his lodging — in 
 short, of fathoming his mystery ; but, like people in 
 general, I hesitated to perform till opportunity had 
 passed, and a fortnight elapsed without my hearing 
 any thing more of him. I could never contemplate 
 his singular conduct without thinking there was 
 something in it which merited attention ; and, re- 
 gretting that I had been so backward when the 
 means of obtaining information were probably in my 
 power, I determined, should they again offer, to 
 secure the advantage. 
 
 At length I received a note, directed — " To the 
 Master of No. — , Gloucester-Place.'' On opening 
 it I read as follows :— 
 
8 introductory. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " The poor musician whom you have lately so 
 liberally patronized, has little reason for supposing 
 that the pride which withheld him from entering 
 your house a fortnight back, will recommend him 
 to your notice now — perhaps, however, his misfor- 
 tunes may. 
 
 " He has had to thank many of your neighbours 
 for a shilling ; but you are the only one that can 
 reprove him for being above his situation, as you 
 alone have given him an opportunity of shewing 
 that he is so. His singing is now over : and he can 
 have nothing more to do with music, except it be in 
 the form of a funeral dirge. 
 
 " He is on his death-bed ! — sinking under the 
 effects of a cold which attacked him during one of 
 his nocturnal rambles ; — " 
 
 Without waiting to peruse any more of this 
 letter, I desired the little girl who brought it to 
 conduct me instantly to the musician's abode. 
 
 On reaching the poor fellow's bed side, I found 
 him feebly answering the apothecary's inquiries. 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 9 
 
 This done, he raised himself upon his pillow, and 
 turning towards me, apologized for the strangeness 
 of his conduct, and begged that I would sit down 
 beside him. 
 
 We had scarcely exchanged a dozen words 
 before I had occasion to mention my name. The 
 poor fellow looked surprised — " Vernon V he ex- 
 claimed, with a deep-fetched sigh, and again re- 
 peated my name, as if it were associated with some 
 of the past events of his life. 
 
 I regarded him with earnestness, and the gaze of 
 my helpless companion was equally searching. 
 
 " Good God ! v he exclaimed, " can it be Henry 
 Vernon ?" 
 
 I became agitated, hardly knowing why, and 
 moved by some vague suspicion, alluded to the 
 place of my early education — 
 
 " 'Tis he !" he exclaimed, with a convulsive 
 utterance ; and falling back upon his pillow, he 
 faintly added, " Henry Vernon, we were school- 
 fellows!" 
 
 " For Heaven's sake," said I, " explain your- 
 self. Are my suspicions right ? Do I not recognize 
 in you the likeness of my earliest friend, Wilmot 
 Warwick ?" 
 
 " You see, indeed, his person/ ' replied he, 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 taking my hand, " though I wonder you should 
 recognize any likeness between what I now am, and 
 what I then was." 
 
 The mutual happiness elicited by this sudden 
 and extraordinary recognition was but of short 
 duration. After pausing some minutes to regain 
 his composure, he continued, " Thank God, you 
 will own me, Vernon ! As you have acted thus 
 far in my behalf, you will, I am sure, remain my 
 friend to the end. I shall not trouble you long — 
 death has advanced upon the last hold of my 
 existence, and his conquest will be easy and 
 immediate. Often have I arraigned the hard fate 
 which parted us — I have now to bless the good 
 fortune which has brought about this interview, 
 and at last conducted me to your bosom, on 
 which my lacerated heart may repose a few mo- 
 ments, ere it ceases to throb, and leaves me at rest 
 for ever !" 
 
 " Nay, do not talk in this manner/' I replied, 
 " you shall be removed immediately to my resi- 
 dence.'" The medical attendant shook his head, in 
 token of the impossibility of such a step. 
 
 " No, my dear Vernon," said Wilmot, smiling, 
 " do not think of that, I shall soon be removed to 
 my own house — the only one I shall have ever had — 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 11 
 
 the only one I have now any hope or wish to in- 
 habit." 
 
 In the course of the day he grew considerably 
 worse, and though my curiosity to know something 
 of his history was maddening, the apothecary for- 
 bade any interruption to his quiet. I, therefore, 
 sat by his bedside in silence, bathed in tears, watch- 
 ing him with the most painful anxiety, and com- 
 paring the disfigured form of the poor slumberer 
 beside me with that of my school-fellow eight years 
 before. 
 
 Wilmot at length opened his eyes, somewhat 
 refreshed by sleep, and desired to be raised upon 
 his pillow. 
 
 " If you knew," said he, " the calm which now 
 pervades my sinking soul — the hope that animates 
 me, and the confidence on which that hope is 
 grounded — you would neither pity my present 
 state, nor lament my past misfortunes. For my 
 own part," continued he (laying his hand gently 
 upon mine, and speaking in a more cheerful tone, 
 as if to suppress the grief which he perceived swell- 
 ing within me)— " for my own part/' said he, 
 " I forget the past in contemplating the prospect 
 before me. The present is all peace — the future all 
 happiness. You will want to know something of 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 my history when I am dead — nay, my good friend, 
 do not let an allusion to my death have so grievous 
 an effect upon you. We have been separated for 
 eight years. We are now going to separate again. 
 The interval betwixt this and the time when we 
 shall next meet, may be something less or some- 
 thing greater than the time which has elapsed since 
 our last parting ; aye, that was indeed a miserable 
 hour; but this — considering all things, Vernon — 
 should be comparatively happy. Therefore," said 
 he, resuming that part of his subject which my 
 tears had for the time suspended, " when I am 
 dead, open this packet. Among the many literary 
 trifles which it contains, will be found some memo- 
 randa of those circumstances, which, having thus 
 once more alluded to, I bury in oblivion, not suf- 
 fering the painful recollection of them to embitter 
 my last earthly moments. I feel faint," said he, 
 sinking upon his bed, indistinctly adding, "may 
 you enjoy every possible happiness that can attend 
 upon virtue — every earthly comfort that can wait 
 upon life. I thank you, Vernon, a thousand times, 
 for your kindness to a beggar, your constancy to a 
 friend." 
 
 Saying this, he closed his eyes in a state of com- 
 plete exhaustion, and fell into a doze. I rose from 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 13 
 
 my seat, and pacing gently across the room, cast 
 my eyes upon his guitar : 
 
 If my friend had been falsely executed, and I had 
 chanced to see the axe which had beheaded him, I 
 could not have been more strongly moved than by 
 the sight of this guitar ! In the warmth of the mo- 
 ment, I couldhardly excuse myself fornot instinctively 
 knowing, at the time of my first hearing them, that 
 the sounds which it produced denoted the misery of 
 a friend. "Good heavens !" I exclaimed, " while 
 I was revelling in comfort, in luxury — nay, in 
 sumptuousness — my poor friend was wandering 
 about, almost destitute of a home, uncertain of 
 a meal, joyless, friendless, and the slave of mis- 
 fortune !" 
 
 And then I thought upon old Adam's prudent 
 speech, about having the song first, and tendering 
 payment afterwards. I cursed prudence as a sin, 
 and myself as a fool, and Adam as a heartless 
 fellow ; but here, at least, I was wrong ; for, on 
 making the circuit of the bed-chamber, I found 
 my poor old domestic on his knees, by the bed- 
 side, speechless with grief. He had softly crept 
 into the room shortly after me, and had heard my 
 conversation with one, whom, as a boy, he had 
 loved like myself. 
 
14 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Wilmot just lived through the night, hourly 
 losing strength, yet retaining his faculties, though 
 he spoke but little. 
 
 Day returned — but not for him : he had barely 
 time to greet it, when, looking at me for an instant, 
 he faintly uttered his last blessing, and closed his 
 eyes. I felt my hand gently squeezed by that of 
 my expiring friend. It was the last exertion of 
 which his frame was capable ; and, but a moment 
 after, the sudden relaxation of its pressure gave 
 evidence that Wilmot and his miseries were parted 
 
 for ever ! 
 
 HENRY VERNON. 
 
 My poor friend, it appears, threatened by the 
 sudden approach of death, was desirous, at least, 
 of entrusting his packet to the hands of some one 
 who, in the event of his being able to do so, would 
 forward it to the rightful owner. His reason for 
 applying to me (a supposed stranger) may be 
 partly gathered from the note penned to me on his 
 death-bed. 
 
 Having paid the last sad office, of consigning 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 15 
 
 his body to the grave, I broke open the packet. 
 It contained, besides a sketch of his life, numer- 
 ous tales, essays, and pieces of poetry. The life, 
 and some of the tales, form the matter of this 
 volume. 
 
 H. V. 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 Horatio, I am dead ; 
 
 Thou hVst ; report me and my cause aright 
 To the unsatisfied ! 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 How mistaken were the speculations of an unfor- 
 tunate wanderer, who, passing over Louthboro' 
 Down, one fine summer evening, paused at the 
 entrance of my father's plantation, and exclaimed, 
 as he gazed upon the rustic portal of our cottage, 
 " Scene of contentment, sweet abode of peace P 
 
 Now it was, just at that moment, a scene of the 
 most unqualified uproar — the theatre of domestic 
 broil: — and, in saying "just at that moment," I 
 beg leave to preclude the very natural inference, 
 that such moments were, therefore, of rare occur- 
 rence— quite the contrary — the traveller's apos- 
 trophe could have been seldom applicable. 
 
 But he was a poor man without a home, and as 
 
20 THE LIFE OF 
 
 that alone constituted his misery, he thought natu- 
 rally, but not philosophically, that all who had a 
 home could have little else to wish for. Besides, 
 the house was full a hundred yards from the 
 place where he was standing ; not, however, that 
 double the distance would have prevented his hear- 
 ing the clamours which were sounding within our 
 abode, had he not been somewhat deaf, with the 
 wind at his back. 
 
 Who this unfortunate traveller was, and how I 
 became acquainted with the fact of his stopping to 
 moralize at the gate of my father's shrubbery, 
 while I was yet an infant, not two years old, will 
 appear in due time. I am too forward as it is — 
 this history should have commenced fourteen 
 months antecedent to the day of my birth, being 
 the precise time when my mother first caught my 
 father's eye in an assembly room. 
 
 They met by chance — for I would rather deny 
 the workings of Destiny, than suppose her capable 
 of such malice prepense, as to have introduced them 
 to one another, with a view to their misery, and my 
 existence. Chance, then, having brought them 
 together, they loved upon mistaken supposition, 
 and married, because they loved ; nor is there any 
 plausible reason for wondering that they should be 
 
WIT.MOT WARWICK. 
 
 £1 
 
 among the thousands who play the fool before mar- 
 riage, and gain nothing afterwards, but the oppor- 
 tunity of exerting their philosophy. 
 
 As to my worthy parents, they certainly afforded 
 a most extraordinary instance of mutual esteem 
 coming to the aid of dwindling affection, and keep- 
 ing two people together, who were otherwise unal- 
 lied by any one single idea, liking, or opinion. Of 
 course, they could perceive nothing of all this, till 
 the discovery of it only tended to increase evils, 
 instead of averting them. Had they but considered 
 the matter deliberately, taking the various natures 
 of men and women, and laying them out as a painter 
 would colours upon a palette, they would then have 
 convinced themselves that black and yellow, for 
 instance, however charmingly they may look when 
 placed side by side, like the squares of a chess- 
 board, make but a very sorry mixture. I have no 
 doubt my father and mother looked wondrous well 
 in the assembly room ; and indeed have been in- 
 formed that they elicited much admiration by the 
 manner in which they went coupled " down the 
 middle and up again :" but, when they became 
 bone of bone and flesh of flesh — alas ! as the poet 
 has it, — 
 
 " Most comedies are ended with a marriage." 
 
 But, seriously. It doth behove the sexes to 
 
22 THE LIFE OF 
 
 consider this matter, not so much for their own 
 sakes, as with regard to their offspring, who, ten 
 chances to one, not only imbibe the natural failings 
 of their progenitors, but likewise come in for so 
 many more as may be engendered by the clash of 
 heterogeneous dispositions — so that if the mother 
 be given to the stylish vanities of fashionable life, 
 and the father be an adept in the cunning of the 
 mercantile world (though neither of them ever com' 
 mit a palpable dishonesty), it is more than probable 
 their darling boy may be hanged for swindling. 
 
 Yet, what right have / to talk ? — Not even the 
 reflection which rested on the likelihood of being 
 instrumental to the birth of some poor wight, luck- 
 less as myself, and inheriting not only my poverty, 
 but likewise my incapacity to remedy the evil, could 
 ever damp the ardour of my desire for marriage. I 
 have, therefore, no just cause to complain of my 
 father's union with my mother. It is with Dame 
 Chance (who brought it about) that I quarrel. 
 Nor was this the only mischief of which she was 
 guilty; for about five years after my birth — my 
 father being then on a shooting excursion in North 
 Wales — she started a cock pheasant, which, flying 
 through a hedge, induced him to follow, and was 
 the primary cause of his becoming enamoured of a 
 worthless estate, for the means of purchasing which 
 
W1LM0T WAKVVICK. 23 
 
 he sold his patrimony, and ultimately involved his 
 family in distress. 
 
 That I should therefore be a decided enemy to 
 fowling-pieces, and possess an instinctive abhorrence 
 to all kinds of game, is not wonderful. Much pow- 
 der and shot was expended, and many a hare sent 
 per coach to the lawyer who managed my fathers 
 business, and who took pretty good care that he 
 who supplied the game should not only pay for 
 the carriage of it, but for the sweet sauce like- 
 wise. 
 
 My father was a man not given to prattle of his 
 affairs, even to those who merited his most perfect 
 confidence ; so that ray poor mother never became 
 acquainted with the full extent of his circumstances 
 till they were involved past redemption. For mine 
 own part, while the seeds of all my future misery 
 were sowing, I was one of the happiest little rogues 
 in Christendom, much beloved by both parents, 
 but the constant subject of their altercation. My 
 mother wished to cultivate my mental parts, which 
 she, fond soul ! imagined to be of no common 
 order. My father looked upon physical qualifica- 
 tions as of more importance, and was as much de- 
 lighted to see me give a couple of black eyes to a 
 boy half a head taller than myself as my mother 
 
24 THE LIFE OF 
 
 would be to hear me correct the mal-pronunciation 
 and bad grammar of the parish clerk. She like- 
 wise much prided herself in dressing me out to 
 advantage — for I was a pretty-looking child — 
 though, God knows, I can boast but a very mode- 
 rate share of beauty at present. As my features 
 formed, their bloom faded; and my happiness, 
 alas ! was as transient as my beauty. 
 
 As an infant I was certainly interesting, and 
 attracted much notice from the magistrate of our 
 village. His beautiful daughters also were wont 
 to stop me in my little solitary vagabondizings, 
 and rouse my blushes with a kiss : — blushes — not 
 exactly of shame — nor of pride — nor of love, pre- 
 cisely — but of something which partook of all 
 these — a most pleasurable compound. 
 
 Strange it is, that in this world the favours be- 
 stowed upon us should be so frequently ill-timed. 
 We are ever sighing for delights we cannot obtain, 
 or else possessing a treasure which we cannot 
 enjoy ; at least — which we cannot appreciate. Not, 
 however, that I was wholly insensible to the sweets 
 of being caressed by the magistrate's daughters — 
 indeed, I have already explained that such was 
 not the case; for, to say truth, I was in this par- 
 ticular rather forward of my age, and received 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 25 
 
 such favours perhaps more in the shape of an in- 
 dulgence than it was intended I should. 
 
 I think of these times frequently. To be fondled 
 in the embrace of loveliness — or pressed to the 
 bosom of blooming beauty — " Ah, once again, 
 who would not be a child ?" 
 
 My mother, flattered by every little attention 
 which was bestowed upon her darling, grew more 
 and more anxious of increasing my fascinations; 
 while my father, differing from her in this as in all 
 other matters, strenuously opposed what he termed 
 " making a monkey of the lad." Thewes and 
 bulk, with courage to back them, were all in all 
 with him ; and he cared little about the fashion or 
 cleanliness of his son's exterior, so he could inure 
 him to deeds of hardihood and daring. Many a 
 quarrel between my worthy parents originated in 
 this question ; and, whether I should grow up a 
 man of mind or a man of mettle — a gentleman or 
 a jockey, w r as the subject of constant rupture. 
 
 My mother's desire that I should be sent to 
 school was therefore urgent, were it only in con- 
 sideration of separating me from my father ; and 
 on attaining the proper age I was immediately 
 packed off to the " seat of learning," in a town 
 some miles distant from home ; first receiving the 
 
26 THE LIFE OF 
 
 several injunctions of my parents, which, as may 
 be imagined, were no way akin. The one gave 
 me an Eton grammar, the other a cricket bat. 
 " Mind your books," said the one ; " let no boy 
 bully you," said the other — and so we parted. 
 
 I had not been at school many days before I 
 shewed the independence of my spirit, in refusing 
 to undergo the accustomed drudgery of " fag." 
 My master was, of course, an older boy than 
 myself; and, being unable to return the cuffs 
 which he might bestow upon me for disobedience, 
 the most I could do was to show him that they 
 would be ineffectual.* 
 
 My tormentor would give me frequent oppor- 
 
 * The custom in large schools of allowing one boy to command 
 the services of another, as <e fag," is unjust in its principle, and per- 
 nicious in its effects ; and, though countenanced under the idea 
 that it instils a manly hardiness into a youth, which may enable him 
 with fortitude to meet the rubs of after life, it is rather to be looked 
 upon as an encouragement to the natural tyranny of man, inducing 
 the exercise of wanton or capricious authority. We are ready 
 enough to assume power ; equally prone to misuse it ; and the 
 weakness of a boy's nature should, at least, remain free from tempta- 
 tion. That he was at one time compelled to be servile, is, with 
 him, an all sufficient reason for being now tyrannical. The system 
 is undoubtedly bad. It is the nursery of half the unfeelingness 
 which marks aristocracy ; it begins with meanness, and ends with 
 brutality. 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 27 
 
 tunities of evincing my obstinacy ; and, on one 
 occasion, being more severe than usual, he was 
 reproved by a little fellow (about my own age) 
 for what the latter termed his cowardice, in buf- 
 feting so tiny a junior. 
 
 My young champion was about to suffer for his 
 temerity, when I rushed to his assistance, and we 
 soon convinced our foe that he was no match for 
 both. Just at the moment of his making a terrible 
 lunge, my companion managed most dexterously 
 to trip his heels, and he fell forward with con- 
 siderable force, striking his left eye against the 
 sharp angle of a bench. Elated by this success, 
 we exchanged a momentary glance of mutual en- 
 couragement, and scarcely was our antagonist upon 
 his legs again ere we resumed the attack like bull- 
 dogs. My father's injunctions came across my 
 mind — " Let no boy bully you !" It was no 
 longer revenge, but glory which fired me ! My 
 father's spirit was within me ! — u Keep it up, 
 Vernon !" I exclaimed ; and we went to work 
 with redoubled ardour, pummelling our almost 
 breathless adversary right and left, till he fell ex- 
 hausted, and we toppled over him. An exulting 
 shout immediately filled the school-room — loud and 
 general as that elicited from King James's army at 
 
28 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Hounslow by the acquittal of the bishops. " Bravo, 
 bravo! my fine little fellows!" exclaimed a voice 
 much deeper and more audible than the rest, and 
 the next moment I was panting on the knee of my 
 father ! 
 
 If the reader is surprised at this circumstance, 
 so sudden arid unexpected, still more was I. So 
 it fell out, however, that my worthy parents had 
 selected that very morning for a visit to their 
 son, whom they had not seen since his first de- 
 parture for school. My mother, previous to my 
 being called into her presence, was anxious to have 
 a little conversation with the schoolmaster concern- 
 ing the proper employment of my mind ; but her 
 husband, not taking much interest in such matters, 
 had quietly stepped out in search of the school- 
 room. The cheerings which accompanied the fray 
 then enacting, fell upon his ear with all the charms 
 of a "view holla !" and, quickly reaching the 
 spot whence the noise proceeded, he found — every 
 thing which his heart could desire ! His boy could 
 not have been employed more satisfactorily, and he 
 now entertained brighter hopes of him than ever. 
 
 Neither was my heroic little comrade (even in 
 his partial eye,) less worthy of an ovation than my- 
 self. He gave us, however, what was at least 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 29 
 
 equally acceptable, viz. half a crown of King 
 George's money, and bade us, as we valued our 
 own honour and his estimation, to uphold our 
 pugilistic prowess, nor suffer the least derogation 
 from it by any future supineness. 
 
 Judge of the amazement of my mother and the 
 schoolmaster, on seeing my father enter the room 
 where they were seated " in council most sedate," 
 with Vernon and myself on either side of him ; 
 our frills torn ; our clothes and faces all besmeared 
 with blood and dust. 
 
 "Two young heroes!" exclaimed my father, 
 pushing us forward. 
 
 " Mercy on us !" said my mother, " my poor 
 Wilmot! " 
 
 " Vernon," said the schoolmaster, " what may 
 be the meaning of all this?" — 
 
 My father explained. My mother solicited our 
 pardon. The schoolmaster gravely promised to 
 overlook the matter for once ; and we were then 
 dismissed to wash our faces and get our jackets 
 brushed. 
 
 It was thus I became attached to Henry Vernon, 
 my first and dearest friend. We remained after 
 this inseparable allies, and in our joint force main- 
 tained no small degree of authority. As to the 
 
80 THE LIFE OF 
 
 system which we had opposed, it decayed from 
 that time, or, at least, existed in so modified a 
 degree, that no further complaints were afterwards 
 made. 
 
 We remained together at school till I had at- 
 tained the mellowing age of fourteen; but, I 
 believe, neither of us made progress in our studies 
 commensurate with the time employed. Our 
 instructor was a man of great natural ability and 
 extensive acquirement, but wholly unfitted for the 
 profession of a schoolmaster, and with no recollec- 
 tion of those gradual exertions by which he had 
 obtained his elevation on Parnassus. He had no 
 idea of " mincing his precepts for children to swal- 
 low ; v or of " hanging clogs on the nimbleness of 
 his own soul, that his scholars might go along with 
 him." The impetuosity of his temper not only 
 evinced itself in frequent and undeserved sallies on 
 his boys, but sometimes in his severity to a wife, 
 amiable and forbearing, as he was morose and pas- 
 sionate. Taught by individual experience, he was 
 fully enabled to preach a sermon upon the ill effects 
 of drunkenness. When out of his school-room, or 
 free from the surplice, he could be an amusing 
 companion ; and none could do more justice to a 
 round of beef or fat capon, than the reverend 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 31 
 
 Mr. — — . In school, however, he was out of his 
 element ; and most effectually succeeded, like many 
 other sapient people of his kind, in making dulness 
 obstinate, and intimidating talent. 
 
 One evening at the Pitt club, of which he was a 
 staunch and constant member, he mounted a chair 
 to sing " God save the king. 1 " With two bottles 
 of old port in his head, it is not surprising that the 
 security of his heels should be very questionable ; 
 and in waving his glass, as a signal for full chorus, 
 he lost his balance — fell from the chair — and 
 bruised his nose. 
 
 The report of this disaster soon reached the 
 school, and, before the next morning, every boy was 
 well acquainted with the ludicrous issue of his 
 master's loyalty and enthusiasm. 
 
 At the moment, therefore, of his entering the 
 school-room, there was a general buzz. — " Look at 
 his nose,° said Vernon, somewhat louder than he 
 intended. For my life I could not suppress my 
 laughter. The enraged Pittite heard me, and fur- 
 ther exasperated by the universal titter which the 
 irresistible drollery of his damaged physiognomy 
 excited, he advanced, without saying a word, to- 
 wards the person of Vernon 5 his hand clenched, 
 and his little ferret eyes flashing with fury. 
 
 I stepped between them :— 
 
1 
 
 32 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Had the schoolmaster been confronted by the 
 spear points of fifty Polish lancers, he could not 
 have exhibited greater amazement ! 
 
 It was not my courage that touched him ; and, 
 as to my physical force, with that of Vernon com- 
 bined, 'twas nothing to his reverence, who had 
 soundly thrashed a radical waggoner about three 
 weeks before. 
 
 No — it was my fool-hardiness — my rashness — my 
 presumption ! 
 
 " You little — impertinent — insignificant — w (he 
 would have given the best part of his living for a 
 word expressive of something an unfathomable 
 depth beyond contempt — a kind of guttural noise 
 seemed to announce that he had conceived some 
 fitting appellation — 'twas the embryo of what he 
 wished to deliver — but it nearly choked him — so 
 he finished his invective, by thundering forth the 
 word) " scoundrel ! — Come here, Sir," added he, 
 " and receive the punishment due to your conduct !" 
 
 The tone in which he uttered this, struck terror 
 into every one, and I advanced towards him 
 trembling and agitated. One or two of the bigger 
 boys ventured to murmur something like disappro- 
 bation ; and, at this, his fury knew no bounds. 
 He seized me by the collar, and was about to exe- 
 cute the sentence of his wrath, when Vernon ran to 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 33 
 
 my assistance. The astounded master, with a look 
 of direst import, regarded us for a moment ; then, 
 turning away abruptly, and threatening us with 
 severe and instant punishment, he hurried out of 
 the school-room, breathless with passion, and big 
 with his revengeful purpose. What were his in- 
 tended measures we knew not, neither did we stop 
 to inquire; but, taking up our hats, sallied forth, 
 and, in a few minutes, cleared the outskirts of the 
 town. We hurried onward, as may be readily sup- 
 posed, with unusual rapidity. Every tree seemed 
 of birch — every bush an officer. We bounded along, 
 " over brake and briar," nor until we had made 
 the assurance of our safety " doubly sure," did we 
 slacken our pace, or give a moment's thought, as to 
 where we should ultimately direct our steps. 
 
 Panting with fear and fatigue, we sat ourselves 
 down upon a bank, and I began to reason with 
 Vernon upon the questionable propriety of the step 
 we were taking; but, like most people who are 
 ever ready to think that right which is most agree- 
 able, I soon acceded to the arguments of my friend, 
 who fully persuaded me that we were doing no- 
 thing which could subject us to the least degree of 
 censure. 
 
 Having settled this— that we had not only acted 
 
THK LIFE OF 
 
 as most people would have done, but as all people 
 should do — that the expediency of our measure was 
 substantiated, both as regarding the world's opinion 
 and our own conscience — and allow me to say they 
 frequently differ — we proceeded to determine on 
 our next step, and were somewhat puzzled as to 
 whether we should separate for our distinct homes. 
 Vernon's abode lay within ten miles of us, but over 
 a cross country, affording no means of conveyance ; 
 while my mother's residence, though distant half 
 as far again, was situated on a high road, traversed 
 by several stage coaches. 
 
 While we were deliberating on this point, an 
 elderly man, in the dress of a poor farmer, came 
 up, and bidding us " a very good morrow," pro- 
 ceeded to relate a strange cock and bull story, 
 about "four schoolboys, who had half murdered 
 their poor old master with a ruler, and were now 
 hiding their guilty heads somewhere about the 
 neighbourhood." He had just heard this sad news 
 from a butcher's boy, equally noted for riding a 
 swift horse and drawing a long bow. 
 
 At this moment the rumbling of the stage-coach 
 was heard in the distance. Vernon seemed anxious to 
 take advantage of the opportunity about to offer ; 
 and leaving him with the farmer, I ran to the gate, 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 35 
 
 close by, intending to stop the coach. My pur- 
 pose, however, underwent a speedy change; for, just 
 as I was on the point of hailing the driver, whom 
 should I perceive seated inside the vehicle but the 
 old school-master ! Fortunately I escaped his obser- 
 vation, but the object of his journey was evident. 
 He was doubtless on the way to my father's in 
 pursuit of me ! 
 
 Dissembling my consternation as well as I could, 
 I at first merely informed Vernon that the coach 
 was full. 
 
 " Which," said the farmer, "is rather unlucky, 
 as there is no other going to pass to-day." 
 
 " It is, indeed, unlucky,' ' replied Vernon, much 
 embarrassed. 
 
 " But," continued the farmer, " don't make 
 yourselves uneasy about that. If a night's lodging 
 at my cottage will be of service to you, you are 
 heartily welcome, and you can set off again on your 
 journey early to-morrow morning." 
 
 Vernon, after pausing a moment, whispered me, 
 that it were better the farmer should know how the 
 affair stood, and he was immediately made ac- 
 quainted with the whole of our story. 
 
 " Egad," said the farmer, " I thought as much; 
 
 and what's more, I know something of old . 
 
 d 2 
 
36 THE LIFE OF 
 
 You shall both of you remain with me to-night, 
 (that is, if you'll accept such bed and fare as a 
 poor labouring man can afford), and my cart, 
 Master Vernon," (for, as it appeared, our acquaint- 
 ance was not in every respect a new one) — "my 
 cart," said he, " which is going off to your father's 
 to-morrow, shall serve in lieu of a coach." 
 
 Kind soul ! — a word or two concerning him will, 
 I trust, be welcome. 
 
 The name of our humble host was , 
 
 I forget his sirname — but it is wholly immaterial — 
 he generally answered to the simple appellation of 
 Adam. 
 
 Although by nature not of the roving kind, the 
 worthy hero of my episode, till within a few 
 months previous to this our accidental meeting, had 
 never known the blessing of a stationary home. 
 
 He was an illegitimate child, and had been as 
 roughly treated by the world, in consequence, as 
 though he had been himself instrumental to his con- 
 ception and birth. His mother was a squire's ser- 
 vant ; and his father the squire's son. The former 
 died when he was an infant ; and the latter, by pay- 
 ing down a sum of money, got rid of him at once. 
 
WILM0T WARWICK. 37 
 
 After serving under several masters, and work- 
 ing in as many different capacities, he obtained a 
 situation as carter in the establishment of a wealthy 
 farmer, and there fell in love with the dairy-maid, 
 The circumstances of his birth favoured him little 
 in the eyes of his master ; but that he could have 
 borne, had they not likewise argued against him in 
 the heart of his mistress — this he thought hard. 
 
 Nevertheless, he followed up his suit, and well 
 nigh overcame the scruples of his fair one, by tell- 
 ing her, that he could no more help being a bastard, 
 than he could avoid falling in love with her. 
 
 ('Tis the only way, Sir, you may depend upon 
 it. If a woman's vanity be not assailable, not all 
 the fascinations of men will ensnare their virtue, nor 
 any strength of reasoning overthrow their bigotry.) 
 
 The dairy-maid had smiled on Adam : — 
 Oh ! the power of a woman's smile ! — (Adam 
 could no more withstand it, than he could resist 
 the combined force of his team.) It allays our 
 pride, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. 
 It is the cure for scorn— the balm for misfortune 
 — the sunshine of life, bringing forth all the better 
 parts of our nature. 
 
38 THE LIFE OF 
 
 The dairy-maid had sighed to Adam:- — 
 
 Oh, the heart-stirring language of a woman's 
 sigh ! It arouses our hopes, and excites our wishes. 
 It places all our energies in the heart, leaving the 
 head to do as it may without them. As to poor 
 Adam, he drove his plough diagonally, making no 
 two furrows parallel, and suffering his leader to 
 walk into the ditch. 
 
 The dairy-maid had wept at Adam's misfor- 
 tunes ! — 
 
 'Twas enough to overcome the stoutest heart ! 
 Next to the pleasure afforded by relieving the dis- 
 tresses of loveliness, is that of receiving the pity it 
 awards to our own sufferings — A woman's tears ! 
 — The man who obtains them is hardly to be pitied 
 for his misfortunes. — Adam felt so, at all events. 
 
 He was now fairly in love. He had good reason 
 for supposing that his love would be returned ; and 
 thinking it better to have his expectations annulled 
 by disappointment than fostered by doubt, he de- 
 termined on making the declaration. 
 
 This resolution was formed in the hay-field, and 
 he went boldly home to fulfil it, when, lo ! he caught 
 the farmer's son in illegal dalliance with his mistress ; 
 and, thinking there were bastards enough in the 
 world already, he knocked his young master down. 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 39 
 
 And thus ended his love affair. Dismissed from 
 his situation, in consequence, he wandered about 
 from place to place— doing a little here, and a little 
 there — and, in this manner, with difficulty contriv- 
 ing to live, till he met his old flame, by accident, 
 many years afterwards. 
 
 She blushed on seeing him : — his passion was, 
 for a moment, revived ; but no longer ; for, on 
 casting his eyes upon her left hand, he saw a 
 fourth-finger evidence that she was the wife of 
 another ! 
 
 The husband, however, received him kindly, and 
 lent him the money by which he had been enabled 
 to rent the farm which he now occupied. 
 
 I have never been in the way of feasting and 
 banquets ; but I much question whether venison 
 pasty or real turtle, served on plate, ever gave more 
 real satisfaction than the brown bread and rasher of 
 bacon which our humble benefactor put before us 
 at dinner. 
 
 He had a snug little abode, " and," said he, 
 " 'tis the first I have ever been master of. 'Tis 
 now more than twelve years gone, since I crossed 
 Louthboro'' Down, unable to obtain a meal, and with 
 
40 THE LIFE OF 
 
 nothing I could call my own, except my tatters and 
 my misery. I looked with wistful eyes upon a 
 pretty little cottage situated in the valley below ; 
 nor could I imagine a further stretch of ambition 
 than to be possessor of such a home ! It seemed to 
 me the sweet abode of Peace and Contentment.*" — 
 
 Alas! Contentment and Peace had no more to 
 do witli it than he had. 
 
 His conception of what was going on within its 
 walls was just as erroneous as thy memory, dear 
 reader, is defective, if thou dost not know as well 
 as I do the then real state of affairs.* 
 
 Adam was much amused when I set him right. — 
 'Tis fit, however, the reader should know that we 
 managed to fix dates to a nicety, or, at least, chance 
 managed it for us ; for we were both born on the 
 same day of the year. ? Twas on the morning of 
 the twenty-sixth of August, 1804, that Adam 
 crossed Louthboro' Down ; and on the same morn- 
 ing — it being Ms fortieth, and my second birth-day 
 — I was scalded on the arm by the kitchen wench. 
 To the noise of my screams was added the vocife- 
 rous altercation of my father and mother as to the 
 proper remedy for my sufferings ; while the kitchen 
 wench was lustily bawling a reply to the cook, who 
 * Vide the opening passage of this history. 
 
W1LM0T WARWICK. 41 
 
 threatened to punish her carelessness by breaking 
 her head with the cullender. 
 
 On the following morning our host conducted us 
 to the mansion of Mr. Vernon. I confess I felt 
 nervous and agitated on approaching the door, and 
 knew not exactly what to anticipate as the result of 
 our temerity. 
 
 Mr. Vernon's look, on receiving us, was that of 
 gladness quelled by suspicion ; and, taking his son's 
 hand with much apparent coldness, he inquired into 
 the circumstances of our sudden and unexpected visit. 
 
 My companion, like myself, was at first so affected 
 by his situation that he could not speak ; but Mrs. 
 Vernon, in the true spirit of a mother's tenderness, 
 requested her husband's patience for a while, not 
 doubting but that we should give a true and satis- 
 factory account of ourselves. 
 
 Mr. Vernon heard our tale with attention, and 
 was evidently in a great measure relieved of his 
 suspicions by the recital of it. But, after all, the 
 narrative of two runaway school-boys, in justification 
 of their truancy, was of too biassed and question- 
 able a nature to supersede the necessity of further 
 examination, 
 
42 THE LIFE OF 
 
 On the morning, therefore, of the following day 
 
 Mr. Vernon set off for , to make the necessary 
 
 inquiries concerning the truth of our story ; and we 
 awaited his return with no small degree of impa- 
 tience. 
 
 The journey had been made with unusual expe- 
 dition. We were sitting in the drawing room, when 
 Mr. Vernon rather unexpectedly made his re-ap- 
 pearance. His countenance was expressive of sorrow 
 — not anger. He beckoned me to follow him into 
 his study, which I did ; and having shut the door, 
 he addressed me as follows : — 
 
 " The subject of your running away from school, 
 Master Warwick, is, I am sorry to tell you, super- 
 seded by one of more serious import, and I must 
 request you to summon up the whole of your for- 
 titude. — Your poor mother is suffering great mental 
 affliction.-— It will be your duty to support her. 
 
 Mr. (the school-master), who had an idea of 
 
 anticipating your arrival at home, took his seat in 
 the coach for that purpose shortly after yourself 
 and my son Henry had left him. — When I arrived 
 at his house, I found him occupied in writing a 
 letter to me, upon the melancholy subject of your 
 father's fate." 
 
 As he said this, he presented to me the letter in 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 43 
 
 question. It was unfinished — but sufficiently ex- 
 plicit — it informed me of my father's death, which 
 had been sudden and accidental ! 
 
 Mr. Vernon and his family did all in their power 
 to comfort me, and the following morning I set off 
 in company with the former for my mother's 
 house. We found her wretched in the extreme. 
 Had she lost a companion whose disposition had 
 been in every respect congenial with her own, she 
 could not have exhibited a greater sense of her 
 deprivation. Yet so it is with us all — no sooner 
 are we bereft of a possession than we discover its 
 defects to have been trivial — its excellencies pa- 
 ramount ; and the grave, while it buries every 
 error, teems with favourable recollections and fond 
 regrets. 
 
 The first paroxysm of grief had scarcely sub- 
 sided, when discoveries of the most afflicting nature 
 gave a fresh impetus to our sufferings. The exa- 
 mination of our circumstances immediately sub- 
 sequent to my father's funeral, ended in the confir- 
 mation that we could scarcely call a penny our 
 own ; and my poor widowed mother was thus left 
 unsupported in every way ; the victim of a hus- 
 band's improvidence. Creditors were not inclined 
 to be lenient ; neighbours expressed their sorrow 
 
44 THE LIFE OF 
 
 for our misfortunes, and much regretted their in- 
 capacity to relieve them. Mr. Vernon proved our 
 only friend, and the extent of his bounty was sur- 
 passed by the delicacy with which he bestowed it. 
 His advice was adopted with success ; his autho- 
 rity proved influential ; and, at the close of a year 
 and a half after my father's death, my mother was 
 humbly but contentedly settled in a small house 
 which she tenanted of our benefactor. 
 
 Neither Vernon nor myself ever saw any thing 
 more of our old master: so far, however, from 
 retrograding in our studies, we made a more rapid 
 advance than we should have done had we remained 
 at his school. Mr. Vernon was fully capable of 
 imparting knowledge, and with all due gratitude 
 let me ever remember his great kindness, in allow- 
 ing me equally with his son to benefit by his 
 instructions. 
 
 I must not forget to mention that our friend 
 Adam, very shortly after our first meeting, found 
 himself most comfortably established as the chief 
 of Mr. Vernon's domestics. He might be called, 
 in his way, a second Corporal Trim ; for, though 
 he knew nothing about scarps, counter-scarps, 
 ravelins, or horn work, he was equally capable of 
 making himself generally useful ; like Trim, he 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 45 
 
 was faithful and affectionate—receiving his wages 
 as a matter of course, but never feeling so truly 
 rewarded as when he obtained the approbation of 
 his master. Like Trim, too, he had been in love. 
 I was now spending the happiest portion of my 
 life: 
 
 a But, mortal pleasure, what art thou, in truth ? 
 The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below!" 
 
 My happiness was of short duration. Mr. Ver- 
 non discovered, as he kindly thought, a situation 
 in London exactly suited to my wishes and capa- 
 bility ; nor did I, in the first instance, receive his 
 intimation with feelings of regret, as I had long 
 desired to visit the metropolis. 
 
 But, as the time fixed for my departure ap- 
 proached, my ardour for novelty began to dispel 
 itself; and longings of a different nature, hitherto 
 unfelt, took possession of my bosom. The idea of 
 being removed some hundred miles from an affec- 
 tionate mother — from a guardian of unequalled 
 kindness — and from a friend — was quite sufficient 
 to damp my spirits, had there been no other cause. 
 But I was on the eve, likewise, of being separated 
 from one, whom T hardly knew till this time to be 
 an object of more than mere regard. 
 
46 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Emma Vernon was inclined to look favourably 
 upon me, because I was her brother's friend ; and 
 I was equally prepossessed in her favour because 
 she was the sister of mine. We were both very 
 young ; but, if a boy of sixteen is incapable of re- 
 ceiving tender impressions, it is more than pro- 
 bable he will ever remain so. I found myself one 
 night almost unconsciously mentioning the name of 
 Emma in my prayers. 
 
 A young lover is ever ready to put such con- 
 structions on the looks 5 words, and actions of his 
 mistress, as are most flattering to his hopes, other- 
 wise I might, perhaps, have known that her solici- 
 tude for my welfare, was the offspring of that 
 nature which prompted her to desire the good of 
 every creaturg breathing. 
 
 It was at Mr. Vernon's house, where my mother 
 and self had been staying for a fortnight, that we 
 took coach for London. I had been drooping for 
 the last day or two ; but when, on the morning of 
 our departure, I descended into the breakfast- 
 room, and found all eyes upon me as the object of 
 interest — when I perceived the corded trunks, and 
 all the insignia of travel — I could no longer re- 
 strain my feelings, but burst into tears ; nor was 
 the soft tone of maternal tenderness in which Mrs. 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 47 
 
 Vernon tried to subdue my agitation, productive of 
 any other effect than that of increasing it. It was 
 the first time in my life that I had experienced the 
 sting of kindness. Every fond expression cut me 
 to the heart — every present I received was a lash. 
 
 The chaise at length drew up, and shaking 
 hands with Mr. and Mrs. Vernon, I next advanced 
 to Emma: — 
 
 My tears ceased to flow — my breathing thickened 
 — my heart beat ; and for the moment grief was 
 precluded. 
 
 "Twas the period I had reckoned upon for days 
 past ; " for," said I to myself, " the secret will 
 then come out — I will squeeze her hand, and be 
 particular in observing whether it returns the pres- 
 sure — whether her eye be moist — her voice firm" 
 . — in short, I had determined on the most scruti- 
 nous observation. 
 
 The moment arrived ; fear, hope, love, and 
 curiosity, were battling within me. Her hand was 
 in mine ! 
 
 'Twas like the magic touch of a harlequin's 
 wand ! — My resolutions vanished in a trice, and my 
 mind became instantly mystified. How she felt or 
 seemed, Cupid alone knows. For mine own part, I 
 could not look in her face ; but remember hearing 
 
48 the life oi- 
 
 lier wish me a plain " good bye/' in the most good 
 humoured tone possible. 
 
 Henry Vernon could hardly utter a farewell ; but 
 
 " Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 
 And with affection wondrous sensible, 
 He wrung my hand, and so we parted." 
 
 Scenic novelty, together with a mother's cheer- 
 ings, contributed to disperse the gloom which hung 
 over me. Then came the metropolitan wonders to 
 engage my attention, so that I managed to keep 
 up my spirits tolerably well as long as my mother 
 remained with me. 
 
 At the end of three weeks I found myself settled 
 in the office of an attorney, and my beloved parent, 
 happy in the assurance of my present comfort, and 
 the hope of my future prosperity, prepared to return 
 into the country. But I was no longer the thought- 
 less school-boy. Love had already, in some degree, 
 softened the metal of my disposition. The wound 
 of severed friendship was yet green, and the pangs 
 of parting with my mother w T ere, in consequence, 
 the more acute. 
 
 I had not been many days in my new situa- 
 tion before I discovered the total misapplica- 
 tion of my talents. 'Twas altogether a mistake 
 — I was no more fitted for an attorney than for 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 49 
 
 a statesman or a stable-boy — my genius was 
 neither forensic, as Mr. Vernon had supposed — 
 nor pugilistic, as my father had imagined — nor 
 philosophical, as my mother fancied ; but essenti- 
 ally romantic, as I have discovered to my cost. 
 
 It was just of that kind, which, while it enables a 
 man fully to appreciate all the divine pleasures of 
 life, such as Woman's love and Shakspeare's poetry, 
 incapacitates him from making such exertions as 
 can lead to an allowable enjoyment of these bless- 
 ings. I say u allowable," because he will enjoy 
 them, if possible, whether allowable or not. 
 
 It was that species of genius which will keep a 
 man out of mischief, if he be rich — and lead him 
 into misery if he be poor. In the one case, it will 
 make him agreeable and gentlemanly — in the other, 
 ridiculous and beggarly. It will keep him out of 
 the stocks, or the felon's ward ; but, by no means, 
 secure him from the workhouse or King's Bench. 
 
 In short, the disposition of my mind was pre- 
 cisely such as would have most probably insured 
 my happiness, had I not been cheated of my patri- 
 mony by a cock-pheasant. Chance, however, 
 ordered it otherwise. I took a draught from the 
 fountain of legal science, and it acted like an ill- 
 timed emetic, annulling the salutary properties of 
 
50 THE LIFE OF 
 
 my early education, and ultimately leaving my mind 
 in so delicate a state, that it would afterwards 
 imbibe little else than dainties. 
 
 But not only was the drudgery of my professional 
 studies opposed to my inclination, I also felt 
 myself much scandalized by the extra occupations 
 which were occasionally forced upon me. Block- 
 head that I was ! — yet do not accuse me of in- 
 gratitude, because I had not sufficient sagacity to 
 discover the actual kindness of my master's seeming 
 severity. 
 
 I was foolish enough to think that I had no busi- 
 ness to take the footman's place, till the footman, 
 with commensurate ability, could act in mine. 
 
 I was, moreover, so blind to mine own interests 
 that I could not even see the privilege of receiving 
 no wages. 
 
 Neither could I duly appreciate the benevolence 
 of my master, who, having taken me with a very 
 limited premium, was willing to lighten the weight 
 of conscientious obligation, by increasing the num- 
 ber of my duties. 
 
 It was my business to open the door to every 
 costermonger who chose to knock. Gentlemen, 
 who a few weeks before would have taken me by 
 the hand, now overlooked me as a sort of shop-boy ; 
 
WILMOT WAltWICK. 51 
 
 and when I waited on any of my master's friends, 
 I was told " to wipe my shoes, and walk into the 
 back parlour.' * 
 
 And yet, methinks, had I been mildly re- 
 quested, instead of being peremptorily commanded, 
 I could have gone through double what I did, 
 without thinking it a degradation. As it was, 
 nothing but the deep sense I entertained of Mr. 
 Vernon's kindness, in obtaining for me what he 
 conceived an eligible situation, enabled me to 
 withhold from complaint : his motives were all in 
 all, and I determined to show my gratitude by 
 practising submission. 
 
 I regret exceedingly that for the first twelve- 
 month of my residence in town, no single incident 
 occurred which is worthy of particular remark. I 
 can only assure my readers that not even Don 
 Quixote could have been more thirsty for adventure 
 than myself. Emma Vernon had overturned my 
 philosophy, or rather, she had torn away the veil 
 which education had thrown upon my nature ; 
 and when, after long concealment or subjection, 
 our real disposition is by some chance suddenly 
 revealed or made free, (love and grief being 
 equally prone to elicit the truth), there is no know- 
 e 2 
 
52 THE LTFE OF 
 
 ing what extravagance it may lead us into. For 
 my part, I acknowledge myself as among the most 
 romantic of youths. 
 
 (You smile, Sir, superciliously, as though you 
 would say, " I wonder any man dare make so ab- 
 surd an acknowledgment." 
 
 Now, Sir, it may happen that you have a just 
 reason for calling me to account in this particular. 
 You are most likely equally removed from the mire 
 of common place and the mists of romance ; and you 
 will perhaps allow, that however ridiculous the ex- 
 travagant speculations of a fanciful imagination 
 may appear to the worldly and sordid, the narrow 
 calculations of a mere money-getter, are, at least, as 
 absurd, and infinitely more degrading to the prac- 
 tiser.) 
 
 I said I was the most romantic of youths. As 
 chance or the d— 1 would have it, the first books 
 I lighted on were the works of Byron and Moore. 
 They were precisely of the kind to do my master 
 an essential service, as neither the bumps of idea- 
 lity nor amativeness were particularly prominent 
 on his cranium ; but, with regard to myself, it was 
 like putting fire to a train of gunpowder. Nothing, 
 in short, was wanting to complete the mischief, but 
 
W1LMOT WARWICK. 53 
 
 a perusal of Walter Scotfs " Bride of Lammer- 
 moor." It roused every particle of romance, and 
 I omitted no opportunity of traversing the neigh- 
 bourhood of Smithfleld on cattle days, in the hope 
 of exercising my heroism in the succour of some 
 fair lady pursued by an enraged ox. If enraged 
 oxen had been only one-tenth part as numerous 
 as fair ladies, I should have been, long ere this, 
 either gored to death, or renowned past hyper- 
 bole. 
 
 If there be any poor wretch particularly meriting 
 the consideration of the charitable, it is he, who, 
 without the inspiration, is afflicted with the madness 
 of poetry. Such was my case : it did not lead me 
 into the neglect of my masters interests, but it 
 fairly blinded me to mine own ; and though I 
 managed to get through my stated duties with 
 tolerable regularity, I knew as little about the 
 merits of the case as the automaton chess-player,, 
 
 Every spare moment in the office was devoted to 
 the muse, and my desk was very shortly filled with 
 " Odes to Sensibility," and " Acrosticks to my 
 Mistress." — " Childe Harold," and Emma Vernon, 
 divided my attention ; and I was ever sighing either 
 with the one, or for the other. Released from the 
 duties of the day, it was my custom to take a ro- 
 
54 THE LIFE OF 
 
 mantic turn in Kensington Gardens ; then, retiring 
 to my lodgings, I would shut myself up in my bed- 
 room, to revel in literary luxury, and scramble over 
 glaciers with Manfred, till the sudden disappearance 
 of mjr light, as the last bit of wick was extinguished 
 in the socket, would put an end to my intellectual 
 excursions, and leave me to grope my way to bed 
 in the dark- My employer was one of those men 
 who boast the virtue of never overlooking their de- 
 pendents' industry, but make a grand mistake in 
 confounding zeal with sycophancy, extravagantly 
 rewarding the truckling servility which merely 
 attends to the satisfaction of their caprice, and 
 barely remunerating the plain honesty which exclu- 
 sively considers their positive interest. My supine- 
 ness, therefore, in the study of my profession, was 
 less displeasing to my master, than a stubborn 
 determination never to flatter his vanity, nor encou- 
 rage his whimsicalities. He evidently disliked me, 
 and the more so, perhaps, as he had no legitimate 
 grounds for complaint. He could not accuse me 
 of being neglectful. Always strict in the observ- 
 ance of office hours, and never guilty of truancy, 
 he could only arraign my marked unwillingness to 
 act the part of his door-keeper and errand boy. 
 Despising my master, and meeting with little 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 55 
 
 sympathy among his clerks, it can hardly be ex- 
 pected that a natural aversion to my profession 
 should diminish in consequence. In short, 1 began 
 to ruminate on the propriety of acquainting my 
 mother with the state of my feelings, when suddenly 
 my attention was drawn another way by the receipt 
 of a letter from Mr. Vernon, informing me that he 
 had unexpectedly received an appointment of con- 
 siderable importance in India, and was on the eve 
 of taking his departure— that he was anxious to 
 see me once more before he quitted the kingdom, 
 perhaps for ever : and that I must request from 
 my master leave of absence for a fortnight. Of 
 course, his family were to accompany him ; but I 
 
 learned from his letter, that a Mr. , (of whom 
 
 the reader is yet ignorant) was to accompany him 
 likewise. 
 
 " O, true," said I, after pausing a moment to 
 consider the seeming strangeness of the fact, " his 
 relations reside there." 
 
 This young gentleman was introduced to the 
 family of the Vernons just before I came to Lon- 
 don, — a fine, handsome f ell ow, withal; and, equally 
 with myself, an admirer of the beauteous Emma. 
 My reasons for not fearing him as a rival, were 
 surely all sufficient : let the reader judge :— 
 
56 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Harry Vernon once told me in confidence, that 
 his sister " had as lief look upon a toad — a very 
 toad, as see him ;" nay, even Emma herself had 
 declared him to be " an impertinent, disagreeable 
 puppy." 
 
 What, then, could I possibly have to fear ? — 
 Nothing to fear ; but, how much to lament ! — 
 She was going off to India — and her brother too ! 
 — 'twas sad news ; and even the thought of seeing 
 my mother again, could scarcely yield me comfort. 
 
 Having obtained the sanction of my master, I 
 took a place in the stage coach, and in due time 
 found myself once more in the company of all I 
 held dear upon earth. My mother had been in- 
 vited to meet me, nor did the pleasure she experi- 
 enced on my arrival, appear to exceed that of 
 Harry Vernon and his worthy parents. Old 
 Adam, too, came running forth to greet me,— 
 u but,'' said he, " London han't made ye much 
 fatter, Master Warwick !" — He seemed to be as 
 ignorant of the real fact, as she who had caused 
 the mischief : — love, as a food, is little better than 
 " the chameleon's dish.' 1 
 
 Emma — faithless Emma ! — 
 
 I know not how it is, but, with all my miseries 
 before me, I can never think upon the follies which 
 
WILMOT WARWICK, 57 
 
 caused them, without smiling. Folly, alas ! is more 
 frequently coupled with misery than crime. Had 
 I been a seducer, I had probably fared better — 
 certainly, no lover can have possibly fared worse. 
 
 Emma's welcome on seeing me again at her 
 father's, was just as coldly uttered as her farewell 
 when she parted from me eighteen months before. 
 6 * 'Twas strange — passing strange !" — I was no less 
 surprised at the inconsistency of her conduct, than 
 grieved by its apparent unfeelingness. In sooth, 
 'twas hard that a year and a half's constancy, 
 backed by at least a score of sonnets and acros- 
 ticks, should meet with no reward. As the most 
 intimate friend of her brother, I had surely some 
 claims upon her kindness; as the slave of her 
 charms, I merited her pity ; as a rational being, 
 I deserved an explanation. Alas, for the man who 
 seeks reason in woman ! He is unquestionably a 
 brute who will not acknowledge her fascination ; 
 her many virtues ; her heavenly influence on our 
 sex ; the good she ultimately does ; and the happi- 
 ness she frequently insures : but, as to her rule of 
 action— if she have any — bless her, it remains a 
 profound secret. 
 
 Emma had certainly much improved in general 
 manner and appearance during my absence, and 
 
58 THE LfFE OF 
 
 was, in truth, a very fine, showy girl. Her deserts, 
 I am ready to allow, far o'erreached so poor a prize 
 as my unworthy self; but that (as you well know, 
 Sir) was no business of mine ; and, as I did not 
 allow even the very cold reception she had given 
 me, to damp the ardour of my love, it was not likely 
 that I should suffer discouragement from any reflec- 
 tions upon my own demerits. 
 
 Nothing daunted, therefore, I commenced an at- 
 tack, by throwing out a few compliments, and 
 amorous glances ; but she seemed cautiously to 
 evade offering any opportunity for secret parley ; 
 and after various manoeuvres, I began to doubt the 
 possibility of effecting a breach on the first day. 
 
 Just at the moment, however, that my resolutions 
 were withdrawn, we were, by some sudden chance, 
 left alone. Emma did not at first seem aware of it. 
 I paused to gather resolution — rallied my forces — 
 drew my chair towards the window where she was 
 sitting— henim'd- -sighed — moved my chair a little 
 closer : - Every thing was ready — my hand upon 
 my heart — her name upon my tongue — -when, hey ! 
 presto ! suddenly springing from her chair, she ex- 
 claimed, " Bless me ! did I not hear the gate bell?" 
 and skipped out of the room like a young roe: — 
 so that I just got far enough to discover, how very 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 difficult it is to make up one's mind upon such 
 
 occasions ; and what perplexity and agitation he 
 must necessarily incur, who stands upon the thresh- 
 old of love when there is a probability of having 
 the door shut in his face. 
 
 I heard no bell: but thus much was certain: 
 when she reached the top of the stairs leading down 
 to the hall, she met her brother, who iokinffly ex- 
 claimed, ;; A-ha. Miss Emma ! '[isn't he !" 
 
 u And who the deuce is he?™ said I. 
 
 While we were sitting at dinner, Mr. Vernon 
 casually alluded to the name of the young g 
 man who was to accompany them to India, and I 
 (wherefore I know not), in making iv 
 concerning him. addres if to Miss Emma. 
 
 A deep blush overspread her cheeks, and she wil- 
 lingly allowed her mother to answer the question. 
 
 ■'•' But for the rain," said Mrs. Vernon, i; he- 
 would most probably have been here to-day." 
 
 The secret was out. —Neither IMiss Vernon nor 
 myself spoke again for some time. Her shame, 
 however, (yet of what had she to be ashamed P) — ■ 
 her confusion, rather, and my disapg 
 dwindled together ; so that by the time the 
 was removed, we had both of us regained our natu- 
 ral composure. ^Nevertheless, I could not 
 
60 THE LIFE OF 
 
 thinking, had I been the chosen one, it might have 
 rained millstones but I would have kept such an 
 engagement, 
 
 'Twas surprising how cordial we became after 
 this denouement. — We talked over old matters, 
 carefully omitting the subject uppermost in our 
 thoughts, till the happy youth arrived, which he 
 did about tea-time. On his entering the room she 
 blushed again. — He blushed himself — and so 
 did 1 :— 
 
 Her's was the blush of love — his, of pride — mine, 
 of humiliation. It cost me a pang or two at the 
 time, but I gradually recovered, and slept soundly 
 upon my pillow the following night, without a' single 
 particle of envy or jealousy in my mind. 
 
 When I descended into the breakfast-room the 
 next morning, I found the charming Emma sitting 
 there alone, busily employed in the manufacture of 
 a silk purse. Immediately on seeing me she rose 
 from her chair, and advancing with an openness — 
 a warmth of manner, such as I had not observed 
 since the time of our earliest acquaintance, she 
 wished me a " good morrow." — 
 
 " I have been more than two hours," said she, 
 " at work upon this purse, and have this instant 
 completed it-— how do you like it ?" 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 61 
 
 I could not do less than compliment her taste, 
 and eulogize her industry : — 
 
 " Which," said she, " are entirely thrown away, 
 unless you will accept the fruits of them." 
 
 " Is it for me, Miss Vernon ?" — 
 
 " Yes, Wilmot !" she replied, in a tone which 
 seemed to correct my formal Miss. " 'Tis made 
 purposely for you, I assure you ; and if you will 
 keep it for my sake — and think upon me some- 
 times — " 
 
 " I will pray for you for ever !" I exclaimed, fer- 
 vently, " nor for you alone — but for the joint hap- 
 piness of yourself and him who has been so fortunate 
 as to obtain your affections." 
 
 As I uttered this, her eye moistened, and she 
 extended her hand. 
 
 Had she spoken volumes, the appeal would have 
 been less forcible ! Her look and manner seemed to 
 say, — " You have done me wrong in doubting my 
 respect — my esteem — nay, even a degree of parti- 
 ality for you. Though the wife of another, I shall 
 ever be amongst the warmest of your friends, and 
 cordially regret any pain you may have suffered on 
 my account — receive my tears as a tribute to my 
 sincerity ; and let us shake hands in token of peace 
 and mutual good will." 
 
Q C Z THE LIFE OF 
 
 And so ended my first love affair. 
 
 I shall not dwell upon the miseries of parting 
 with friends so doubly dear to me as were the Ver- 
 nons. I saw them embark, and, after staying a 
 few days with my mother in the country, returned 
 to town. 
 
 Scarcely had I recovered from the effects of 
 Cupid^s first shot, ere the little mischief-making 
 god drew another arrow from his quiver; and, 
 having dipped it in the sweet poison of another 
 Helen's charms, he pointed it at my heart, and too 
 successfully drew the bow-string. My new mis- 
 tress was fond of music, so I bought a guitar ; 
 and having great natural talent for music, I made 
 rapid progress, was soon enabled to accompany the 
 voice, and, as I believe, sung myself into favour. 
 The young lady behaved in such a manner as to 
 give birth to hopes of the most flattering descrip- 
 tion. We met frequently, and each meeting afford- 
 ed additional proof that the affection was mutual. 
 At length she left London on a visit to a relation 
 at Norwich. In parting with her every doubt was 
 removed— she acknowledged her passion ; and I 
 was the happiest of mortals. 
 
. WILMOT WARWICK. 63 
 
 Thus far the manuscript is fairly written, and in 
 a hand which might be said to indicate a mind at 
 ease. What follows is, at times, scarcely legible, and 
 bears evident marks of hurry and agitation. Its 
 frequent inaccuracies and want of perspicuity, I 
 have not scrupled, at least, in some degree, to re- 
 medy ; otherwise it is precisely as entrusted to me. 
 
 Henry Vernon. 
 
 " The happiest of mortals !" — Five years have 
 passed over my head, since, in the unsuspecting 
 ardour of youthful love, I penned that sentence. 
 I resume the pen briefly, to complete, in sorrow, a 
 narrative which I commenced in innocence, and 
 which I expected would lead to a climax of joy. 
 Hopes, at least, were mine : they are so still ; but 
 not, as then, on earthly things. I had my mo- 
 ments of unalloyed happiness — loved, laughed— 
 was open to the charge of folly — but could have 
 repelled with earnest and conscientious truth the 
 imputation of guilt ! 
 
 Your favour, my dear Harry — my tale shall be 
 brief as it is sad. I am as unable to dwell upon 
 my miseries, as you may be disinclined to peruse a 
 lengthened relation of them. 
 
64 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Helen ! — how I loved her ! On the evening of 
 our separation, as I have said, she acknowledged 
 me the master of her heart ; wept, and suffered me 
 to kiss away her tears ! 
 
 I was led to understand that she would return 
 to town in about three months. We corresponded 
 in secret for some time : at length her letters be- 
 came less frequent — worse than that, less impas- 
 sioned. I begged an explanation — she replied 
 that she was averse to any thing clandestine ; she 
 feared that, by continuing to correspond, we should 
 necessarily divulge the secret — she suspected that 
 her friends would be opposed to the connexion — 
 in short, it was evident she was opposed to it her- 
 self. 
 
 Still, unwilling to believe her capable of such 
 baseness, I determined on awaiting her return to 
 London. Six months, however, elapsed, and yet 
 she came not — I wrote ; but received no answer. 
 Another twelvemonth passed on, and yet I received 
 no intelligence concerning her. 
 
 Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. I had 
 fed upon the nothingness of fancy, till reality was 
 too heavy for my mind. In this degenerated state, 
 I met unexpectedly in the street the traitorous 
 author of my sufferings. I passed her unnoticed ; 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 65 
 
 but so violent was the effect of this rencontre, that 
 I had much difficulty in supporting myself to my 
 lodgings. Arrived there, I threw myself upon the 
 sofa, and having recovered in some degree, began 
 to ruminate on the proper steps to be taken. At 
 this juncture a young man, to whom I had been 
 introduced about three weeks before, called upon 
 me. I informed him of what had transpired, and 
 he did the utmost in his power to comfort me. 
 
 We had more than once talked over our love 
 affairs together ; but, till now, the names of our 
 mistresses had been kept secret — mistresses, did I 
 say ? — Our mistress should have been the word — 
 our common mistress ! 
 
 The reader will immediately perceive how we 
 stood affected the one towards the other ; but he 
 cannot fully conceive the violence of my feelings, 
 when young Barlow declared himself the successful 
 suitor of Helen ! The intelligence astounded me. 
 In the impetuosity of the moment I not only exe- 
 crated her as the very soul of baseness, but threw 
 out insinuations insulting to the honour of my 
 rival. He replied in a manner ill calculated to 
 make me retract the accusation : insult upon insult 
 followed, and he left the room abruptly. 
 
 My feelings, always violent, had never been so 
 
66 THE LIFE OF 
 
 worked upon ; neither did Barlow suffer them to 
 subside, ere his friend waited upon me with the 
 usual demand and alternative. His challenge was 
 unhesitatingly received ; I rejoiced in the idea of 
 writing the name of my false mistress in the blood 
 of her paramour ; and was only anxious to bring 
 the affair to a speedy conclusion. 
 
 Each succeeding hour, however, cooled my fury. 
 The creature of impulse, I soon perceived that 
 passion had goaded me beyond the bounds of 
 reason and justice, and that I had suffered the dis- 
 gust, originating in a woman's heartlessness, to 
 end in a flow of undue invective upon my friend. 
 Still, I conceived, he must have acted unfairly in 
 some degree, and that he could not have proceeded 
 thus far, without becoming acquainted with Helen's 
 pre-engagement. To suppose that she had all 
 along kept it an entire secret, w as unnecessary to 
 the completion of her infamy. Some few scruples 
 she could not surely have withheld. It had been 
 the part of Barlow to remove them — " and," said I, 
 " it shall be mine to avenge.*" But my resolutions 
 continually wavered. The thought of Helen in- 
 flamed me — she was the enemy I went forth to 
 meet. It was not the life of my rival I sought, but 
 the destruction of her happiness. Then came my 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 67 
 
 mother into my thoughts, and I wept for sorrow. 
 Sophistry refused to aid me. Every sentiment of 
 religion and true dignity upbraided me. But I 
 rejected reason, and evaded all thoughts of heaven ! 
 The die was cast. I had no alternative but to su- 
 persede my folly by sin. 
 
 What a night was that preceding the fatal 
 morning ! 
 
 u Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
 And the first motion, all the interim is 
 Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream V' 
 
 Again and again I sprung from my bed, racked 
 with the thought of my poor mother. Her child — 
 the only comfort she possessed, the sole object of 
 her prayers and solicitude — was on the point of 
 completing his misery, by the forfeiture of his life 
 or honour — " But," exclaimed I, "my cause is 
 great. Is there living a man who would be calm 
 under such wrongs ?•" 
 
 'Twas in vain. I could not sink other men to 
 my own level. I felt myself guilty of unwarrant- 
 able provocation. I had forgotten my respect to 
 man. Did it mend the matter to challenge the 
 vengeance of my God ? To say truth, the qualms 
 of conscience had well nigh got the better of my 
 f 2 
 
68 THE LIFE OF 
 
 valour, when day-light broke upon my reveries, 
 and bid me prepare. 
 
 When Barlow and myself met upon the ground, 
 he looked at me, as I thought, more in sorrow than 
 in anger. I could have spoken to him in concilia- 
 tory terms. He could, probably, have done the 
 same to me; but the eyes of our seconds were upon 
 us, and we took our places. 
 
 The word was given, and we fired ! — I felt my- 
 self secure : a momentary exultation was the con- 
 sequence. It was but momentary, however ; for, 
 on looking round, I perceived that Barlow had 
 fallen ! He was reclining in the arms of his second, 
 who beckoned me to advance. I ran to him and 
 took hold of his hand. 
 
 " Wilmot, v said he, " why was this ? — Why 
 did you use such language as no man of honour 
 could possibly brook ? Think not that Helen has 
 been the cause of my meeting you thus. You 
 have endangered your life for one, in every respect, 
 unworthy of you — she is not honest — I know her 
 to be frail; but am not her seducer.*' 
 
 Judge of my horror and amazement ! It was evi- 
 dent at first sight the wound was serious. A post- 
 chaise being immediately procured, poor Barlow, at- 
 tended by his second, proceeded with all possible 
 
WILM0T WARWICK. 69 
 
 speed to town. He would not permit me to 
 accompany him — " Fly, fly," said he, " and leave 
 me to my fate !" 
 
 I remained transfixed to the spot, heedless of 
 my seconds persuasions that I should leave the 
 country, or, at least, secrete myself till the issue of 
 the melancholy affair was decided. After many 
 unavailing attempts to convince, he left me to my- 
 self. Horror and remorse stalked over the wreck 
 of my happiness, and I threw myself upon the 
 grass in a fit of utter despondency. — The blood of 
 my rival was yet moist upon the turf before me ! 
 Why had I fired ? — Why had I not opened my 
 breast to the aim of my antagonist ? Heaven 
 knows that I was not guilty of murderous inten- 
 tion, for at the moment of my raising the pistol, all 
 thought was estranged from my mind. — My mother ! 
 — 'twas madness to meditate on her. — A calm of 
 settled melancholy followed ; then I suddenly arose, 
 and proceeded hastily to Barlow's lodgings. 
 
 Prepared for the worst, the intelligence of his 
 being yet alive yielded me some comfort ; and I 
 was further relieved by the intimation that his case 
 was not entirely hopeless. I could not see him : 
 his surgeon forbade all interruption to his most 
 
70 THE LIFE OF 
 
 perfect quiet, as the only measure which could be 
 of any possible benefit. 
 
 " When sorrows come, they come not single spies, 
 But in battalions." 
 
 On reaching my lodgings, I found a letter await- 
 ing my perusal. It was from a medical man, 
 informing me that my mother was seriously ill, and 
 that she desired my immediate presence. Such a 
 clash of unfortunate events bewildered me. — 
 " Surely," I exclaimed, " my reason cannot hold !" 
 I believe from that moment it has been impaired. 
 Writing a short note to my master, I left town by 
 the earliest conveyance. 
 
 In due time my mother's cottage was before me, 
 — my heart beat high, and my fortitude sank under 
 a load of evil forebodings. I paused a while to 
 calm my feelings ; but on raising my eyes, per- 
 ceived that the window-shutters of my mother's 
 bed-room were closed. I advanced with quickened 
 step to the door. It was opened by the village 
 nurse, who expressed her joy at seeing me, " for," 
 said she, " if any thing can do her good, it is the 
 sight of you." 
 
 The old nurse first cautiously announced me, 
 
WJLMOT WARWICK. 71 
 
 then beckoning me to advance in silence, she left 
 us to ourselves. 
 
 My mother was dying. We neither of us spoke 
 for some time : at length she proceeded to inform 
 me concerning the little property she was to leave 
 me, — how I was to act, and so on. This done, 
 she became somewhat more composed, — talked of 
 old times, — of my father, — of the Vernon family ; 
 and uttered her last benediction upon her miser- 
 able son on the following morning. 
 
 She died ignorant of my guilt, and in that there 
 was some comfort. I will not — cannot dwell upon 
 the sufferings I endured in the loss of my parent. 
 The funeral rites performed, I hastened back to 
 London, and found Barlow still alive. His disso- 
 lution, however, was hourly expected, and a second 
 inquiry found him dead. 
 
 My crime of blood was followed by such castiga- 
 tion as remorse and imprisonment could inflict. 
 With the lapse of time, however, I became more 
 composed — more confident in the mercy of Heaven; 
 but the world held out no further incentives — my 
 energies were blasted for ever. 
 
 Sometimes, as the only means of alienating my 
 mind from wretchedness, I visited the theatre; 
 
72 THE LIFE OF 
 
 and in the sorrows of Virginius have more than 
 once drowned mine own. I was one evening in 
 the pit of Drury Lane Theatre, when the atten- 
 tion of the audience was suddenly divided between 
 the noble acting of Macready, and the effect it had 
 produced upon a lady in the dress circle, close to 
 that part of the house where I was seated. As 
 she raised her head on recovering, methought I 
 recognized features once familiar to me ; and when 
 at length she perfectly regained her wonted com- 
 posure, and I had an opportunity of observing her 
 more closely, I became fully assured that the object 
 of my very earliest attachment — Emma Vernon — 
 was before me ! 
 
 An elderly gentleman and lady were with her, 
 probably the parents of her husband. Yet, where 
 was he? and her brother? I burned with desire 
 to know their fate ; not that I desired a renewal of 
 their acquaintance: the consciousness of murder 
 rendered me averse to it ; and they, whom in the 
 days of my youth and innocence were most dear 
 to me, I now most dreaded to meet. 
 
 At the conclusion of the play, I hastened to the 
 box doors in the hope of seeing her go out. She 
 came; and, in passing, casually threw her eye 
 upon me, but knew me not. I was completely 
 
WILMOT WARWICK. 78 
 
 tongue-tied — choked in my eagerness to make 
 inquiries touching the fate of Harry Vernon, and 
 restrained perhaps by the never-failing recollection 
 of my blood-stained repute. She was handed into 
 a carriage, and rapidly driven off. I attempted to 
 folio w r , but soon lost the object of my pursuit, 
 owing to the obstruction of the crowd. 
 
 Months have passed on, during which time, not- 
 withstanding the most unremitting exertions, I have 
 been unable to obtain any intelligence concerning 
 the beloved companion of my youth. I but wish 
 him (if he yet live) to come to the possession of 
 this narrative. Under the idea that he may do so 
 hereafter, either by chance or management, I have 
 taken up the pen once more, thus briefly to add a 
 statement of the melancholy facts which have tran- 
 spired since we parted. 
 
 The various literary trifles which make up the 
 packet, occupied many a spare hour during the last 
 two years of my apprenticeship. To Henry Ver- 
 non I bequeath them. 
 
 W. W. 
 
REMAINS. 
 
 THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He had a buoyant chirping disposition, always enjoying the 
 present moment. 
 
 Sketch Book. 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Old January had just made his appearance, 
 clad in an unusual load of wintry garb, and fore- 
 warning all good housewives to lay in an adequate 
 stock of Newcastle coals and woollen hose. 
 
 Business commanding my absence from London, 
 I presented myself at the office of the far-famed Bull 
 and Mouth, booked a place in the Birmingham 
 coach, and on the following morning, at the time ap- 
 pointed, was in readiness to occupy it. My travelling 
 companions, however, were before hand with me. 
 A middle aged, demure looking lady, accompanied 
 by a pretty girl of about sixteen, occupied one- 
 half the coach, and opposite the former sat an 
 elderly gentleman ; while I— nothing loth to con- 
 
78 THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 front the fair visage of the younger female — took 
 my position in the remaining corner. 
 
 Our male companion might be some fifty years 
 old, with every apparent prospect of living fifty 
 more. There was a compactness in his form, and an 
 uprightness in his manner of bearing it, which at 
 once indicated the full possession of health and 
 bodily vigour ; and he would every now and then 
 draw up his chest and throw back his shoulders 
 with something of a martial air, slapping his 
 knee occasionally, and with considerable force, as 
 though to convince all observers that he could both 
 give a cuff and bear one. He was evidently a 
 character, and in his dress something peculiar was 
 observable. He wore a pepper-and-salt coat, cut 
 in some measure after the fashion of the old school, 
 and closed up to the neck with steel buttons. 
 Only a small portion of his cravat was visible, but 
 this, by the w r ay, was of the most snowy w T hiteness. 
 His breeches were light drab, particularly well 
 made about the knees. A neat ribbed stocking and 
 low gaiter told well upon his well-formed leg, which 
 ever and anon he rubbed down and patted, as if he 
 were coaxing a pet spaniel. A low-crowned hat, 
 with a broad brim, completed his dress, which bore 
 throughout the marks of cleanliness and precision. 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 79 
 
 He had only been in the hotel one night, and 
 nobody knew, exactly, who he was ; though every 
 one unhesitatingly pronounced him " a very queer 
 fellow," and I heard the chamber-maid alluding to 
 him as "the odd gentleman." As we drove out 
 of the inn-yard, he gave this same chamber-maid a 
 very odd wink and parting nod, which she returned 
 with corresponding significance, betokening, as I 
 fancied, that their intimacy was just as familiar as 
 their acquaintance had been short. 
 
 The expression of his face was one of sly good 
 humour, gentlemanly and agreeable, with a spice 
 of mischief in it ; an expression which I imagined 
 arose from his having been in the constant habit of 
 winking and leering at the girls from his youth 
 upwards. One eye was a little less open than the 
 other, and the wrinkles which surrounded it gave it 
 a peculiar archness. His mouth was marked by a 
 subdued smile ; and his face altogether exhibited 
 such a strange medley of gravity, good nature, and 
 roguery, that it was almost impossible to look upon 
 it without an inclination to laugh. 
 
 He said nothing at first beyond the ordinary 
 civilities of the day ; yet the simplest observations, 
 as he made them, were imbued with a certain por- 
 tion of drollery ; and you might sometimes imagine. 
 
80 THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 when he briefly addressed you on some common- 
 place topic, that he was endeavouring to excite 
 certain notions in your mind — mischievous, perhaps 
 — but, certainly, foreign to the remarks which 
 were passing between you. Every now and then, 
 with his half-cocked eye looking upon vacancy, he 
 would smile, as if prompted to do so by the recol- 
 lection of something funny which had passed, for 
 all I knew, between him and the chambermaid. 
 
 At length, putting his hand into his coat pocket, 
 he suddenly drew forth his handkerchief, and a 
 piece of misletoe coming out with it, lighted on the 
 lap of my fair companion opposite. The poor girl 
 blushed, but did not offer to remove it, while the 
 elderly lady, not at first observing the accident, 
 was at a loss to account for my sudden burst of 
 laughter. It was impossible to subdue my mirth, 
 having, as I conceived, made the full discovery of 
 what had been going on between the old gentleman 
 and the chambermaid. 
 
 " God bless my soul V 9 said he, addressing him- 
 self in a tone of the most imperturbable sobriety to 
 the young lady — " are you aware. Miss, of the 
 peculiar properties of that plant, and of the enviable 
 freedom which is sanctioned under its pendent 
 umbrage, that you suffer it to lie so invitingly 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 81 
 
 to the hand of that young gentleman opposite 
 
 you !" 
 
 This put me on my mettle. Feelings of gal- 
 lantry and respect contested within me ; and I 
 thought the old gentleman had made tyrannical 
 use of his privilege : 'twas like tickling a man's 
 nose with a feather, while his hands are fettered 
 behind him. Heaven knows, a rosy cheek wias 
 never among my aversions, and the blushes of my 
 fair companion opposite were by no means calcu- 
 lated to diminish the temptation. I felt it my 
 duty to say something smart and pretty; but the 
 elderly lady cut short the rising compliment :— 
 
 " What d'ye mean, child," said she, " by keep- 
 ing that piece of rubbish on your lap ?" 
 
 Saying this, she snatched away the misletoe, 
 and with an air of great indignation presented it to 
 the odd gentleman. Nothing further occurred at 
 the moment, except that the poor girl sat blushing 
 and biting her lip, with her eyes fixed upon the 
 window, not daring to encounter the sight of our 
 comical friend, who sat twiddling the plant about 
 in his hand, and looking alternately at each of us 
 with an expression of the most inconceivable drol- 
 lery. The elderly lady alone seemed unmoved by 
 it. She maintained a countenance of the most 
 
8^ THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 inflexible severity, and evidently thought the gen- 
 tleman an old fool— if not something worse. 
 
 " Do you not think, Madam/' said he, u that 
 the discontinuance of our good old Christmas gam- 
 bols, occasions a great gap in the circle of our 
 harmless pleasures, and that the general decline of 
 those national customs, which were wont to be so 
 rigidly observed on fasts and festivals, is an evil 
 much to be lamented ?" As he put the question 
 he smiled, and looked at me as though he could 
 anticipate the answer of a prude. 
 
 " O, indeed," she replied, " I think we have 
 quite enough of them remaining ; and if these 
 were abolished likewise, 'twould be no great griev- 
 ance. Our young men are quite free enough, even 
 now ; and the young women, too, are by no means 
 behind hand in tendering encouragement." 
 
 " What, Madam," added the odd gentleman, 
 " I presume you found your men and maidens 
 refractory last Christmas; or, rather, did some old 
 swain so far forget himself as to be guilty of free- 
 dom with their mistress ?" 
 
 The elderly lady smiled. Nevertheless, she 
 thought his conduct, considering their very short 
 and casual acquaintance, rather free and easy ; nor 
 did she scruple to tell him so : besides, how should 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 83 
 
 he know — as by his conversation he had evinced 
 that he did — that she was a spinster? The odd 
 gentleman, however, was one who generally knew 
 more of other people's affairs than other people did 
 of his. Perhaps the chambermaid had been com- 
 municative. 
 
 " Aye, aye, v continued he, " old swains are some- 
 times apt to do such things; and, denied the full 
 possession of their heart's desire, they are ever ready 
 to secure the few precious privileges of custom." 
 
 The lady smiled again, while my young com- 
 panion opposite, covering her face with her hand- 
 kerchief, held down her head, and seemed to have 
 much difficulty in stifling her laughter. " O, ho !" 
 exclaimed the odd gentleman, " then it was so; 
 was \ty Miss ?" The lady smiled a third time. 
 
 " No, indeed, Sir," said the girl, as well as her 
 laughter would permit. 
 
 The elderly lady looked as black as night ! 
 
 " Well," continued the odd gentleman, " for 
 mine own part, I very much lament the decay of 
 many practices in vogue when I was a boy ; and 
 none more than the innocent merry-makings of 
 Christmas. Geoffrey Crayon, in his charming 
 ' Sketch Book,' has proved himself so worthy a 
 champion of the good old cause, that he deserves 
 g 2 
 
84 THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 to be presented with a large piece of roasting beef, 
 a plum-pudding, and a piece of mistletoe, with a 
 pretty face under it, every year, I much fear, 
 however, the spirit of Christmas revelry is extinct, 
 and not to be revived by the exertions of author- 
 ship. People cannot be merry when told to be so ; 
 and printed directions will never do where jollity 
 is wanting. As to the outward forms, we have 
 still a portion of these, but they sit ill upon us — 
 Jaques in Falstaff 's doublet, Hamlet with Punch's 
 belly. We have still the roast beef and plum- 
 pudding, but without the good humour that 
 should attend them ; and, instead of making the 
 best of every thing, we fly into a passion because 
 the meat is too much done, or the pudding deficient 
 in brandy. Spirits of another kind are wanting— 
 they evaporated, as I take it, much about the time 
 that French quadrilles and steam engines came 
 into vogue. After dinner the old people go to 
 cards, and the young ones are told ' not to make 
 too much noise.' If we enter upon a little jocu- 
 larity, what a wretched attempt it is. Miss faints 
 at the sight of mistletoe — and, what is worse, 
 master believes her fears ! How different were 
 these matters in the days of my boyhood. The 
 old people would shut up the whist table, at any 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN. 85 
 
 rate, on this occasion. Remembering their early 
 days, they would come among the young ones, and 
 not only enjoy the mirth as spectators, but some- 
 times even as participators. My grandfather would 
 open the ball ; while my grandmother (good old 
 soul!) would busy herself in the preparation of the 
 wassail bowl and snap-dragon. ,, 
 
 The odd gentleman then went on to relate the 
 following story. 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide, 
 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 
 
 GrOLDSMITH. 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 " I shall never forget, " continued the odd 
 gentleman, "one Christmas night — it must now 
 be two or three and thirty years past — I was on a 
 visit at the house of my uncle, who., being the eldest 
 of my grandfather's children, with a larger hall and 
 longer purse than either of his brothers, entertained 
 the whole of his nephews and nieces, who> together 
 with his own children, formed a tolerably numerous 
 assemblage. My cousin Phoebe was, perhaps, the 
 flower of the flock. — She was just such another 
 young lady as yourself, Miss, (addressing my oppo- 
 site companion) — just about your age; and, in 
 short, just the very lass of all others most pleasing 
 to my taste." — 
 
90 CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 (The elderly lady began to fidget about in her 
 seat, while her young protegee blushed an acknow- 
 ledgment of the compliment.) 
 
 " Ah ! Phoebe was my first, if not my only love ; 
 but as I never evinced any degree of affection ex- 
 cept what our relationship might seem to warrant, 
 and, indeed, was not thoroughly assured that I did 
 love her till she was past my obtaining, she was 
 never put to the disagreeable task of refusing my 
 solicitations. 
 
 " Thcebe, in fact, had quietly engaged herself 
 before I was aware of it, to a young man who went 
 abroad to study as an architect. He had been for 
 some time secretly kindling a flame within her 
 bosom ; and it burst forth on the day of his depar- 
 ture for the continent. 
 
 " He had been gone eighteen months ; and poor 
 Phoebe impatiently contemplated the lapse of six 
 months more, ere the object of her affections might 
 be expected to return. 'Twas, as I have already 
 stated, one Christmas night. We were assembled 
 in my uncle's great hall, all of us, with one excep- 
 tion, as happy as mirth and good cheer could make 
 us. The one excepted was my cousin Phoebe, 
 whose apprehensions for her distant lovers safety 
 would not permit her to join in the revels with her 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 91 
 
 usual gaiety. A whole fortnight had elapsed be- 
 yond the usual period at which she received letters 
 from him ; and she began to fear, that in the course 
 of his professional pursuits, he had either fallen 
 from the top of the Coliseum or been seized by 
 banditti. Sometimes, perhaps, thoughts still more 
 frightful would cross her mind ; and her imagina- 
 tion would alight on the rival charms of some fair 
 Italian. 
 
 "Phoebe, however, did all she possibly could to be 
 merry, and her cousins were not behind hand in at- 
 tempts to console her. We all made out a story of 
 probabilities for her comfort ; how letters sometimes 
 miscarried ; how they were sometimes stopped by 
 the police, from motives of political suspicion ; with 
 sundry other little well-meant inventions, which, 
 however, failed in producing the effect intended ; 
 for an abstraction of mind, and oft repeated sigh, 
 told plainly the unhappy state of her feelings. 
 
 " A servant entered the hall to say that the vil- 
 lage musicians were at the door, desiring to know 
 if their services were required. ' Let them come 
 in/ said my uncle, and the next minute six fellows 
 in masquerade dresses, their faces concealed by 
 visors, presented themselves. In their united force 
 they formed a very excellent band : two violins, a 
 
92 CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 violoncello, a flute, a guitar, and a tabor. They 
 were immediately ordered to strike up a country 
 dance ; and poor Phoebe, with a face more in uni- 
 son with the aspect of a cloister than a ball-room, 
 went down the middle and up again with me. 
 
 " The dance concluded \ my uncle requested a 
 short silence, as one of the musicians would give us 
 a song ; and the man with the guitar standing 
 forward from the rest, accompanied himself in the 
 following : — 
 
 a c Thro' varied scenes I wander on, 
 
 Yet no repose can find ; 
 No change of place can e'er efface 
 
 Thy beauties from my mind. 
 
 I look on Art's triumphant works, 
 
 And Nature's wonders see ; 
 But, while my eyes are fix'd on them, 
 
 My thoughts are bent on thee : — 
 
 On thee alone — on thee alone — 
 
 For thou art all to me ; 
 No matter where — my only prayer 
 
 Is ever urg'd for thee ' 
 
 M Every one seemed delighted with the singing, 
 except poor Phoebe, who burst into tears at hearing 
 so unexpectedly, and at such a moment, too, the 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 93 
 
 very air which Frank had learned from her on the 
 day previous to his departure. 
 
 " The words, likewise, bore a singular allusion to 
 her own case; and she only wished they might 
 prove the distant echo of Frank's sentiments. 
 
 " ' Come, come, Phcebe,' said her father, c we 
 must have none o' this. Now, if you'll immediately 
 cheer up, and join your cousins in a game of blind- 
 man's-buff, you shall know something that will 
 please you concerning Frank. Come, let me hide 
 those weeping eyes (so little befitting the present 
 scene) with this handkerchief; and now,' said 
 he, having tied the bandage, 6 catch who ye 
 can V 
 
 " No sooner was this done, than the masked singer 
 threw off his disguise, and Frank— for he it was — 
 stepped forth — not to the surprise of the company 
 in general, because every body, save the one most 
 interested in the affair, was pre-informed of what 
 was to happen. 
 
 " Frank put himself in the way of his blind-folded 
 mistress, so that she could not fail immediatelv to 
 catch hold of him. 'Twas as much as he could do 
 to remain calm and inactive during the examina- 
 tion he underwent at that moment. Never, surely, 
 was poor Phcebe so much at a loss as to what she 
 should make of him. He was taller than anv of 
 
94 CHRISTMAS NICxHT. 
 
 the boys there ; but yet not near stout enough for 
 me ; it was certainly not her father : — 
 
 " I do not know who it is," said she, with a sigh. 
 
 Frank had had much difficulty in forbearing thus 
 far; but 'twas impossible to restrain his feelings any 
 longer. He clasped her round the waist (though with- 
 out saying a word), and kissed her again and again ; 
 while Phoebe, enraged at the supposed liberty, dis- 
 entangled herself from his hold in an instant, and 
 tore the bandage from her eyes to look upon him, 
 whose sole right, as she fancied, had been usurped. 
 
 " Lord, Madam," (continued the odd gentleman, 
 addressing himself to the staid spinster opposite) 
 " this was a meeting which it would have done 
 your heart good to have witnessed. Little Phoebe, 
 whose cheeks, a moment before, were moist with 
 tears of sorrow, now wept for very joy — -' God bless 
 your sweet little heart,' exclaimed her enraptured 
 lover, " how could you think for a moment, that 
 I was indifferent to you ? — Perhaps,' continued 
 he, 6 you doubted my fidelity ? — my honour?' 
 
 " 6 N — no," said Phoebe, sobbing ; ' I — I — o— 
 only — dou — doubted your sa — a— afety.' 
 
 " I never think of this, Madam, without feeling 
 young again — without, in short (said he, rubbing his 
 hands briskly together) — without feeling inclined 
 to— V 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 95 
 
 " To do what ?" exclaimed the spinster, in a 
 half shriek, as though she feared his inclinations 
 might have some tendency to her. 
 
 " To do nothing, Madam :" said the odd gentle- 
 man, "but, to assert that, without love, even 
 heaven itself must fail to gratify.''' 
 
 The odd gentleman's story was evidently more 
 to the taste of the younger lady, than to that of 
 her protectress. The latter ironically pronounced 
 it all " very fine and romantic ;" but contradicted 
 the narrator's affirmation, that the witnessing such 
 a scene would have induced her to countenance the 
 indecorum of a game at romps : — 
 
 " Believe me," said he, " it would ; you would 
 have been as merry as the best of us ; all your pru- 
 dential notions would have melted into freedom 
 and good humour ; you w r ould have played at snap- 
 dragon with the children, and even acknowledged 
 the dominion of the misletoe." 
 
 She denied it : — 
 
 " I doubt it," said he> drawing forth the dreaded 
 plant. 
 
 She affirmed it. 
 
96 CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 " What, Madam !" he replied, shaking the twig, 
 C6 should you really consider it an affront ?" 
 
 "Unquestionably, Sir; and a most unpardon- 
 able one !" 
 
 "I can hardly credit you, Madam," said he, 
 leaning forward. 
 
 " 'Tis as true as " 
 
 *** ****** 
 
 " As I sit here," she would have said ; but, just 
 at that moment, the coachman, deceived by the 
 snow, misguided his horses, and the coach was 
 overturned ! 
 
 If the evil consequences of our overthrow had 
 been in any degree commensurate with the screams 
 of the ladies, I should have to tell of broken bones 
 and limbs disjointed. Nothing serious, however, 
 occurred ; except, indeed, that the odd gentleman 
 and his opposite companion were brought into 
 closer contact than could have been otherwise war- 
 ranted by propriety — a circumstance which may 
 probably remain heavy upon the lady^s remem- 
 brance, even to this very day ; though the odd gen- 
 tleman positively declared that he took no advantage 
 of the opportunity offered. 
 
 The coach was the greatest sufferer, and it 
 was soon discovered that we should be obliged to 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 97 
 
 defer the completion of our journey till the follow- 
 ing morning ; so that we had no alternative but to 
 proceed on foot to a small inn on the road side just 
 by, and there take up our abode for the night. 
 Pressed as I was for time, this delay cost me 
 some anxiety, and the ladies declared it to be " the 
 most unfortunate thing that had ever happened to 
 them. ,, The odd gentleman alone bore the mis- 
 hap with becoming philosophy; and in the cool 
 carelessness which he evinced upon the occasion, 
 methought I saw at once the whole art and secret 
 of securing long life, health, and happiness. 
 
 On arriving at the inn, the elderly lady made a 
 terrible fuss ; bouncing about the place from one 
 end to the other, in search of what she was pre- 
 determined not to find- — " a decent apartment ;" 
 and, by her manner of treating with the landlady, I 
 was induced to suppose that she suspected there 
 had been a plot privily laid for overturning the 
 coach. Having selected the best bed-room, she 
 next desired a separate sitting-room ; but the house 
 affording no such extra accommodation, the poor 
 antiquated virgin, malgre her scruples, was necessi- 
 tated to take tea with her fellow-travellers in the 
 parlour. 
 
 The odd gentleman was a long time without 
 
 H 
 
98 CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 making his appearance, a circumstance which in- 
 duced the elderly lady to hope that he had deserted 
 us altogether — " the loss," said she, " might be 
 easily borne with." Suddenly a scream was heard 
 in the kitchen, followed by the loud laughter of our 
 host and hostess. The elderly lady looked alarmed, 
 but the younger one conceived the matter dif- 
 ferently, entertaining, most likely, the same opinion 
 upon the subject with myself. If it were so, her 
 surmise was partially confirmed a few minutes after- 
 wards by the appearance of the little bar-maid, who 
 came in with the tea-things. Her face was flushed 
 — her hair loosened — her cap crumpled; and when 
 I asked after our comical companion, she hastened 
 out of the room, answering only with a laugh. 
 
 " So, so, 1 ' thought I, " this is a spirited old gal- 
 lant, with a vengeance ! He makes a grand tour, 
 I presume, every Christmas, with a piece of mistle- 
 toe in his pocket, flying about from flower to 
 flower, like a bee, and gathering honey from the 
 cheek of every pretty chambermaid he chances to 
 light upon." 
 
 The tea being now made, the elderly lady was 
 about to proceed in her duty of dispensing that 
 welcome beverage, when the door quietly opened, 
 and in walked the odd gentleman — as Heaven shall 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 99 
 
 help me — still with that pernicious plant in his 
 hand ! — " Good God !" exclaimed the elderly- 
 lady, half inwardly. The younger hid her face in 
 her handkerchief. For my own part, I must 
 acknowledge to the impropriety of having laughed 
 outright. The odd gentleman alone remained 
 unmoved. 
 
 " You will be pleased to recollect, Madam, that 
 your vow, half formed in the stage coach, was sud- 
 denly crushed by the overturning of the said 
 vehicle — 'twas cut short by Fate, and you are, 
 therefore, still free to act as you please." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir, I shall" said she. 
 
 " Now, Madam," he continued, plucking a 
 berry from the mistletoe, and holding it up between 
 his finger and thumb, u touching the peculiar 
 properties of this transparent globule, I would fain 
 illustrate—" 
 
 " I declare, Sir," exclaimed the elderly lady, 
 starting up from her chair, " you are beyond all 
 bearing — I consider your conduct to be highly 
 improper, particularly before this child; and al- 
 low me to say. Sir, that if you do not immediately 
 cease to be ridiculous, I must leave the room.'' 
 
 " La, aunt," said the girl, " I'm sure the gen- 
 tleman means no harm." 
 
100 CHBISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 " Hey dey ! Miss ! and you must prate, must 
 you ? I insist upon your following me directly — 
 I'll have tea brought up into my bed-room — there, 
 at least, we may remain unmolested." 
 
 She seemed determined to go. 
 
 " I declare, then, Madam," said the odd gentle- 
 man, " (although you much mistake me), I will 
 say no more upon this subject." 
 
 The lady was more determined than before. 
 
 " To assure you, Madam, that I am earnest in 
 this resolve, (albeit much against my inclination), 
 I hereby resign my prerogative, and — behold ! 
 — throw the dreaded plant into the fire." 
 
 This was conclusive, and the old spinster left 
 the room immediately. 
 
 Thus abandoned by the ladies, the odd gen- 
 tleman, after a short pause, exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah, poor woman ! Like myself, I presume, 
 but unable to bear disappointment so well. How- 
 ever," continued he, " since we are left alone, we 
 must amuse ourselves as best we may; and, if you 
 have no objection, we will order a bowl of punch, 
 and finish the evening in quiet and comfort." 
 
 The punch was ordered accordingly, and on the 
 landlord bringing it in, he was pressed to accept a 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 101 
 
 glass himself, and to carry a second to his better 
 half. 
 
 u Thank ye, kindly ," said our honest host, " and 
 right glad I am in being enabled to accommodate 
 you with sleeping-rooms ; for if this had happened 
 at another time, I might have been put to the 
 shifts. It so falls out, however, that a lodger of 
 mine — a poor artist, staying here for the benefit of 
 country air — has just departed on a visit of a few 
 days to a patron in the neighbourhood, and his 
 room is, in consequence, at your service, Sir (ad- 
 dressing himself to me). You'll excuse its wearing 
 something of an untidy look ; but I do not feel 
 myself justified in altering the position of any of 
 his painting apparatus, as the gentleman is very 
 particular, and was never in a greater passion than 
 with poor Polly one morning, for attempting, as 
 she supposed, to put his room in order. 
 
 We sat for some time discussing various matters, 
 till, at length, conversation beginning to flag, the 
 odd gentleman drew from his pocket a small bundle 
 of manuscripts, saying, as he ran them over, " I 
 have met with many strange adventures in my 
 time, and have come to the knowledge of as many 
 more. My travelling has been extensive ; and, 
 with a natural alacrity to notice every thing out of 
 
102 CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 the common way, aided by a singular good fortune, 
 in meeting with so much matter for observation, it 
 is no wonder that I should now possess a marvel- 
 lous stock of untold adventures and strange facts. 
 Here are two narratives, differing widely in tone 
 and character. If, in the absence of more worthy 
 entertainment, you have a mind to hear one, choose 
 at hazard." 
 
 I chose : — " In truth," said he, " the fittest for 
 a winter fire side — a tale of ghosts and goblins." 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL! 
 
 To tell how he gradually managed to bring his property into use 
 without exciting surprise and inquiry — how he satisfied all scruples 
 with regard to retaining the property, and at the same time gratified 
 his own feelings by marrying the pretty Marie ! 
 
 Bracebridge Hall. 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL! 
 
 In one of the most secluded spots of this our sea- 
 girt land, was to be found, some sixty moons back, 
 the remains of an old village, comprising about a 
 dozen cottages, all, save one, untenanted, and falling 
 to decay. No road, nor path, marked its con- 
 nection with any other habitable place ; nor can the 
 imagination conceive a scene more barren and deso- 
 late than the neighbourhood of Rock Town. 
 
 The village itself occupied the centre of a deep 
 dell, the sides of which formed a striking medley 
 of rock and precipice, partially clothed with fir 
 trees, and wild evergreens. Bold and romantic, 
 the scene would have been prized by Salvator 
 Rosa, as a subject for the canvass ; requiring no- 
 
106 THE HAUNTED MILL. 
 
 thing but the adjuncts of a black sky, and group 
 of bandits, to render it most effective. 
 
 Looking down from the summit of the heights 
 which formed this extraordinary and crater-like 
 nestling place, you had a bird's-eye view of an old 
 water-mill, several tileless roofs, ruined walls, and 
 enclosures, now filled with nettles, but marking out 
 the plots, whilom cultivated as cabbage gardens. 
 
 The history of Rock Town is singular, com- 
 mencing with a tale of love and elopement. A cer- 
 tain scapegrace of a fellow, one Andrew Harbottle, 
 having conceived a violent passion for a young 
 maiden, denominated Jenny Dowlas, declared his 
 passion, and was referred by his mistress to her 
 father. Andrew was rejected, and retired in 
 tears. Jenny followed him, and in a tone of the 
 deepest affection asked him why he wept ? 
 
 " Go," said Andrew ; " since you cannot relieve, 
 do not pity me. 
 
 " Thou art a poor spirited fellow," said Jenny. 
 
 " Thou art a cruel girl to taunt me thus ;" ex- 
 claimed the desponding youth ; " for, however I 
 may be unable to regain my own happiness, I have 
 at least sufficient spirit to refrain from injuring 
 yours, by the renewal of a suit, which your parents 
 have declared shall be ineffectual." 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 107 
 
 " Did / ever say it would be ineffectual ?" said 
 Jenny, blushing. 
 
 " Why, then, refer me to your father ?" inquir- 
 ed Andrew. 
 
 " 'Twas a matter of duty/' said Jenny. 
 
 "And why do you follow me now ?" asked 
 Andrew. 
 
 "'Tis a matter of — of — of — affection," simpered 
 Jenny. 
 
 " Then," exclaimed Andrew, exultingly, and 
 catching the little panting beauty in his arms, 
 " His a matter of no further doubt ; I must and 
 will have thee. Go, gather thy few little valuables 
 in a bundle — meet me down at the style in the 
 dusk of the evening, and we'll off to the parson I" 
 
 Jenny, acceding to the proposal, decamped with 
 her lover ; and about three weeks after, their dis- 
 consolate parents were informed that they had 
 been married in the border town of the adjoining 
 county ; but months passed on ere any thing more 
 transpired concerning the fugitives. 
 
 At length, when all hope of discovering them 
 was abandoned, and the old women of the village 
 had decided that young Harbottle was gone to the 
 devil, he suddenly appeared among them in the 
 dress of a miller, seated on the front of a new cart, 
 
108 THE HAUNTED MILL, 
 
 and driving a very noble, and well caparisoned 
 horse. All parties came flocking forth to meet 
 him, anxious to know the fate of Jenny. 
 
 " And, faith, v said Andrew, " Jenny will be 
 happy to see just as many of ye as can find a place 
 in my cart, and are willing to go back with me 
 over the moor ; v and then he went on to relate how 
 chance had conducted him to a most beautiful little 
 valley ; how he had worked himself into favour 
 with the neighbouring farmers ; and how he was 
 now employed as miller to the surrounding com- 
 munity. He rang forth the praises of Rock Town ; 
 enlarging upon the blessings of peace and retire- 
 ment ; and doing all he could to instil into his old 
 companions the spirit of emigration. Many of the 
 younger and more enterprising villagers, accom- 
 panied him back, and established themselves in the 
 new settlement, which increased in riches and con- 
 sequence, till the death of Harbottle, who was 
 shortly followed by poor Jenny, leaving her son 
 Adam proprietor of the mill. 
 
 Among the villagers was an old woman much 
 given to lying and prophecy. She understood, or, 
 at least, had the credit of understanding, something 
 of medicine : a few chance cures established her as 
 a mistress of the art, and the worthy inhabitants of 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 109 
 
 Rock Town soon became impressed with a strong 
 faith in her knowledge and capacity. Having thus 
 far insinuated herself into the high opinion of her 
 neighbours, she ventured on a further stretch of 
 cunning, and at length assumed the wand of necro- 
 mancy, 
 
 But for this old woman, Adam Harbottle, 
 like his father Andrew, would, most probably, 
 have been regarded as " the great one of the 
 city;" and Dame Ducket, in disputing the pre- 
 cedency, so far irritated her more legitimate 
 rival, that, in the heat of his wrath, and in the 
 hearing of the whole assembled village, he de- 
 nounced her as a vile impostor. 'Twas a rash step 
 on the part of Harbottle. The villagers, astonish- 
 ed at his temerity, all turned their eyes upon Dame 
 Ducket, who, rising slowly from her seat by the 
 spinning wheel, thrice waved her distaff, and then 
 lifting her withered hands above her grey head, 
 declared him a lost man — a very devil incarnate ! 
 
 From that time poor Harbottle was looked upon 
 mistrustfully by the inhabitants. He had drawn 
 this imprecation upon himself in a moment of 
 choler ; and his lage having subsided, he now 
 began to doubt the security of his soul. Supersti- 
 tion, when once given way to, generally prevails ; 
 and the worthies of Rock Town were certainly not 
 
110 THE HAUNTED MILL. 
 
 proof against the infection. They listened with 
 dread credulity to their prophetess, who pronoun- 
 ced it unlucky to have any dealings with the 
 object of her wrath, and prognosticated that he 
 would come to some miserable end ; so that Har- 
 bottle had little else to do than make up his mind 
 to be damned. 
 
 The old woman, flattered by her partial success, 
 kept up the imposition, and increased her influence 
 every day. She foretold that Harbottle would be 
 either drowned in the mill-dam, or crushed between 
 his mill-stones. She even ventured to pronounce 
 the evil day,— it came — Harbottle was missing ! 
 
 The villagers surrounded the mill, but none 
 could muster sufficient hardihood to enter. At 
 length Dame Ducket appeared, and commanding 
 her disciples to follow her, began to ascend the 
 step-ladder leading to the mill door. The ladder 
 was of considerable height, and Dame Ducket's 
 agility not having increased with her years, she 
 soon began to tremble with feelings of insecurity. 
 When about two-thirds up, she turned upon her 
 followers, exclaiming against their cowardice in not 
 daring to enter the mill except at the hazard of her 
 life ; and immediately after, making a false step, 
 she fell, with a shriek, to the ground. The villagers 
 having conveyed her home upon a shutter in a 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. Ill 
 
 state of insensibility, returned to prosecute their 
 search in the mill. 
 
 The discovery was soon made. Between the 
 mill-stones were seen sundry pieces of rag and 
 broad cloth, doubtless the remnants of Adam's 
 dress; while the pulverised bones and tufts of 
 hair which lay scattered about on the boards just 
 by, were, with an equal certainty, fragments of the 
 unfortunate man himself! 
 
 Dame Ducket, so great an adept in the curing 
 of other people's maladies, could discover no 
 remedy for her own, and she died in a few days, 
 declaring that her ghost, in company with that of 
 Harbottle, should haunt the mill ever afterwards ! 
 
 Thus ended the prosperity of Rock Town. Half 
 the houses became immediately tenantless, and 
 the mill was regarded as a place set apart for the re- 
 ception of goblins. In the howling of every blast 
 was heard the moaning of Adam's spirit ; in the 
 creaking of every timber, the voice of Dame 
 Ducket ; and no one ventured to pass the haunted 
 mill after night-fall. It stood, therefore, for a 
 length of time without any tenants, except the rats 
 and mice ; unless, indeed, the ghosts of the miller 
 and Dame Ducket may be reckoned as such. 
 Many were the tales told of their having appeared 
 
112 THE HAUNTED MILL* 
 
 in various forms and places. Sometimes Adam was 
 to be seen running round the water-wheel, hard 
 chased by old Dame Ducket; and then strange 
 noises would be heard in the mill, as of two spirits 
 struggling with one another. Every gust of wind 
 stripped the roof of a tile, which ever and anon 
 came rattling down into the street — a sure omen of 
 coming evil to any one near whom it happened to 
 fall ! and there it would remain ; no one daring 
 to touch what he conceived influenced by the 
 charms of magic. The water-wheel was now 
 choked up with nettles. The wooden bridge which 
 crossed the mill-stream, fell into the water and was 
 carried away by the current. Terror reigned within 
 the building, and Desolation roamed without ! 
 
 It was in this state, when an old miser, grudg- 
 ing the expense of a cottage, consented to become its 
 inhabitant, in consideration of occupying its cham- 
 bers rent free. The worthy villagers could hardly 
 credit the reality of his intention to enter the haunted 
 mill, and did all in their power to dissuade him from 
 a step, which they conceived must inevitably lead to 
 destruction. He persisted, however, in his rash 
 determination, and the whole community assem- 
 bled to see him take possession. They accom- 
 panied him to within a few yards of the broken 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 113 
 
 bridge, and there paused, huddling themselves 
 together j and trembling, from head to foot, like 
 the reeds in the mill-stream, The miser, taking 
 a plank of sufficient length to reach over the 
 rivulet, placed one end of it close to the water's 
 edge, and then raising the other, brought it to a 
 perpendicular. 'Twas a moment of the utmost 
 terror with the villagers. They could not believe 
 that he would have the courage to let it fall on the 
 opposite bank. He looked back at them for a 
 moment., as if he half feared it himself — Down it 
 went ! The spectators shrunk back one and all, 
 in dire expectancy of something terrible, while 
 Abel the miser — walked quietly over. 
 
 Whether he would have the daring to go fur- 
 ther, was, however, yet a question. A gust of 
 wind whistled over the building, and a tile leaped 
 from the roof as the warning of danger. This 
 was enough to convince the trembling witnesses of 
 Abel's rashness, that his case was next to hopeless ; 
 and they began to put up prayers for his safety. 
 Nothing daunted, however, he moved up the step- 
 ladder, stood upon the landing, and placed his hand 
 upon the latch of the door. The villagers only 
 wondered he had got thus far in safety. The latch 
 was lifted — they started back. — Will he dare to 
 i 
 
114 THE HAUNTED MILL, 
 
 push open the door ?— He did so : a dire yell 
 accompanied the motion, and away flew the whole 
 assembly, as if a legion of devils had possessed 
 them ! — Abel, quietly remarking that the hinges 
 were rusty and wanted oiling, walked delibe- 
 rately in. 
 
 The next morning the villagers came in a body 
 to witness the issue of Abel's temerity. They 
 found every thing as they left it. All was silent. 
 Suddenly they heard a groan ! The casement open- 
 ed, and a head in a white cap popped out ! Sup- 
 posing it Abel's ghost, they turned to flee ; when a 
 low sepulchral voice arrested their steps :— 
 
 " Stop !'' said Abel : " No ghost am I, although 
 with ghosts I hold communion. — Thus saith the 
 miller's ghost : Abel, go round each morn from 
 house to house, and in this wooden bowl collect 
 from every cot a slice of bread — And thus saith 
 old Dame Ducket : 
 
 " Nor bread alone ; but bacon too ; 
 And beer a pint, they'll add thereto." 
 
 The imposition was readily agreed to by all the in- 
 habitants save one — -old Rugby, who suspected that 
 the whole was a trick, and refused to pay his con- 
 tribution on the first day. He slept so miserably, 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 115 
 
 however, on the following night, and was so haunt- 
 ed in his dreams by ghosts of millers and misers, 
 that he never afterwards grudged payment, though 
 still inclined, occasionally, to be sceptical. He 
 sometimes smiled, as if in contempt of his folly in 
 submitting to the roguery of old Abel ; but he 
 could not make up his mind to repeat the experi- 
 ment of a refusal ; and, therefore, for the mere 
 sake of his comfort, compounded with his common 
 sense. 
 
 One morning, old Abel was missing at the usual 
 hour of making his rounds. The day passed, but 
 he came not : the next morning, and yet he did not 
 appear. — " He's dead V y exclaimed Rugby. 
 
 This same Rugby had a son, Dick, whom he 
 treated more like a slave than a child of his own 
 begetting. He had, in fact, a most unpaternal dis- 
 like to the lad ; and was for ever loading him with 
 false accusations, and inflicting upon him unmerited 
 castigation. In fact, Dick led so coarse a life on't, 
 that he more than once bethought himself of 
 running away ; and doubtless would have done so 
 long before, had it not been for the attractions of a 
 rosy cheeked little damsel who scoured his father's 
 copper kettles. This girl was a descendant of the 
 Harbottle family ; the only one of the line now re- 
 i2 
 
116 THE HAUNTED MILL. 
 
 maining in the village ; and, if a haunted mill could 
 be looked upon as a matter of any value, such was 
 little Kitty's patrimony, 
 
 Abel the miser not having made his appearance 
 for two or three days, it was thought necessary that 
 a true report of his fate should be obtained ; and 
 Dick Rugby being the stoutest young fellow in the 
 village, was deemed the fittest man for a ghostly 
 embassy, and deputed accordingly. It will not be 
 wondered at, that his father should be ready to 
 sanction the enactment of a part assigned to poor 
 Dick by the community at large. Like Brutus, he 
 conceived the public good was all in all ; and he 
 consigned his son to the risk of perdition with 
 most Roman-like composure. Be it remembered, 
 however, he had all along been doubtful of the truth 
 of old Abel's story ; and this may in some measure 
 palliate his conduct in regard to his son. 
 
 The villagers, being collected together, moved 
 onward to the mill, Dick Rugby leading the pro- 
 cession, and his father, with Kitty, following close 
 at his heels. When they arrived at the mill stream, 
 there was a dead stand, and old Rugby turned 
 pale. Dick advanced a few steps, then paused : his 
 manhood for the moment failed him. To the sur- 
 prise of every one, Kitty sprung from the crowd 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 117 
 
 and offered to go herself! This roused every atom 
 of Dick's waning courage: he bounced over the 
 bridge without more ado ; and the next minute had 
 ascended the step-ladder leading to the mill door. 
 Kitty, bursting with affection, and fearing for her 
 lover's fate, could no longer resist the desire of 
 sharing his danger ; and, escaping from her mas- 
 ter's grasp, she quickly joined Dick Rugby, and 
 they entered the haunted precincts together. 
 
 A full half hour passed on in solemn silence, and 
 neither of them appearing, old Rugby began to 
 tremble with apprehension, while the rest of the 
 witnesses looked at one another most dolefully, 
 turned up their eyes to heaven, and shook their 
 sapient heads in mournful concert. At length a 
 deep groan was heard — a shriek followed — and Dick 
 Rugby, suddenly springing out of the mill, made 
 but one step from the top to the bottom of the lad- 
 der, and in a tone of the greatest terror exclaimed, 
 " A ghost ! a ghost ! fly ! fly !— a ghost ! !* 
 
 No words can describe the consternation which 
 ensued. The affrighted spectators all scampered to 
 their respective homes, bolted their doors, and went 
 to prayers ; nor did they dare to venture again from 
 their abodes till the following morning, when old 
 Rugby was to be seen running about from house to 
 
118 THE HAUNTED MILL. 
 
 house, in a state of perfect distraction, beating his 
 breast, and calling upon the names of his little house- 
 maid and son Dick ; neither of whom was to be 
 found. His former scepticism now turned upon 
 him like a fiend ; and his cruelty as a father embit- 
 tered his memory : he loaded his neighbours with 
 invective for their dastardly spirit in deputing his 
 only son as a champion against the devil ; and 
 soundly upbraided himself for acceding to the ful- 
 filment of so base a measure. 
 
 The villagers, beginning to doubt the safety 
 of his wits, followed him about the place wher- 
 ever he went, fearing lest he should commit some 
 act of desperation. He rambled into a garden 
 which communicated with the haunted premises of 
 the mill ; but, as he approached the stile leading 
 thereto, his trembling companions slackened their 
 steps, and conjured him not to hazard a nearer ad- 
 vance. — — " Silence !" said Rugby ; u some one 
 speaks !" — They listened; and, after a few mo- 
 ments 1 pause, a hollow, sepulchral voice exclaimed, 
 a Bury me !*' 
 The sound evidently proceeded from the other 
 side of the hedge. — They listened again — " Bury 
 me !" cried the voice a second time, and in a much 
 louder tone than before : — 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 119 
 
 " Who are you ?" said Rugby, bold in despair. 
 
 No answer was made: so Rugby, after a. short 
 pause, leaped the stile, and nearly tumbled over the 
 prostrate body of the deceased Abel. 
 
 " Let us lift him into the garden," said Rugby, 
 coolly; but his companions appeared loth to un- 
 dertake the task. Some ran off, and the rest seem- 
 ed half inclined to follow the example, when ano- 
 ther ghostly voice horribly resembling that of old 
 Dame Ducket, pronounced the following :— 
 
 " Bury him ! bury him ! ere you sleep ; 
 On the hill, by the mill, six feet deep." 
 
 No one dared to disobey the mandate, and old 
 Abel's body was disposed of accordingly. 
 
 After this. Rock Town was gradually deserted. 
 The worthy inhabitants, alarmed at so rapid an 
 increase in the family of the ghosts, began to fear 
 that the mill would shortly be insufficient to accom- 
 modate them ; and as they were by no means desir- 
 ous of entertaining such lodgers in their own cot- 
 tages, they packed up their goods and chattels, and 
 betook themselves to the surrounding villages. 
 
 Old Rugby alone remained, careless as to whether 
 the spirits of the mill should be inclined to vex his 
 quiet or not. " If they choose to come," said the 
 
1^0 THE HAUNTED MILL. 
 
 miserable old sinner, " why let them. If not, 
 here am I fixed for ever, resolved to do penance in 
 solitude." 
 
 It will be seen, by referring to the opening pass- 
 age of the foregoing narrative, that, since the occur- 
 rence of the very extraordinary events related 
 therein, several years have elapsed ; and the reader 
 has now to be informed, that the present appear- 
 ance of Rock Town is the very reverse of every 
 thing ghostly or desolate. Tis a busy, bustling 
 little place ; and poor old Rugby, who has been 
 seen ere now roaming in wretchedness through the 
 ruins of his depopulated birth-place, is one of the 
 busiest and happiest among the inhabitants. The 
 redoubted mill, so fraught with magical association, 
 is no longer looked upon with horror, nor approach- 
 ed with dread ; and instead of the ghosts of Dick 
 Rugby and his darling, we are cheered by the sight 
 of Dick himself, a jolly, plump miller, while his 
 wife Kitty, the blooming mother of three chubby 
 children, holds out liberal promise of a fourth. 
 
 Matters shall be explained as briefly as possible. 
 
 Dame Ducket's fate is known ; and my readers 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 121 
 
 need scarcely be informed that she was precisely 
 what Harbottle had pronounced her, " a cunning 
 old impostor." Harbottle, however, could not, at 
 the time, thoroughly trust to the dictates of his 
 common sense 3 and he determined to be on the safe 
 side at all events. On the morning, therefore, that 
 had been declared by the dame to be his last, he 
 secretly escaped from the village, having, during 
 the preceding night, indulged in the waggery of 
 dispersing about the mill stones a quantity of pow- 
 dered pork bones, pieces of rag, &c. Not daring 
 to return afterwards to see the issue of the trick, 
 he would have still remained in ignorance, but 
 for an accidental meeting with Dick Rugby. Har- 
 bottle, however, had in the mean time obtained a 
 very eligible situation, in a neighbouring town, 
 and never made his appearance in the village 
 again. 
 
 How successfully old Abel managed to turn his 
 cunning to advantage (finding means for house, 
 bed, and board, in the credulity of the villagers), 
 I need not say. Dick Rugby's was the voice which 
 so solemnly ejaculated the command for the miser's 
 interment ; and his sly little partner contrived to 
 imitate the tone of Dame Duckef s speech with 
 equal effect. i\.bel died suddenly — for aught I 
 
122 THE HAUNTED MILL. 
 
 know — in the act of tying up his money-bag; and 
 it strikes me (though Dick was ever somewhat 
 silent upon this point of the story) that, when the 
 young lovers entered the mill, they found things in 
 that position. The mill was Kitty's by right of 
 descent; and Kitty was Dick's by right of affec- 
 tion. He felt, therefore, no compunction in appro- 
 priating to himself whatever unclaimed good might 
 be found in the mill ; and the miser's money added 
 no small weight to his bargain. 
 
 Dick, having suffered his father to wipe away 
 the stain of undue severity, by a few weeks' peni- 
 tence, returned to Rock Town — restored the old 
 man's comfort — rebuilt the mill— reinstated the 
 village, and has certainly done his full share in 
 causing it to be re-peopled. 
 
 The odd gentleman's story being finished, I 
 was bound in common courtesy to tender my 
 thanks and approval ; not, however, that I did so 
 from mere civility ; on the contrary, the story, as 
 he read it, was very diverting. Whether it will 
 prove effective on the silent page, I know not; 
 however, it can hardly be entirety deficient in 
 
THE HAUNTED MILL. 123 
 
 interest ; and, under the assurance that it is not so, 
 I have submitted it to the reader. It is certainly 
 a strange composition ; perhaps merely intended as 
 a simple story — perhaps meaning something more. 
 
 The author seemed flattered by my approba- 
 tion ; and, after some little hesitation and demur, 
 he presented me with the remaining tale, together 
 with his reasons for so doing. The tale I shall 
 hereafter lay before my reader : the reasons I 
 shall keep to myself. In the first place, however, 
 let me be favoured by some little attention to the 
 following brief narrative — being the unexaggerated 
 account of a most frightful adventure, which hap- 
 pened during the night of my stay at the Inn. 
 
THE DEAD ARM, 
 
 AND 
 
 GHOST OF C iESAR, 
 
 " There's no such thing." 
 
 MACBETH, 
 
THE DEAD ARM, 
 
 AND 
 
 GHOST OF CESAR. 
 
 The painter's apartment having been allotted to 
 me as a sleeping-room, I was conducted thereto by 
 the little chambermaid, who, ignorant perhaps of 
 her master's previous caution, delicately requested 
 me not to displace any of the painter's apparatus. 
 M He is such a particular man," said she, u and 
 makes such a mighty fuss about his paints, and 
 rubbish, that we have more than enough to do 
 with him ; and so, if you please, Sir, excuse the un- 
 tidiness of the room, and believe 'tis none of my 
 fault." 
 
 Truly, on entering the chamber, a man might 
 with reason exclaim, " chaos is come again !" 
 
128 THE DEAD ARM, AND 
 
 Slovenliness and confusion appear to be the usual 
 characteristics of the abode of genius ; but here the 
 signs were far more conspicuous than ordinary, and 
 it was a difficult matter to walk a couple of yards 
 in any direction without treading in a paint-bex, 
 or stumbling over a plaster cast. Such an hetero- 
 geneous medley of pictures, prints, books, musical 
 instruments, and wearing apparel, was surely never 
 before congregated in so confined a space ; and 
 certainly, if I had not been cautioned against it, I 
 should have made free with at least so much room 
 as might serve for the convenience of dressing and 
 undressing. Perhaps m)' landlord carried his 
 scruples a little too far ; however, it was with a 
 good feeling, and I obeyed him to the letter ; re- 
 fraining even from making the circuit of my bed, 
 though strongly prompted to take a glance at 
 the specimens of art, which, as I conceived, were 
 likely to be collected on the opposite side of the 
 room. — Never, surely, was the very laudable virtue 
 of repressed curiosity so abominably repaid ! 
 
 I had still, however, an opportunity of forming 
 an opinion upon the powers of the absent painter. 
 Close to the door was a large half-finished picture 
 upon the subject of Brutus' encounter with the 
 ghost of Caesar. It struck me as a forcible pro- 
 
GHOST OF CESAR. 129 
 
 duction, exhibiting something of the Fuseli man- 
 ner ; and the apparition in particular bore marks of 
 that school — so eccentric, but at the same time so 
 powerful. The spectre was represented as par- 
 tially enveloped in a blood-stained robe ; one hand 
 pointing to the wound inflicted by Brutus ; and the 
 other extended with all the decision of a finger- 
 post towards the plains of Philippi. The drapery 
 (which is no mean feature in the composition of a 
 thorough good ghost) was disposed in a manner 
 highly creditable to the designer's taste and 
 knowledge of effect ; and the impression made 
 upon my mind by the first sight of this picture, 
 might probably have remained in perfect distinct- 
 ness to this day, supposing even that the adventure 
 which followed had not contributed to render it 
 trebly indelible — but let me not anticipate the sequel. 
 Shivering with cold, I speedily undressed, 
 jumped into my close-curtained bed, and, with my 
 imagination bent on Caesar's ghost, I fell asleep. It 
 was, however, a very questionable kind of repose. 
 Not Caesar's ghost alone ; but others in abundance 
 arose to perplex me, and the reader will perhaps 
 not be surprised to hear that the spirits of millers, 
 misers, and old women, were busy in the disturb- 
 ance of my peace. 
 
 K 
 
130 THE DEAD ARM, AND 
 
 After a broken and troubled slumber of about an 
 hour,Iawoke. The clock strucktweJve; that "witch- 
 ing time of night," when sprites and goblins hold 
 their infernal levies, and discuss the most effectual 
 mode of stirring up men's souls to unhallowed re- 
 bellion against their bodies. Entertaining, how- 
 ever, but very sceptical notions upon this matter, 
 and having grafted my thoughts upon a more 
 agreeable subject, I fell asleep for the second 
 time. 
 
 The apparition resumed its influence upon my 
 mind, engendering fancies grim and horrible ! I 
 lay upon my back, chained to the bed by some 
 invisible power — unable to move a limb — incapable 
 of utterance. This I knew was merely the pro- 
 logue to some forthcoming deed of darkness, and I 
 remained panting with fearful apprehension ! On 
 a sudden the curtains at the foot of my bed were 
 drawn asunder, and — O, horrible ! — two dire spec- 
 tres appeared, bearing in their arms the body of 
 the murdered Caesar ! They were on the point of 
 hurling the bleeding corse upon the bed, as if un- 
 conscious that I was lying there. I struggled for 
 a time ineffectually : but, at length, with a violent 
 convulsive movement, accompanied by an ejacula- 
 tion — awoke ! 
 
GHOST OF CESAR. 131 
 
 'Twas a most beautiful moonlight night, and 
 through the opening of the curtains on the side of 
 my bed opposite the chamber door, I could per- 
 ceive, brightly gleaming in silver radiance, that 
 part of the terror-fraught picture which was occu- 
 pied by the ghost of Caesar, — <c The devil take that 
 painter !" I cried ; and, immediately after, the 
 clock struck one ! So great had been my suffer- 
 ings within the last hour, that I almost dreaded to 
 challenge sleep again. Scarcely, however, was it 
 thoroughly evident that I had only been afflicted 
 by the unsubstantial workings of a disturbed brain, 
 when, to my great surprise and subsequent horror, 
 I felt something like an arm extended under my 
 back! My fears were not aroused immediately; 
 but, when I had fully obtained palpable assurance 
 that there was an arm beneath me — when I felt 
 the hand of this stray limb with mine own, and 
 found it cold and inanimate — when I could dis- 
 cover no body appertaining — and when, in addi- 
 tion to each of these fearful circumstances, I had 
 calmly convinced myself that I was wide awake, 
 by making remarks upon the moonlight, upon the 
 click-clack of the time-piece on the staircase, and 
 upon the snoring of the odd gentleman in the room 
 adjoining — when, in short, I was thoroughly jus- 
 
 k 2 
 
132 THE DEAD ARM, AND 
 
 tified in exclaiming, " this is no dream !" I then 
 began to tremble from head to foot. I felt the 
 hand again. As before, 'twas still and lifeless ! 
 A cold perspiration came over me— my breathing 
 thickened — my heart beat — and my tongue would 
 scarcely obey the impulse which led me to exclaim, 
 " What, ho ! fellow traveller ! v A snore was the 
 only response. I then cried out for my landlord, 
 but obtained no answer. Still the hand was there 
 — I pressed it — u 'Tis evidently lifeless !" said I. 
 The attempt to draw it away was useless : it re- 
 mained immoveable ! Though I could conceive 
 no evil consequence from raising my body, I feared 
 to hazard the experiment : so, remaining still as 
 possible, I gently drew open the curtains on the 
 window side of my bed-room— I drew them quietly 
 apart — but, O ! how quickly let them close again ! 
 — I saw — 
 
 But, if you are predetermined not to believe 
 me, you may as well o'erleap the remainder of 
 my story. In truth, we are getting more and 
 more sceptical every day— but not, methinks, the 
 wiser. The word of an honest man is rejected, 
 unless he can support his declared fact by certain 
 reasons current — no matter what — so they be es- 
 tablished ; while the sophist, substituting logical 
 
GHOST OF CiESAIl. 138 
 
 ingenuity for substantial argument, legitimates the 
 absurdest fallacies. If a man swear that he has 
 seen a strange sight, we call him mad. By a 
 roundabout method of ratiocination, however, he 
 may account for impossibilities, and have the credit 
 of possessing his wits, nevertheless : which is cer- 
 tainly a case of flagrant injustice. And what right 
 have I to suppose that this narrative will be re- 
 ceived with belief, when the asseverations of Dr. 
 Johnson have been treated with contempt ? The 
 doctor declared that he heard his mother call 
 4 Sam, Sam/ at a time when they were separated 
 by a distance of many miles ; but no one believed 
 him! 
 
 "Well, Sir; I saw— ' 
 
 " And what (in the name of insulted patience) 
 did you see ?" 
 
 " A tall figure by my bed-side I — the exact sem- 
 blance of Caesar's ghost as it appeared on the 
 picture — the precise copy — a substantial counter- 
 part ! It stood prominently forward, gleaming in 
 the moonlight, and relieved by the dark back 
 ground of a deep recess. On venturing to look a 
 second time, I still perceived it plainly as before ! 
 The sight nearly overcame me ; and, turning sud- 
 denly upon my side, I endeavoured to smother my 
 
134 THE DEAD ARM, AND 
 
 fears (as I nearly did myself) under the bed- 
 clothes. But, lo ! the stray limb was gone ! what 
 had become of it ? and what was the cause of my 
 right hand (which had been hitherto strangely 
 inactive), being benumbed past the sense of feel- 
 ing r 
 
 Perhaps I need scarcely be more explicit on this 
 point. The foregoing questions will most probably 
 solve themselves, leaving my readers to infer, that 
 the arm on which I had lain was no other than my 
 own. In the restlessness of my troubled sleep it 
 had accidentally got underneath my body, the 
 pressure of which completely impeding the circu- 
 lation of the blood, had rendered it cold, insen- 
 sible, and as it were, lifeless. 
 
 After the removal of the arm, I began to recover 
 my self-possession, and strengthened my returning 
 courage by reflecting, that as one great cause of 
 my terror had rested on so ridiculous a deception, 
 the other, when calmly investigated, might prove 
 equally unsubstantial. Having mused for some 
 minutes upon the subject, I determined, at what- 
 ever hazard, to fathom the mystery ; and, raising 
 myself to a sitting posture, I suddenly drew aside 
 the curtains, giving a loud and valiant " ahem !" 
 at the same moment. 
 
GHOST OF CESAR. 135 
 
 The figure was there still ! and neither altered 
 in attitude nor position. " Begone!" I exclaimed; 
 but might as well have hallooed to a figure of 
 wood. " Speak, if thou canst," said I, in the lan- 
 guage of Macbeth; " what art thou?" No 
 answer, " Beshrew me, then,'" said I, " but this 
 is neither the conduct of a ghost nor a gentleman:" 
 — and, truly, nor ghost nor gentleman was there. 
 " What !— did it then vanish at last ?" 
 " No — nor will it vanish till the painter takes his 
 departure." 
 
 " Was it then his evil spirit ?" 
 
 " No, Sir : — 'twas his lay figure !"* 
 
 * Editor's Note. — Some of my readers, possibly, 
 may not be aware that it is the custom among pain- 
 ters to make use of a large wooden figure, or doll, 
 the limbs of which being moveable, it may be fixed 
 in any position. It is chiefly serviceable in the 
 painting of drapery, as exemplified in the case be- 
 fore us, where the artist, having placed it in the 
 proper attitude, had enveloped it in a large white 
 robe, and copied its bold and natural folds with 
 great exactitude upon the canvass. 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN 
 
 AND 
 
 OLD MAID. 
 
 " Look upon this picture, and on this." 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 Our party having re-assembled in the coach at 
 an early hour on the following morning, we pro- 
 ceeded on our journey, and completed the remain- 
 ing fifty miles in as peaceable a manner as the 
 elderly lady could have possibly desired. The odd 
 gentleman, to be sure, occasionally looked as 
 though he meditated a renewal of his attack upon 
 the demureness of the inflexible old virgin ; and it 
 appeared that the young protegee, however pro- 
 
THE ODD GENTLEMAN, &C. 137 
 
 found might be her feelings of respect for her staid 
 companion, and whatever fears she might have of 
 offending her by laughter, was still anxious for a 
 little fun. In fact, it struck me more than once, 
 that the young lady loved a little roguery, as well 
 as the odd gentleman himself. There was mischief 
 evidently at work in her brain ; it showed itself 
 upon her lip ; it twinkled in her eye ; but the odd 
 gentleman was not to be seduced from his good 
 behaviour ; and whenever he addressed himself to 
 his opposite companion, it was upon ordinary mat- 
 ters, and in a tone of studied propriety. At part- 
 ing, he tendered her a bow of the profoundest 
 reverence, repressing even the natural smile, which, 
 till now, had lighted up his good-natured coun- 
 tenance : then, turning to the younger female, he 
 invoked upon her the blessing of heaven, wishing 
 her all health, happiness, and a good husband. 
 For mine own part, I bid adieu to him with feel- 
 ings of unfeigned regret. He shook me heartily 
 by the hand, informing me that he was now many 
 miles from his home ; but, that if chance should 
 
 ever lead me into the neighbourhood of , he 
 
 should feel himself much slighted by my neglecting 
 to pay him a visit. 
 
138 THE ODD GENTLEMAN 
 
 If ever there were a clash of dispositions in every 
 respect diametrically opposite, it was to be seen in 
 the case of the odd gentleman, and the ancient 
 spinster aforesaid. It was evident the early wishes 
 of both had been opposed ; but those wishes, 
 though fixed on similar objects, differed widely in 
 their nature ; and disappointment was the test 
 which exhibited the true character of each. The de- 
 sires of the one originated in feelings of warm- 
 heartedness, and were chiefly directed towards pro- 
 moting the happiness of their object. The wishes 
 of the other, prompted by mere vanity, were 
 rather of a receptive than of a communicative 
 quality. Careless of man's love, she only wished to 
 participate his good fortune, and would have united 
 herself to any monied debauchee, rather than die 
 an old maid. Disappointment in the one case 
 occasioned much sorrow ; in the other, discontent. 
 The gentleman's wounds healed in time ; but the 
 lady's, chafed by the moioseness of her temper, 
 will remain open to the last. 
 
 The above is not mere surmise. The landlord 
 of the inn, where the coach put up, gave me some 
 particulars concerning the characters of my fellow 
 travellers. The odd gentleman had been his fre- 
 
AND OLD MAID. 139 
 
 quent guest, and by liberality and good humour 
 had so far succeeded in gaining upon the affections 
 of the entire household— the old folks and the 
 young folks, the men and the maidens — that 
 his appearance was ever hailed as a signal for 
 all to put on their happiest looks, and summon up 
 additional zeal in the fulfilment of their vocations. 
 The little children crowded round him, speculating 
 upon his never-failing store of gingerbread ; the 
 dog wagged his tail for pure joy ; the cat purred a 
 welcome ; and the parrot, sporting all the English 
 of which he was master (but speaking, as we hope, 
 either in irony or ignorance), exclaimed, " Sad 
 rascal !" 
 
 The odd gentleman had contentedly jogged 
 forward in the narrow path of singleness for 
 near three-score years : but let no lady, there- 
 fore, accuse him of being deficient in feelings of 
 gallantry; for, however ' content* he may have 
 been to remain a bachelor, it was, that his philoso- 
 phy had supported him, where his natural inclina- 
 tion had been thwarted. Scarcely had his razor 
 claimed its first harvest, ere he inwardly aspired to 
 the honour of matrimony : but his wishes, in this 
 matter, were not to be answered, and he emerged 
 
140 THE ODD GENTLEMAN, &C. 
 
 from his teens— a disappointed man. He was once 
 a lover upon instinct : he is now a bachelor upon 
 compulsion : but, though he would have been hap- 
 pier as a husband, he is happy as it is. 
 
TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 <c And wears upon his baby-brow the round 
 And top of sovereignty." 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 Having business to transact with a worthy squire 
 who resided about a quarter of a mile from the 
 town where the coach stopped, and being entirely 
 ignorant of the neighbourhood, the landlord of the 
 inn (with a kindness of heart which he probably 
 imbibed from the odd gentleman) insisted upon my 
 allowing one of his stable-boys to accompany me 
 as guide. The latter informed me that I could 
 not have chosen a better time for a visit to the hall, 
 as Squire Wheatley was famous for his Christmas 
 cheer, and particularly for the full observance of 
 all the rites of Twelfth-day. I was the more pleased 
 to hear this, remembering the odd gentleman's 
 lamentation the day before upon the decay of those 
 
144 TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 merrymakings in which our ancestors delighted ; 
 and hoped for once, at least, to see a realization of 
 what I had so often heard from the lips of my 
 grandfather. 
 
 In truth, our old-fashioned gambols are not 
 quite abolished. Wherever there is an oaken-pan- 
 nelled hall and a capacious fire-place (so strong is 
 the effect of external objects on the mind), there is 
 sure to be some remnant of the " good old times ;" 
 and Squire Wheatley's mansion was of the very 
 kind to inspire you with antiquated notions the 
 moment you beheld it. It was erected in the time 
 of Elizabeth by some one, who, in honour of his 
 queen, so designed it that the plan should represent 
 the letter E ; there being in its front three gable 
 ends, the two extreme ones projecting beyond that 
 in the centre. Believe me, there is nothing like a 
 high pointed gable end to bring before our " mind's 
 'eye" the manners of our forefathers. Then there 
 is the clustered chimney — and the stone mullion to 
 the windows — and the porch with seats on each side 
 — and the stone in front bearing some traces of the 
 family arms and the date of erection; — all these 
 outward signs have their due effect in abolishing the 
 fripperies of the present, and restoring the more 
 substantial notions of times gone by. 
 
TWELFTH-DAY. 145 
 
 Squire Wheatley received me in the most friend- 
 ly manner, and forbidding all mention of business 
 till the following day, ordered his servant to con- 
 duct me to the bed-chamber designed for my occu- 
 pation. On ascending the staircase I encountered 
 a host of happy little urchins on the midway land- 
 ing, assembled before the door of the store-room ; 
 each in turn taking a peep through the keyhole at 
 the grand object of their meeting — a ponderous 
 twelfth cake. But it was not the cake alone which 
 excited pleasureable anticipations : the spirit of am- 
 bition was amongst them, and each one speculated 
 upon the honours of royalty, " running before his 
 horse to market, " and forming determinations as to 
 what rule of government he should adopt in the 
 event of drawing the character which brought with 
 it the regal title and prerogatives* 
 
 In the drawing-room I found a party, equally 
 numerous, but of maturer years ; the several pa- 
 rents of the little people I had left above, together 
 with their elder sons and daughters ; nor has the 
 rough beard of Winter often brushed a fairer cheek 
 than that of Emily Wheatley, the squire's eldest 
 daughter. Scarcely, however, had I time to make 
 due obeisance to the assembled company, ere dinner 
 was announced, and the village rector, offering 
 
 L 
 
146 TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 his arm to the squire's wife, led the way to the 
 feast. 
 
 I forbear entering into any detail upon the sub- 
 ject of the dinner table, else I should be unpardon- 
 ably remiss in neglecting to comment upon the good 
 things which came out of the rector's mouth, as well 
 as the many which went into it. He passed un- 
 qualified encomium upon every dish, and cer- 
 tainly did his utmost to prove that nothing was 
 superfluous; while the squire's youngest son, un- 
 able to suppress his facetiousness upon the occasion, 
 remarked that his reverence, both in doctrine and 
 example, was unequalled, particularly when the 
 former was delivered from the pulpit, and the latter 
 exhibited at the dinner-table. 
 
 The hour for drawing the Twelfth Night charac- 
 ters, which had been most impatiently awaited by 
 the younger portion of the company, at length ar- 
 rived ; and it was truly amusing to see the anxiety 
 and earnestness which were displayed in the coun- 
 tenance of each little candidate for the regal honours 
 of the evening. On each side of the cake was placed 
 a gilt paper crown, surmounted with a peacock's 
 feather, and destined for the heads of their infantine 
 majesties. A couple of thrones were likewise pre- 
 pared, with all necessary accommodations for the 
 
TWELFTH-DAY. 147 
 
 prime minister and minions of the court ; and every 
 thing being now in readiness, the drawing of the 
 characters proceeded. 
 
 Provoking was the issue of the trial — at least, to 
 a certain little lady whose ambition was great, and 
 whose brow had been already encircled by Fancy 
 in a " golden diadem." — Alas ! the title of Queen 
 fell upon a funny little round-about girl, the least 
 in company ; sadly deficient in such ideas as might 
 correspond with the peacock's feather; and too 
 young, in short, to appreciate the high honour 
 which it had been the pleasure of Fate to confer 
 upon her. No sooner was her majesty lifted upon 
 the throne than she became furiously obstreperous, 
 and the prime minister, loyally anxious to main- 
 tain her in her lofty state, only got a scratch in the 
 face for his exertions. It was in vain her royal con- 
 sort endeavoured to make her behave herself as be- 
 came the partner of his throne. She still persisted 
 in a line of conduct terribly at variance with every 
 rule of courtly propriety, and proved herself, in 
 fact, a most ungovernable governess. The king be- 
 came indignant ; her majesty was impeached ; found 
 guilty of abusing the dignity of her station, and 
 banished to the nursery ; while the peacock's feather, 
 with all honours and privileges appertaining thereto, 
 l2 
 
148 TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 was transferred to the little lady I have before 
 mentioned. After this, things went on with all pro- 
 per observance for at least ten minutes, though the 
 king, perhaps, was less peremptory than a king 
 should be, and, in fact, permitted the petticoat to 
 manage matters too much after her own fashion. 
 
 It must be confessed their majesties had a most 
 harassing time of it. They fully proved, during 
 their short reign, the heavy cares of royalty. The 
 presumption and disrespect shown to them by their 
 subjects, were beyond all bearing ; and the queen 
 —though a most dignified queen, who required no- 
 thing more from her inferiors than courteous beha- 
 viour in payment — found her favours a very unsale- 
 able commodity. ? Twas to no purpose she exclaim- 
 ed, " I am the queen ! — Thus should ye do — and 
 thus :"■ — They only did as it pleased them ; and the 
 king, despairing of culling any profits from his dig- 
 nity, resigned his seat, content to be less illustrious 
 and more happy. Her majesty, however, still en- 
 deavoured to support her falling state; but it was 
 in vain. The king's abdication was the signal for 
 general revolt ; the queen's appeal was unnoticed ; 
 and the poor little lady, losing all value for the 
 power which no one feared, and for the glory which 
 no one seemed to envy, quitted her state in high 
 
TWELFTH-DAY. 149 
 
 dudgeon. Half crying at the unruliness of her sub- 
 jects, she declared herself a most ill-used queen, 
 and suffered Monarchy to fall before the spirit of 
 Republicanism. 
 
 Among the " children of larger growth" who 
 were collected near the fire-place to witness in 
 silent pleasure the frolics of the little ones, I could 
 not but observe one group with peculiar interest. 
 It was a party of two; male and female — both 
 young — one beautiful, and the other nothing amiss. 
 The youth, evidently a warm-hearted fellow, was 
 standing in a careless attitude on one side of the 
 fire-place, with his elbow on the mantleshelf, and 
 leaning his head somewhat forward over the 
 shoulder of the squire's fair daughter, who stood 
 with her back towards him the whole time. His 
 parted lip and sleepy eye told plainly the state of 
 his feelings ; but Miss Emily, to all appearance, 
 was totally heedless (if not ignorant) of the emo- 
 tions which influenced him ; and seemed impene- 
 trably deaf to the sugared accents which he poured 
 half whispering into her ear. She never replied to 
 him once ; and, in truth, considering the extreme 
 fervour of his manner, I almost deemed it strange 
 she could maintain her composure so firmly. Yet, 
 so it was. Her attention seemed fixed upon the 
 
150 TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 children at play, and her whole anxiety appeared 
 to rest upon the preservation of decorum and good 
 temper amongst them. I observed, three or four 
 times, that just as the youth had worded what 
 appeared to be an idea of the most soul-stirring 
 warmth, she would dart off to rectify some little 
 misunderstanding among her young flock, and then 
 carelessly resume her station, turning her back 
 upon her admirer as before ; her face being slightly 
 flushed — no doubt by the exertions she had just 
 made in restoring order. By the way, the tint 
 upon her cheeks varied considerably even when 
 she remained stationary ; and her bosom's rise and 
 fall would vary too. Sometimes she bit her lip ; 
 but not in anger — else never anger looked so sweet ; 
 nor was it done to suppress a laugh, for she 
 scarcely seemed inclined to smile. In short, I shall 
 not presume to dive into her mystery, nor to 
 divine the meaning of an oft-repeated sigh ; but, 
 with respect to the gentleman — O, it was amusing 
 to see him, — his breast swelling with its fraught of 
 tenderness, while high respect and reverential de- 
 licacy vanquished the desire he felt to clasp her in 
 his arms, and let loose the full tide of his soul. 
 
 Rarely have I seen a more genuine flow of hap- 
 piness than the young folks exhibited. The royal 
 
TWELFTH-DAY. 151 
 
 pair seemed to have forgotten their former great- 
 ness, and very shortly became downright boisterous 
 and plebeian. The thrones were demolished, and 
 the quondam monarch was to be seen scrambling 
 blindfold among his subjects ; while the little lady 
 (their sometime queen) had descended to the im- 
 propriety of tickling her consort's nose with the 
 peacock's feather ! At length the clock struck 
 nine — the revelries were concluded — and the 
 younger part of the community took their depar- 
 ture for the night. 
 
 " Ah! bless their little hearts!" exclaimed the 
 worthy squire, with all the warmth of a father's 
 feeling ; " I love to see them happy ; and, withal, 
 I can enjoy peace and quietness in their turn ; so 
 now, if it please you, my friends, we will adjourn 
 to the supper room, and finish the evening in a 
 sober manner." Saying this, he led the way into 
 an adjoining apartment, bidding us, as we valued 
 his friendship, to do justice to his cousin of Can- 
 terbury's brawn and the round of hung beef, espe- 
 cially prepared for the present occasion. 
 
 After supper, the punch bowl made its appear- 
 ance ; and our host having given a bumper to the 
 king, the worthy vicar filled another to the agri- 
 cultural interest. Songs, jests, puns, and riddles, 
 
152 TWELFTH-DAY. 
 
 followed in quick succession, till, at length, some 
 remarks made by his reverence upon the excellent 
 quality of the squire's rum, led to the mention of 
 smuggling, and further suggested the following 
 brief tale, which, to the best of my recollection, I 
 give in the words of the narrator. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 " So shall you hear of bloody and unnatural acts ; 
 Of accidental judgments, casual slaughter." 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 It is now some three or four years back, since I 
 took up my temporary abode at Elmouth, a small 
 sea-bathing place on the Welsh coast, little known 
 to the general traveller, but much admired by all 
 who are acquainted with it, on account of the 
 beauty of its adjacent scenery. Like Dr. Syntax, 
 (of home-tourists the most redoubted,) I have ever 
 been indefatigable in pursuit of "the picturesque ;" 
 and it was in one of my rambles along the coast of 
 Elmouth, that I became accidentally acquainted 
 with the melancholy facts which I am now about 
 to relate. 
 
 Induced by the grandeur of the scenery, and the 
 extreme beauty of the weather, I had one evening 
 
156 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 strolled much further than usual ; and the sun was 
 just sinking below the horizon, when I unex- 
 pectedly entered a small fishing town, the existence 
 of which had been till now a secret to me. 
 
 It was, in truth, a miserable place ; rarely visited 
 but by such as were compelled to do so from neces- 
 sity. A collection of fishermen's huts, scarcely 
 serving to exclude the pelting of the storms — in 
 that quarter both frequent and furious — formed 
 the principal street ; and the remainder of the 
 village was composed of a private madhouse ; a 
 churchy where duty was only occasional ; and an 
 old inn, once blessed with patronage, but now ex- 
 hibiting no sign of its former use and importance, 
 save that which swung on rusty hinges before the 
 door* There was likewise a building called the 
 prison, whilom gladdened with the merry-makings 
 of confined debtors, but now only echoing the 
 complaints of three or four wretched, but honest 
 inmates, free as the air on which they fed, and 
 having too much reason to envy the state of their 
 guilty predecessors. 
 
 The madhouse being in tolerable repair, was 
 decidedly the most cheerful looking edifice in the 
 village, and I was only at a loss to conceive why so 
 melancholy a situation should have been chosen as 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 157 
 
 suitable to the purposes of the asylum. At tbe 
 back of the building was a high wall which ap- 
 peared to encircle a garden or pleasure-ground for 
 the benefit of the patients, and I walked round it, 
 in the hope of finding some aperture or grating, 
 whence I might obtain a view of the interior. 
 Unsuccessful, however, in this attempt, I turned 
 to leave the spot, when my steps were suddenly 
 arrested by the sound of voices within the enclo- 
 sure, and as the speakers drew nearer to the place 
 which I occupied, I could clearly distinguish their 
 words. One voice was too truly that of some 
 poor female maniac, — the other, that of her 
 keeper : — 
 
 u Rest assured," said the latter, " all will be 
 well. Your husband loves your brother both for 
 your sake and his own ; and in due time (though 
 you must summon up all your patience) he will 
 discover him, wherever he may be hidden." 
 
 " Hidden VI exclaimed the female, " why 
 should my brother hide himself ?" 
 
 " Doubtless," answered her keeper, " to escape 
 the cruelty of the pirates." 
 
 " And if the pirates have him ?" 
 
 " Your husband still shall effect his rescue." 
 
158 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 " If he do not" said the female, with that 
 mirthless laugh peculiar to insanity, " if he do not 
 —his blood— " 
 
 The keeper emphatically interrupted her threat. 
 
 " Nay," she cried, in a tone almost amounting 
 to a shriek, " your blood, too — yours—" 
 
 " Silence, Madam V exclaimed the former 
 sternly ; " treat your regent with more respect, 
 else,'' said he, stamping his foot violently upon the 
 ground, " in the king's name I shall arraign you 
 on a charge of treason P" 
 
 Suddenly she became quiet, speaking in a 
 sweetly subdued tone, but in a manner so irrelative, 
 that for some minutes I could scarcely divine any 
 meaning. At length she desired her companion to 
 play upon his flute. He did so. The air was 
 cheerful and plaintive by turns. 
 
 " O !" said she, " that it could speak — speak 
 thus :"— 
 
 Saying this, she bade her keeper's attention, and 
 sung as follows : — 
 
 " Poor, hapless maiden, desolate and lone,-— 
 Come hither — hither — sleep upon a breast 
 
 Which never yet felt sorrow of its own, 
 But which can still feel thine, and give thee rest. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 159 
 
 " Come ! at my smile thy many griefs shall fly ; 
 I'll yield thee joy, or share in thy distress ; 
 
 I'll lull thee with the sighs of sympathy, 
 And thou shalt wake again to happiness : 
 
 u For, I'm so rich in comfort, nothing more 
 Can soften waking thoughts or sweeten sleep ; 
 
 This only now remains t'increase my store — 
 The bliss of weeping oft with those who weep." 
 
 I need scarcely comment on the peculiar quali- 
 ties of insanity, which frequently endows its victims 
 with a store of fancy, whence they derive a much 
 greater consciousness of wealth, power, or happi- 
 ness, than the mines of reality ever yield even to 
 the most fortunate among the children of reason. 
 But, alas, in the joys of a maniac we experience 
 nothing reciprocal ; and look upon her imaginary 
 happiness as upon the phosphorescent gleam of 
 decay, visible only when all around is gloom — 
 shining, perhaps, brilliantly, but dispensing no 
 light. The reason of this poor girl had evidently 
 been crushed beneath the ruin which involved 
 either a husband's or a brother's fate; and the 
 words of her song — so expressive of entire and 
 perfect happiness — were, most probably, an ex- 
 treme contradiction of all that would have been 
 elicited by sanity and truth. 
 
160 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 The last words of her song fell indistinctly upon 
 my ear as she retired towards the house. I waited 
 a few moments to discover whether she would 
 again pass by ; but all was silence, save the turret 
 clock, which, sounding the hour of nine, reminded 
 me that the distance of a league and a half sepa- 
 rated me from my bed-chamber. Determining to 
 revisit this place at another and more seasonable 
 time, for the purpose of making some inquiry into 
 the history of one who had so deeply interested me, 
 I directed my steps homeward. It was a lovely 
 night ; and the moon, nearly in the full, shone 
 with more than usual splendour. Every now and 
 then a light cloud passed like a thin veil over her 
 disk, borne rapidly on by the rising breeze, which 
 had already curled the wave, and set the breakers 
 in commotion. I walked forward with divided 
 attention ; now gazing with admiration upon the 
 noble cliffs which reared their darkened profiles 
 against the deep blue sky ; and then, recurring 
 with melancholy reflection to the subject of the 
 poor maniac. 
 
 I had proceeded a considerable distance, when 
 I suddenly espied a man in the dress of an officer 
 of the Preventive Service, who, at a more moderate 
 pace than mine, was walking the same way ; and 
 
THE SMUGGLER, 161 
 
 being of a somewhat sociable turn (particularly 
 when I take late walks in lonely situations), I 
 quickened my steps, and soon came up with him. 
 
 " Hallo !" said he, turning short round as he 
 heard my steps, u friend or foe?" 
 
 " Certainly no foe" I replied ; " but willing to 
 be your companion to EI mouth, if you be going 
 that way : — " 
 
 " Which I am," said he, " and shall be happy 
 in your society." 
 
 " Pray, how far may we be," I inquired, " from 
 the place of our destination ?" 
 
 u Why," said he, pointing towards the summit 
 of the cliff', " that gibbet is the half-way mark 
 
 betwixt Elmouth and • :" (the extremes 
 
 of my ramble.) 
 
 I looked up, and perceived the gibbet to which 
 my companion had pointed. It bore the skeleton of 
 a man, which swung to and fro in the wind, and 
 creaked loudly with every motion. On passing 
 the spot previously, this frightful warning of jus- 
 tice had escaped my observation ; but it now 
 appeared doubly conspicuous, suspended as it w r as 
 in dark relief against the light of the moon. 
 
 u Ah," said my companion, " that's been the 
 way with Dick Darwell for many a year, during a 
 
 M 
 
162 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 seafaring life of daring and danger. For fifteen 
 years he acknowledged no ruler but the winds, and 
 since his death (now nearly half that time) he has 
 been keeping up the game upon the gibbet." 
 
 " And what is his history ?" 
 
 u I will inform you briefly," replied the nar- 
 rator, who thus proceeded : — " It is pretty gene- 
 rally known, I believe, that old Darwell — the 
 father of yon hanging carcase — was an old brute, 
 whose temper was such as to render home the least 
 desirable place in the world to his children, con- 
 sisting of a boy and girl. The latter was fortu- 
 nate enough to escape his tyranny in some measure, 
 by an early marriage with a Captain Hardy — one 
 of my craft — an officer in the preventive service, 
 commanding the Dragon cutter : but poor Dick 
 remained to suffer under a double share of wanton 
 austerity, while his sister, who loved him dearly, 
 feared even to commiserate, much more to defend 
 him. Dick, however, was not unable to fight his 
 own battles ; on the contrary, he partook of his 
 father's violence, though he never evinced it except 
 in retaliation. He saw people on all sides ready to 
 defend him ; but was loth to embroil any one in 
 his disputes, and, perhaps, knew too well the im- 
 pregnability of his father's heart, which would 
 
THE SMUGGLER, 163 
 
 rather acquire rancour from being opposed, than 
 permit the intrusions of humanity. Many and 
 violent had been their quarrels : at fength the son, 
 unable any longer either to bear his father's impe- 
 tuosity or to curb his own, ran away ; and old 
 Darwell, when it was too late, became more inclined 
 to think and feel as a parent should have done. 
 
 " The loss and uncertain fate of her brother, 
 greatly embittered the days of Mrs. Hardy, who 
 had otherwise lived happily in the society of her 
 husband. Yet, even here, she had much to agitate 
 her. The occasional dangers to which Captain 
 Hardy was subject in the fulfilment of his duties, 
 excited her constant apprehension ; while his fre- 
 quent absence from home contributed to her un- 
 easiness. Many were the sighs which followed 
 her brother's self-banishment, and neither the sight 
 nor mention of her father was calculated to enliven 
 her reflections. Had death been the separator, 
 time might have restored to the affectionate sister 
 her comfort and peace of mind ; but it was doubt 
 which worried her: and the melancholy probability 
 of her brother having committed suicide would 
 occasionally force itself upon her thoughts, and 
 make her doubly miserable. 
 
 " Captain Hardy had only just recovered from a 
 m 2 
 
164 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 severe wound received in the chase of a smuggler, 
 when secret information was given him concerning 
 the re-appearance of the same vessel within two 
 leagues of his station. Foiled in his previous 
 attempt, though with no loss of honour, he deter- 
 mined this time on more efficacious exertion ; and, 
 tearing himself away from the arms of his discon- 
 solate wife (who now, more than ever, despaired of 
 seeing him return in safety), he once again took the 
 command of his service- tried cutter. 
 
 " It was night when they put off, and blowing 
 stiffly from the shore, so that they had much ado 
 to keep within the bearing of a headland, which, as 
 they were led to understand, covered the position 
 of the smuggler. They were not mistaken in their 
 course; but, on doubling the promontory, the 
 object of their search was no where visible. Ap- 
 prised of their situation, the smugglers had taken 
 advantage of the wind and put out to sea. 
 
 " Disappointed, but yet not hopeless of success, 
 Hardy, striking a random course, continued the 
 pursuit; and at break of day, to his great joy, 
 came in sight of the enemy. At noon he arrived 
 within shot, and received immediate proof of the 
 smuggler's intention to risk an engagement. Every 
 thing, indeed, had been favourable for necessary 
 
THE SMUGGLER, 165 
 
 preparation on the part of the latter, and a well- 
 directed ball from her stern chaser brought down a 
 sailor from the rigging of the Dragon. Hardy 
 had the courage of a lion, but not, perhaps, the 
 coolness fitting a commander ; and, bearing onward 
 beneath a heavy fire, he soon came alongside the 
 smuggler — fixed the grappling iron with his own 
 hand — and was the first to board her. The cap- 
 tains met hand to hand ; but, after a short conflict, 
 were separated in the confusion of the fray. 
 Hardy's sword, however, fell with mortal force 
 upon two of his antagonists, and in the course of 
 ten minutes the smuggler's deck was in the pos- 
 session of our officers ! Among the vanquished dead 
 which lay around, the chief smuggler and several of 
 his crew were not to be discovered; and the conquerors 
 had scarcely time to range the deck, when a shot 
 from the Dragon struck Hardy, and the fight was 
 renewed on board his own vessel. The contest, 
 however, was too unequal to be of long duration, 
 and the lawless captain, after a furious resistance, 
 was secured a prisoner. Seeing the impossibility 
 of making any stand on board his own ship, he 
 had taken advantage of the smoke and confusion, 
 leaped into a boat at her unengaged side, and, 
 together with three of his desperate comrades, had 
 
166 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 moved round to the stern of the Dragon, and 
 ascended her deck unobserved. 
 
 " Hardy fell to rise no more ; but, ere he breathed 
 his last, the exulting shout of victory blessed his 
 ears, and he now only desired to part from life 
 upon the deck of the Dragon. Having invoked 
 the aid of Heaven in behalf of his beloved wife, he 
 would have gazed upon the captive author of her 
 widowhood, but death prevented it ; and he closed 
 his eyes for ever, unknowing that he had been 
 instrumental to the seizure of one, whom, only a 
 few years back, he had deeply loved, and whose 
 memory he had ever fondly cherished. I need 
 scarcely add that he had fallen by the hand of his 
 brother-in-law — the self- abandoned Darwell ! 
 
 "Mrs. Hardy was among the first who saw the 
 victorious Dragon towing its prize into port. But 
 what, alas ! was victory to her ? and where was she 
 to find consolation for the loss with which it had 
 been purchased ? Death would most likely have 
 relieved her from a prolongation of her misery, if 
 the last sad horror which awaited her had not been 
 sufficient to deprive her of reason. — The sight of 
 her husband's murderer effected this : but she is 
 now ignorant that the gibbetted bones of a British 
 smuggler are those of her once loved brother ! You 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 167 
 
 have seen the one sad object : — if you enter the 
 
 private madhouse at , you may behold the 
 
 other r 
 
 Thus ended my companion's melancholy narra- 
 tive. I revisited the village of — — , a few weeks 
 afterwards ; but the unfortunate maniac had died 
 during the interim. 
 
 " The only cheerful part of the story/' said the 
 rector. 
 
 U Well," said one of the company (an old gentle- 
 man with a somewhat waggish expression of counten- 
 ance, and who, by the way, seemed scarcely suscept- 
 ible of melancholy), — u well," said he, " as Shaks- 
 peare has it, there be land-rats and water-rats ; 
 water-thieves and land-thieves ; pirates and poachers. 
 Now, if you have a mind to hear a story of the lat- 
 ter, I have one which may serve as a fellow to the 
 woeful narrative we have just heard. 1 " 
 
 " Nay," exclaimed the rector, U in the names of 
 Mirth and Mistletoe, let us not have any more me- 
 lancholy stories/' 
 
 " Why," said the other, " although it has some- 
 thing to do with gun-shot and death, it is certainly 
 not quite so replete with misery as the history of 
 
168 TtfE SMUGCxLEii. 
 
 the Smuggler — for instance, though deficient neither 
 in blood nor terror, it has nothing to do with mad- 
 ness." 
 
 u Pish !" said the rector, u let us have some- 
 thing to laugh at." 
 
 The squire's fair daughter, however, seemed de- 
 sirous of hearing it ; and the rector putting an extra 
 portion of brandy in his punch to support himself 
 through this promised tale of terror, requested the 
 narrator to begin. 
 
THE POACHER. 
 
 . How is't, Laertes ? 
 
 Laertes. Why, as a woodeock fro my own springe. 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
THE POACHER. 
 
 Harry Guerdon was a man who despised all 
 beaten tracks and common-place precedents. He 
 held the followers of custom as little better than 
 slaves; declaring that all the insipidities of life 
 arose from no other cause than the curbing our 
 free wills ; and that our spirit — if it prompt us to 
 fear God and honour the king — has a right to inde- 
 pendence in all else beside. Guerdon, in short, 
 striking down all the petty presumptions of fashion, 
 was resolved to have a way of his own in all 
 things ; and his obstinacy, as may be supposed, 
 got him into innumerable difficulties. The 
 disasters, however, which befel him on one occasion 
 (and which form the subject of my tale), were 
 
172 THE POACHER. 
 
 more serious than ordinary ; and his way wardness, 
 in this instance, received a hint which remained 
 deeply impressed on his memory to the end of his 
 days. 
 
 He had been recently married to a very amiable 
 girl, when he took up his abode at a small village, 
 distant about fourteen miles from the county town. 
 The clergyman of the place called upon him, and 
 Guerdon shortly after received an invitation to dine 
 at the parsonage- house. He was, however, pre-en- 
 gaged, having, in fact, resolved upon a journey to the 
 assizes ; and his original determination was not to be 
 shaken. 
 
 The morning of his departure was wet and 
 foggy : " but no matter," said he, spreading a large 
 county-map upon the table, " I shall not suffer a few 
 drops of rain to damp the ardour of my love for 
 justice : so bring me my strong walking shoes and 
 leathern gaiters, and I'll make a short cut through 
 the forest, which, as the map informs me, will 
 reduce a journey of fourteen miles to a pleasant 
 walk of about eight. He then examined the 
 chart to see how he stood affected by rivers, bogs, 
 and other impediments ; took what he conceived 
 to be every necessary observation relative to the 
 points of departure and destination, and was now 
 
THE POACHER, 173 
 
 prepared to set off upon his journey, proudly inde- 
 pendent of post-roads and finger-posts. 
 
 " You had better stay where you are, ,,J said his 
 young wife, " and accompany us this evening to 
 the parsonage — particularly, too, as it is the first 
 invitation. Do, Henry, give up this visit to the 
 assizes !" 
 
 And what motive, you will ask, could induce a 
 man to oppose the wishes of a fond wife, and start 
 off from his comfortable fire-side on a raw Novem- 
 ber morning, with the prospect of an eight mile 
 walk through an almost impenetrable wood ? 
 
 Thus it was : — Guerdon was a loyal subject and 
 a great sportsman ; equally remarkable for his 
 addiction to game, and his veneration for the game- 
 laws ; and his chief motive at present for setting 
 at defiance the season's inclemency, was the desire 
 of attending as witness against a renowned poacher, 
 who having, with his gang, for some time back 
 rendered the expense of shooting-licences a dead 
 loss (or nearly so) to the more legitimate sports- 
 men of the county, was at length caught in a man- 
 trap, and brought up to justice. 
 
 " But,'' said his amiable partner, " there will 
 be ample evidence against him without yours— you 
 had better remain." 
 
174 THE POACHER. 
 
 Nothing would do : not even the assurance that 
 in his absence she could derive no pleasure from 
 her intended visit, as it was impossible for her to 
 enjoy any thing in which he would not participate. 
 
 I have already alluded to Guerdon's intention 
 of traversing the forest. It is fit you should be 
 acquainted with his motive for so doing. That it 
 would be a saving to him both of distance and 
 time, was certainly the ostensible reason, but, at 
 the same time, a mere evasion, and he was rather 
 prompted to challenge the intricacies of the wood, 
 by having heard some one declare that " no man 
 in his proper senses would think of doing so." 
 
 u Are you aware," said his friend, " that this 
 forest is said to be haunted ?" — 
 
 Harry Guerdon laughed in his face. 
 
 " You are running into danger," said the 
 other. 
 
 " That's my affair," said Guerdon. 
 
 " I would on no account attempt it myself." 
 
 u That's your business/ 1 replied the undaunted 
 Harry, " and so good-morrow to you." 
 
 Having entered the precincts of the haunted 
 forest, he proceeded onward in a right line, confi- 
 dent in the veracity of a pocket compass, which 
 ever and anon he carefully consulted, and no way 
 
THE POACHER, 175 
 
 disheartened by the gloom which thickened around 
 him. He soon discovered, however, that he had 
 made light of a somewhat serious matter ; and it 
 was pride, rather than policy, which urged him to 
 prosecute a task so replete with difficulty. As he 
 advanced, his steps became more and more im- 
 peded by impenetrable thickets and fearful cavities. 
 Lofty mounds and miry swamps alternately tried 
 his patience ; and he scarcely knew whether most 
 to regard the romance or the comfortlessness of his 
 situation. Unquestionably, all pleasure now rested 
 in anticipation. He looked forward to the enjoy- 
 ment of the reputation which his dare-devil spirit 
 was now acquiring for him, and relished the idea 
 of laughing at the timid and superstitious. Rut 
 his feelings varied with his course, and he had 
 much ado to keep them at a proper height. Some- 
 times they would sink so low as to stand in need of 
 that powerful stimulus which miserable devils 
 derive from the contemplation of what has been 
 endured by devils more miserable ; and Guerdon 
 was occasionally obliged to resort to a comparison 
 of his own situation with that of a Cook, or Park. 
 He found some comfort in reflecting upon Polar 
 regions and African deserts. The Black-hole at 
 Calcutta proved an absolute cordial to him. 
 
176 THE POACHER. 
 
 " 'Gad/' said he, " how those poor wretches must 
 have suffered ;" and he followed up this reviving 
 idea with a verse of " Away with melancholy I? 
 though it must be confessed, in a tone better calcu- 
 lated to express " Hence, vain, deluding joys." 
 Still he pressed forward, notwithstanding he began 
 to doubt the ultimate success of his exertions. His 
 course became more irregular and perplexing. The 
 trees, as he advanced, increased in number and 
 height ; and their thickly entwined tops, excluding 
 the little light which was afforded by a clouded 
 sun, rendered all below dark, damp, and dreary. 
 In groping his way through an obscure hollow, he 
 slipped down in the mud, soiled himself from head 
 to foot, and tore his thumb in a briar-bush. This 
 tried his metal, but it bore the proof ; and extri- 
 cating himself as well as he could from his miry 
 bed, he took out his handkerchief, and with the 
 most philosophical calmness, bound up the wound. 
 
 He had not proceeded many steps forward, when 
 he became sorely puzzled on the subject of the car- 
 dinal points; and you may readily imagine his 
 confusion, when, on searching for his compass, he 
 found it not ! It had evidently fallen from his 
 pocket during his late flounder in the mud. 
 
 Here was a dilemma ! which way to turn, he 
 
THE POACHER. 177 
 
 knew not ! He made several fruitless circumam- 
 bulations in search of his lost monitor, but each 
 step that he took only served to bewilder him the 
 more. He looked around and around — walked to- 
 and-fro — mused upon his misery, but could de- 
 vise no plan of extrication. He wandered about 
 for hours, cursing his obstinacy, and hoping that a 
 due acknowledgment of his folly, and an earnest 
 resolution to be more tractable in future, might 
 recommend him to the merciful guidance of some 
 unseen spirit ; for certainly he despaired of escap- 
 ing his present difficulties without the assistance of 
 supernatural agency. To wish for a place at the 
 parsonage fire- side had been unreasonable — he 
 might, with more propriety, have envied the situa- 
 tion of the incarcerated poacher. Evening was 
 closing fast upon him, and his energies grew fainter 
 with the decrease of light. Truly, his case was 
 wretched ! Which way could he direct his steps, 
 when the chances of doing wrong were one hun- 
 dred and seventy-nine to one ? 
 
 As he stood rapt in unprofitable thought, he was 
 suddenly startled by a loud rustling among the 
 leaves. " Good heavens ! v exclaimed the affrighted 
 man, and would have invoked the protection of his 
 invisible guardians, when the report of a gun 
 x 
 
178 THE POACHER. 
 
 roused all the forest-echoes — and he fell to the 
 ground smeared with blood ! 
 
 How long he lay in the damp chilly embrace of his 
 mother earth he knew not; but, on the return of 
 his senses, he soon discovered that his nose was 
 buried a full inch in the mud. Convinced, at 
 length, that he was a living man, he ventured to 
 look up, nor did he raise his eyes without the fear 
 of encountering some forest bogle, or black hunts- 
 man — perchance a poacher ghost ! — The sight, 
 however, which offered itself was nothing so ter- 
 rible. There was a man sitting upon the trunk of 
 a felled tree, whistling cheerily as he hammered a 
 gun-flint. The dog, which crouched panting at his 
 feet, on seeing Guerdon, startled his master with 
 a bark. — "Who goes there?" exclaimed the 
 forester, levelling his fowling-piece at Guerdon. 
 
 " One," answered the latter, " who will make that 
 setter the poorer of a brace, in consideration of his 
 
 being instructed in the way to , " (naming the 
 
 county town). 
 
 "A right liberal offer," said the other. — " Who 
 are you ? From whence ? and where bound ? No 
 poacher, I trust ?" 
 
THE POACHER. 179 
 
 "Poacher!" replied Guerdon; "no: on the 
 contrary, a mortal enemy to all such marauders. 
 I am now on my way to the assizes, to appear 
 against one of them, and, as I hope, to aid in bring- 
 ing about his conviction."" 
 
 "Aye; indeed !" replied the forester — " pray, 
 who may this fellow be?" 
 
 " No other," answered Guerdon, " but Hal 
 Marsport, who was taken the other day poaching 
 on the grounds of the Lord Lieutenant, and is to 
 be brought to trial to-morrow." 
 
 "Ah ! — a d d rascal, that Marsport," said 
 
 the forester, as he calmly proceeded to rectify his 
 gun-lock ;— " and so, Sir, you are on the way to 
 , are you ? Aye, you're right — you've evi- 
 dence enough, I warrant you, to convict the villain. 
 I did think of being in court myself; but have 
 business of importance elsewhere ; and, though 
 
 my stay in is much solicited, I may say 
 
 commanded, on account of the very important 
 part I might have to play in this affair, I have 
 still been obliged to refuse my presence. However, 
 you will do the work, I warrant you, and make up 
 my deficiency." 5 ' 
 
 " But/' said Guerdon, " you return to , 
 
 to-night ?" 
 
 k2 
 
180 THE POACHER. 
 
 " O, aye," replied the forester, " to-night I will 
 be your companion and guide :" and so they pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 Guerdon was most anxious to account for his 
 late fainting fit. Never before had he yielded the 
 contest to fear, though he confessed his heroism had 
 never undergone so severe a trial. The forester 
 acknowledged having fired his gun, and Guerdon, 
 who remembered hearing the report, had like- 
 wise a faint recollection of having received a violent 
 blow on the face, to the which he imputed the 
 temporary suspension of his senses. A man in his 
 situation, with a predisposition to alarm, harassed 
 in mind, and fatigued in body, would be naturally 
 susceptible of the least impression ; and the dread 
 aroused by the firing of the gun, being multiplied 
 by the immediately subsequent blow which he re- 
 ceived on the face, it was no w T onder he should lose 
 all self-possession. 'Twas a strange coincidence, 
 at least ; but neither he nor his companion could 
 solve the mystery. 
 
 As the night came on, a fog arose, so dense, that 
 the forester was occasionally perplexed as to 
 whether or no they were pursuing the proper path. 
 Striking a light, he took from his bag a small horn 
 lanthorn, and fixing it by an ingenious contrivance 
 
THE POACHER. 18] 
 
 on the dog's head, he ordered the creature to pre- 
 cede us, which he did, and, as it appeared, was 
 more perfect in his geographical knowledge than 
 his master. 
 
 After much walking they reached the outskirts 
 of the forest, and the sound of a distant cascade 
 fell upon their ears. — u What!" exclaimed Guer- 
 don, " waterfalls on this side of the forest like- 
 wise ?" 
 
 M Have you, then, such things in your neigh- 
 bourhood ?" asked his companion. 
 
 " Yes," said the former, " but, are you a stran- 
 ger to that part of the county P 1 
 
 " Not a perfect stranger" said the forester, 
 u but still imperfectly acquainted with it." 
 
 M I shall be most happy to introduce you to its 
 beauties, when you may at any time feel inclined 
 to favour me with a visit ; and, in the earnest hope 
 that you will do so, I present to you my card of 
 address." 
 
 "I am obliged to you," said his companion, 
 stopping short, and shaking Guerdon by the hand, 
 " but I must wish you farewell for the present ; 
 my way is over the bridge — yours, if you walk 
 about one hundred yards a-head, will be plain to 
 
 you." 
 
183 THE POACHER. 
 
 " But," said Guerdon, " where is the nearest 
 inn to be found?" 
 
 " The first house you come to," replied the 
 other, " will afford you the accommodation you 
 desire. — Good night !" 
 
 " Farewell," said Guerdon ; rt you will bear in 
 mind the invitation I have given you ?** 
 
 " Certainly," replied the forester, "and you shall 
 shortly know more of me. -Adieu I" 
 
 Guerdon had not proceeded many paces, when he 
 perceived a distant light gleaming through the 
 fog, and his comfort was much revived at the sight, 
 for he was in a truly miserable condition, sorely 
 perplexed with bruises and scratches — wet to the 
 skin, and fatigued past further bearing. Yet, 
 miserable as he felt> he knew not the extent of his 
 seeming wretchedness ; for the darkness and the 
 fog, w T hile they had prevented him from making 
 any observations upon the person of his companion, 
 had likewise kept him in perfect ignorance of his 
 own disfigurement ; so that, when the door of the 
 inn (as he supposed it) was opened to him, he stood 
 as much surprised at the amazement of the house- 
 maid, as she did at the very extraordinary appear- 
 ance which he exhibited. Her exclamation of asto- 
 nishment brought into' the hall one of herfellow-ser- 
 
THE POACHER. 188 
 
 vants, who,being a lady's maid, necessarily possessed 
 a finer sensibility, and, as might be expected, on 
 seeing Guerdon, she uttered a shriek of horror and 
 fell into a fainting fit ! The house-maid, though 
 not absolutely deprived of her senses, lost her 
 fortitude, and dropping the candle in her fright, 
 ran screaming for help through the house. 
 
 u Who's there ?" exclaimed some gentleman, as 
 he opened a parlour door, and thrust his head into 
 the dark hall. 
 
 " Nay, I know not,'' said the supposed appari- 
 tion. — " I was once a simple man, by name Harry 
 Guerdon ; but, whether I am now he or his ghost, 
 the Lord above knows ! This, however, I will 
 assure you — mortal or monster — I am equally 
 harmless : methinks I am still Harry Guerdon ; but 
 if I am a devil, I am a most unfortunate one. Pri- 
 thee, let me have a chamber in thine inn, with bed 
 and board till the morrow, nor doubt either my 
 will or ability to pay my reckoning ere I go." 
 
 " You are mistaken, fellow," said the gentleman, 
 " this is no inn." 
 
 * l Then," replied Guerdon, " my forest guide 
 has deceived me." 
 
 " Mercy on us !" exclaimed a female (as though 
 she recognized the tone of the mysterious speaker), 
 
J 84 THE POACHER. 
 
 and the next moment a young woman entered 
 the hall, just as the assembled household had made 
 their appearance, with lights, pokers, and rusty 
 horse-pistols. 
 
 Guerdon confronted them all, stiffened with the 
 surprise occasioned by this most extraordinary 
 scene, and beginning to imagine that he had only 
 escaped the demon of the forest to fall into the 
 clutches of the devils of the castle. His appear- 
 ance was, in truth, well calculated to astonish any 
 one; but the blood with which his face was 
 smeared, and the great splashes of mud which 
 disfigured his clothing, still failed to conceal the 
 identity of his person from one who knew his 
 voice so well ; and poor Mrs. Guerdon, when she 
 cast her eyes upon what she took to be the mur- 
 dered body of her husband, followed the example 
 of the lady's-maid, and fell, with a shriek, to the 
 floor! 
 
 " Why, Mr. Guerdon," said one of the com- 
 pany (having eyed him attentively for some mo- 
 ments), " is it possible ?" 
 
 " Possible ?" replied Guerdon, as he began to re- 
 cognize the person of the clergyman, to whose din- 
 ner-table he had been that day invited ; " possible ! 
 Egad, I shall think nothing impossible after this ! 
 
THE POACHER. 185 
 
 Pray, how comes it that I find my wife and your 
 reverence here ? — and there's Jack Holstein ! and 
 Miss Everett ! and my friend Burney ! and — and 
 — what the devil brings you all here ?" 
 
 ** Are you mad ?" inquired the parson. 
 
 " Explain yourself, my dear Henry," said his 
 affrighted wife, as she gradually recovered. 
 " Have you been attacked by highwaymen, and 
 are you dangerously wounded ?" 
 
 Guerdon knew almost every face before him ; 
 but, on looking round the room, could claim no 
 previous acquaintance either with its form or furni- 
 ture — in short, how should he ? never having been 
 before in the Parsonage-house ! 
 
 It was now evident to all parties that some grand 
 hoax had been performing ; and Harry, being clear 
 of enchantment, took a lanthorn and stepped home 
 for the purpose of putting himself a little in 
 order. 
 
 In due time he reappeared, bearing a letter in 
 one hand, and a brace of birds in the other; and then 
 relating so much of his adventure as you are al- 
 ready acquainted with, he concluded by perusing 
 the letter just alluded to. It was as follows : 
 
186 the poacher. 
 
 " My dear Sir, 
 
 " Lest the circumstance of your not being enabled 
 to fulfil your intentions concerning the poacher, &c. 
 should occasion you too much regret, let me afford 
 you some comfort by the assurance that the present 
 safety of your life is owing to the forbearance of 
 him whose punishment you meditated — to my 
 forbearance. 
 
 "My crimes are many — that is to say, my profes- 
 sional practice has been great. I owe the laws a 
 heavy reckoning, and send you a brace of birds, 
 the last fruits of my evil doings. One of them I 
 killed only a few minutes before I met with you in 
 the wood; and I rather think the blood upon your 
 face is no other than the blood of that same bird, 
 which struck you in its fall, and made your senses 
 for a time play the truant. No matter how I 
 know this, or why I concealed from you the infor- 
 mation of it till now. That, instead of blowing 
 your brains out, I practised the cheat upon you, 
 which the fog and darkness aided, is evidence of 
 my not being quite the villain you supposed me. 
 I escaped from my prison yesterday morning, and 
 am now on my way to no matter. 
 
 " Roast your birds, and fill a bumper to 
 
 « The Poacher." 
 
THE POACHER. 187 
 
 " Bravo !" exclaimed the rector, " a very satis- 
 factory conclusion ; yet I cannot help thinking that 
 my young lady there" (pointing to the fair Emily) 
 " would prefer a story more pregnant with love." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir," replied she, blushing deeply at 
 the same time, " I do not think that either of the 
 preceding narratives have been deficient in that 
 subject. In both cases we have had an affectionate 
 
 wife as the heroine, and " 
 
 " Yes," said her young admirer, interrupting 
 her — "yes; and, in my opinion, though the latter 
 was not doomed by fate to suffer such extremity as 
 was endured by the heroine of the former tale, she 
 had still sufficient cause for complaint in her hus- 
 band's indifference; for, certainly, he evinced but 
 little affection in preferring the persecution of a 
 poacher to the society of a wife." 
 
 This remark again brought blushes into the 
 cheek of the squire's susceptible daughter; and it 
 was clear the amorous youngster had made a pal- 
 pable hit. The squire himself looked as though he 
 had no objection to allow a continuance of " the 
 soft intercourse," and the rector rubbed his hands, 
 as if in joyful anticipation of tying the connubial 
 knot. 
 
188 THE POACHER. 
 
 " Come, Sir," said the narrator of the last story, 
 addressing himself to me, " I cannot but think 
 you have something in store for us. Allow me, 
 then, to call upon you for a contribution towards 
 the entertainment of the evening." 
 
 In compliance with his request, I drew forth the 
 manuscript of the odd gentleman, and read to the 
 company the following story. 
 
THE WIG. 
 
 She looked back with remorse and self-upbraiding at her past 
 caprices ; she turned with distaste from the adulation of her ad- 
 mirers, and had no longer any relish for amusement. 
 
 ANNETTE DELABRE. 
 
THE WIG. 
 
 "But, why does he wear a wig?" asked my 
 cousin, as we parted, after a few moments' confer- 
 ence, from my friend O'Connor, having met him by 
 accident in the streets of Paris — " why does he 
 wear a wig ?" 
 
 'Twas an odd question ; nor could I, at the time, 
 answer it. — Joy and surprise, at thus unexpectedly 
 meeting with an old acquaintance, whom I had sup- 
 posed dead or irrecoverably lost, did not permit me 
 to examine whether his head dress was false, or 
 genuine. — u I'm sure it was a wig, v said my 
 cousin : my cousin was right : it was a wig — and 
 this is the history of it. 
 
 James O'Connor (as his name may import) was 
 
192 THE WIG. 
 
 an Irishman, of the Roman Catholic persuasion, 
 residing in a small town no great distance from 
 Dublin, where he practised as surgeon and apothe- 
 cary. His abilities being great, and his address 
 gentlemanly, he soon obtained the confidence and 
 patronage of numerous patients, much to the dis- 
 comfiture of one Dr. Down, whose professional 
 celebrity had been on the wane ever since the ap- 
 pearance of his younger rival. 
 
 In the course of his professional duties, it was 
 O'Connor's fortune to be called to the bedside of 
 a young English lady, who lay very dangerously 
 ill in the house of a relation, where she had been 
 for some time staying on a visit. Doubtless, the 
 doctor felt some satisfaction in every opportunity 
 of exercising his medical talents. On the other 
 hand, he felt much pain in the contemplation of 
 suffering beauty. But, again — he experienced con- 
 siderable pleasure in discovering that his fair pa- 
 tient was one, whose absence from the promenade he 
 had remarked during the last few days, and — what 
 is more— had felt as a deprivation. He had seen 
 her before; had marked her loveliness; had de- 
 sired her acquaintance ; but had been hitherto un- 
 able to obtain an introduction. Thrice happy was 
 he, therefore, in the present chance! But there 
 
THE WIG, 193 
 
 was evil in it, notwithstanding. He was over anxi- 
 ous about the matter ; apprehensive, and nervous 
 to a degree, which even disturbed his self-confi- 
 dence. 
 
 In the course of a few weeks (be it imputable to 
 fate or physic) his lovely patient was amazingly 
 altered for the better ; and the doctor was never 
 more pleased with success, nor more unwilling to 
 take a fee, than in the present instance. His calls 
 were protracted far beyond the time which ordi- 
 nary civility required ; and it was not till her 
 cheeks had resumed their wonted hue ; her eyes 
 their usual lustre ; that he suspended his profes- 
 sional visits. At length, however, she again made 
 her appearance in public. Once more she became 
 the charm of the drawing-room — the belle of the 
 promenade. 
 
 But, alas ! be it known, Laura Kirkup was no 
 less remarkable for inflicting wounds than James 
 O'Connor was for healing them ; and the poor doc- 
 tor, in his turn, was placed upon the sick list. Laura's 
 weapons, however, in their execution, committed 
 a mischief which neither medicine nor surgical skill 
 could remedy. The doctor's malady was deep- 
 seated in the heart. It evinced itself in frequent 
 sighing and abstraction. He ceased to scold at 
 
194 THE WIG. 
 
 whist, and trumped his partner's tricks: passed 
 people in the street without noticing them, and re- 
 primanded the shop-boy for not doing what he had 
 been forbidden to do. In short, there was a very 
 lamentable bewilderment in his general manner. 
 His patients began to complain of his inattention ; 
 and, sad to relate ! it was, in one instance, disco- 
 vered that he had sent a wrong medicine. 
 
 Alas, for O'Connor ! — It was a poor return, 
 methinks, for all his time, trouble, and solicitude, 
 to ruin his peace of mind and discompose his pro- 
 fessional abilities. People wondered what it could 
 mean ; and no one, of course, was more surprised 
 at the circumstance than Miss Laura. — " It was 
 such a pity," she said, " that a young man, just 
 rising into fame and fortune, should alarm his pa* 
 tients by such an aberration of mind. It was really 
 a pity ; and she wondered what could be the cause 
 of it P' — She appeared, in fact, quite concerned 
 about the doctor's confusion ; and Connor, hearing 
 of her solicitude, was, as may be readily supposed, 
 easily prompted to gratify the curiosity she had ex- 
 pressed upon the subject. 
 
 He therefore went to the toilette, and did his ut- 
 most to insure some degree of favour, — at least in 
 the eyes of his mistress : nor could he, in this respect, 
 
THE WIG. 195 
 
 fail to be successful ; for nature had given him a 
 fine manly figure, and his address was at once free 
 and prepossessing. Thus armed cap-a-pie in the 
 mail of love's witchery, he called upon the Jady ; 
 unbosomed his secret ; offered his hand — heart — 
 fortune — and finished in the true romantic style, 
 by a declaration of becoming her favoured slave for 
 life, or else departing his country for ever. 
 
 She felt flattered by his good opinion, but was 
 somewhat embarrassed by the suddenness of his 
 proposals; and thought, moreover, that their ac- 
 quaintance (ungrateful girl !) had as yet been too 
 brief to allow the formation of a just opinion con- 
 cerning the suitableness of their dispositions. And, 
 then, papa was to be consulted — that was one block 
 in their way : and, further, Mr. O'Connor was a 
 Catholic — that was another obstacle ; with U buts ^ 
 and " ands v ad infinitum. 
 
 The doctor left the house somewhat discouraged, 
 but not in despair; for it was evident her objec- 
 tions were rather grounded on matters of form and 
 opinion, than upon any thing repulsive in his per- 
 son or manners ; and though he remained, as yet, 
 unable to look even into the probable issue of his 
 suit, he was by no means unsupported by hope. 
 Some little encouragement was indeed necessary to 
 o 2 
 
196 THE WIG. 
 
 counterbalance the evil intelligence which awaited 
 him at home ; viz. that a certain great lady, who 
 had for some time patronised O'Connor, unable to 
 obtain his immediate attendance, on account of his 
 being elsewhere occupied, was necessitated, owing 
 to the extreme urgency of her case, to apply to his 
 rival, Dr. Down ; and under the skilful hands of 
 the latter gentleman, she had been safely delivered 
 of a son and heir ! 
 
 In the course of a few weeks the time of Miss 
 Laura's visit had expired, and the native stars of 
 the village began secretly to congratulate them- 
 selves on the approaching disappearance of the Bri- 
 tish luminary whose effulgence had for too long 
 a period eclipsed their own. In the mean time, 
 Connor's exertions to ingratiate himself in the de- 
 sired quarter had not been fruitless ; and the fair 
 lady left him with looks of kind regret, and a mo- 
 dest, half-hinted intimation, that an occasional cor- 
 respondence would be indulged. She was not go- 
 ing directly home to her father's in London ; as she 
 intended passing a week or fortnight with a friend 
 at Shrewsbury; and it was settled that O'Connor 
 should direct his first letter to the said town. But 
 the enamoured doctor had no sooner penned the 
 epistle, than he felt an ungovernable desire to usurp 
 
THE WIG. 197 
 
 its right of travel ; — u Shrewsbury !" he exclaimed, 
 u why, 'tis a mere step — The steam-boat will bear 
 me off to Holyhead in the course of a few hours ; 
 and a few hours more will conduct me to the pre- 
 sence of my angel." 
 
 He went over accordingly, and was received by 
 the lady in the most flattering manner. She ex- 
 pressed herself much surprised at the strange en- 
 thusiasm of his conduct, but was evidently pleased 
 by it. And, indeed, how could she be otherwise ? 
 — There was a something earnest and chivalrous 
 about it. Hitherto, no one had evinced half 
 the interest exhibited by O'Connor; and, till now, 
 she had never seen a man so deserving of her fa- 
 vours. — The doctor, in short, had every reason to 
 believe that his wishes were accomplished ; and, 
 happy in the idea of a no very distant union with 
 the angelic fair one, he returned to Dublin. 
 
 Miss Kirkup's sojourn in the country was pro- 
 longed much beyond her original intention, and 
 the letters she wrote to her admirer during this 
 interval, were all that he could wish. The first 
 epistle, however, which he received from her, bear- 
 ing the London post-mark, was in an altered tone ; 
 the next, still less kind ; the third, brief, evasive, 
 and cold. Her explanations were equivocal and 
 
198 THE WIG. 
 
 unsatisfactory ; and poor O'Connor had too much 
 reason to fear that he had been premature in his 
 self-congratulations of success. He immediately 
 posted off to England, under a heavy load of con- 
 tending emotions, determined to satisfy himself 
 whether his wretchedness was the issue of her 
 own fickle disposition, or the consequence of some 
 treachery on the part of a rival. 
 
 A few days only after his departure, as farmer 
 CTDrogherty was whistling through his potatoe- 
 field, he espied our poor crest-fallen doctor trudg- 
 ing along the turnpike road on horseback. The 
 animal, as luck would have it, possessed an unusual 
 share of sagacity, and seemed to be well acquainted 
 with all the windings and intricacies of the road 
 
 from Dublin to ; otherwise, the doctor's brain 
 
 had been of no benefit. — Scorched by the fire of 
 disappointment, it had fallen a hot cinder upon his 
 heart, and there it lay, like the light on Bardolph's 
 nose, " burning, burning V But, however, 'tis too 
 bad to joke upon the sufferings of poor O'Connor, 
 who looked for all the world like a culprit on his 
 way to be hanged. O'Drogherty advanced, and 
 with more hilarity, perhaps, than was consistent 
 with the occasion, exclaimed : — 
 
THE WIG. 199 
 
 " By J — s, and Vm mighty glad to see you 
 back again : — how is it with ye ?" 
 
 " Jilted r exclaimed the other, but said no 
 more ; and, indeed, there was little else to say. On 
 waiting upon his charmer, in London, she gave 
 him an account of her conduct and motives, which, 
 might have been intelligible, but that her sobs dis- 
 turbed the clearness of her delivery. It was pretty 
 evident, however, that inconsistency and evasion 
 were substituted for truth, and that her story was, 
 in short, a genuine "cock and buiy — leaving 
 some traces whence the rejected lover might infer, 
 that the difference in their religion had materially 
 caused the alteration in her sentiments. 
 
 The real fact was this : — She had seen another 
 man, exceeding even O'Connor in zealous protesta- 
 tion — overreaching him, as he had outdone others. 
 Her present lover was higher by two inches, and 
 richer by two thousand a year, than the former ; 
 and the wayward beauty, for once, listened to the 
 opinion of her father — for it coincided with her 
 own. 
 
 Alas, for our poor Hibernian Romeo ! It was 
 now all over with him — " nor poppy, nor mandra- 
 gora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the east" could 
 aught avail him now. Quite — quite chap-fallen, 
 
200 THE WIG. 
 
 his energies failed to aid him, and his bosom 
 yearned at the loss of its tenant — a tenant which, 
 ere now, had maintained within it a more unlimited 
 sway than had ever been wielded even by testy 
 housekeeper in the mansion of a superannuated old 
 bachelor. His manhood sank within him for want 
 of thought ; his lancets grew rusty for want of 
 use ; his professional character fell to the ground, 
 and the name of Down belied his rivals' rising 
 reputation. Sad reverse ! Jilted by a mistress — 
 superseded by a professional opponent ! Dr. Down 
 obtained all the practice ; O'Connor, all the pity ; 
 while Laura, whose mischievous beauty had 
 wrought these extravagant vicissitudes, flirted 
 through Kensington Gardens on the arm of the 
 Colonel. 
 
 O'Connor was a man of the most acute sensi- 
 bility ; and when his feelings were acted upon by 
 any violent cause, no matter what, they led him a 
 rough jaunt of it. He had met with scoundrels 
 before now, and he had called them by their right 
 name with impunity ; he had been sometimes 
 insulted, but never twice by the same person ; he 
 had thrashed two or three blackguards, and chal- 
 lenged as many gentlemen ; his manners bespoke 
 peace and goodwill, but it was pretty well known 
 
THE WIG. 201 
 
 that his passions were not to be trifled with. The 
 kindness of a friend was never thrown away upon 
 him, for he was warm in all his attachments, and 
 earnest in gratitude ; and, for the same reason, he 
 was never forgetful of an injury, nor behind hand 
 in avenging it — till now. 
 
 Yes, — this was the one injury, which, failing to 
 rouse all violent resentment, only sank him into 
 the profoundest depths of melancholy. He wan- 
 dered about, scarcely knowing where, and caring 
 less, till his friends began to ruminate with feelings 
 of dread upon that seductive remedy for oblivion 
 which is so frequently found in fish-ponds and 
 canals ! Dr. Down, forgetting all former animosi- 
 ties, (his professional supremacy being now firmly 
 established,) became on a sudden, marvellously 
 solicitous about the distracted state of O'Connor's 
 mind ; and surely due credit must be awarded to 
 his conduct, as that of " a friend in need." 
 
 So many were the concomitant evils attendant 
 on poor O'Connor's principal grief, that an alarm- 
 ing state of despondency ensued, and all the efforts 
 of his neighbours to awaken within him a due 
 sense of his dignity as a good Catholic and man of 
 sense, completely failed. His mother and sister, 
 with whom he lived, witnessed his wretchedness 
 
202 THE WIG. 
 
 with tears. They became apprehensive that insa- 
 nity would shortly be the consequence of his 
 malady — that a premature (perhaps violent) death 
 awaited him ; and they even ventured to give him 
 a timely hint concerning the sin of self-destruction, 
 and the sorrow such an act would cause in the 
 hearts of his affectionate surviving relatives. " Fear 
 not," said he ; "I am, indeed, the most wretched 
 of men ; but am not yet so destitute of religious 
 feeling as to dare the vengeance of Heaven. I 
 know myself to be sufficiently culpable in giving 
 way so much as I have done to the tyranny of 
 grief; but, 'tis impossible, at least, while I re- 
 main in this country — in this village — to regain 
 my fortitude. All other afflictions I could have 
 borne with pious — with manly resignation ; but 
 this — this," he exclaimed, bursting into tears, " is 
 the only woe I cannot — can not support. My 
 honour or my fame might have been traduced ; 
 I could have avenged it : — my house and fortune 
 might have been lost to me ; I could have re- 
 gained them : —but, my heart — my heart" he em- 
 phatically exclaimed ; and was unable to finish the 
 sentence, for his utterance was choked. 
 
 One evening he spoke of being troubled with a 
 slight head-ache, and, as it appeared in con- 
 
THE WIG. 203 
 
 quence, went to bed much earlier than usual. On 
 the following morning, breakfast had awaited him 
 an hour beyond the accustomed time of his coming 
 down stairs. His sister, fearing that his head-ache 
 might be increased, went to inquire how he felt 
 himself; but, on knocking at his room door, re- 
 ceived no answer. She knocked again and again 
 — still no reply. At length, alarmed at this un- 
 accountable silence, she entered her brother's 
 room — but found him not ! Her apprehensions at 
 the moment of opening the chamber door had 
 been of so fearful a kind, that the note she found 
 on the dressing table, afflicting as its import must 
 necessarily be under any circumstances, gave her 
 in the present instance some degree of comfort. 
 It contained her unfortunate brother's farewell ; 
 with a brief statement of his having, at length, 
 determined on taking the only path which could 
 possibly lead to an abode of peace, and enable him 
 to bear a life so embittered by the gall of wretch- 
 edness. He had just set off under the resolution 
 of eternal self-banishment from his country ! 
 
 Heavy, indeed, was this intelligence ; but still 
 he lived; and though he had at present given 
 no intimation concerning that part of the globe 
 which he might have fixed upon as the spot of his 
 
204 THE WIG. 
 
 seclusion, his mother was supported in the hope 
 that by his letters she would eventually be informed 
 of it, " 
 
 He never wrote, however : and this was strange ! 
 But, perhaps, he had his reasons for withholding 
 the correspondence ; imagining that long silence 
 might induce the supposition of his death ; and 
 that it were better his mother should mourn 
 awhile his entire loss, than for ever lament his 
 protracted banishment. This was poor logic, it 
 is most true ; but O'Connors philosophy was too 
 much impaired to secure a propriety of action — 
 'twas enough he attempted it ; and it is easy to 
 imagine that his heart (affected as it was) might 
 urge him to the adoption of measures no way con- 
 cordant with the maxims of reason. Mrs. O'Con- 
 nor suffered far more from the contention of hope 
 and fear, than she could have experienced in the 
 removal of her doubts, however melancholy might 
 have been the intelligence which led to the decision. 
 She loved her son ardently, both for his own sake, 
 and in respect to his being the exact counterpart of 
 her deceased and lamented husband. 
 
 To return to Laura. — She was not without heart; 
 but, till now, its warmth had been never roused. 
 She had mistaken the mere gratification experi- 
 
THE WIG. 205 
 
 enced in being admired, for feelings of affection to- 
 wards her admirer ; — a common error, I believe, 
 and the groundwork of half the unhappiness which 
 forms the alloy of matrimony. She had received 
 the empty adulations of fifty flatterers ; while O'Con- 
 nor, perhaps, was the only one who really loved her. 
 In his attentions, flattery had been a mere spice : 
 in the attention of others it formed the chief ingre- 
 dient : they had persevered in their attack upon her 
 weakest point, and the colonel, we are to presume, 
 was the foremost in extravagance. But in the ad- 
 dresses of O'Connor, there was probably all the 
 timidity of a loving but mistrustful heart ; all the 
 care of a man anxious to please ; and the delicate 
 backwardness of one, in whose love respect forms 
 a conspicuous share. But, alas ! what the honour- 
 able and manly solicitations of O'Connor had failed 
 to secure, his silly desperation, at once, fully ac- 
 complished ; and poor Laura, awakened from her 
 long dream of vanity, found herself sorely afflicted 
 by the pains of remorse. It was bitter enough to 
 contemplate the folly and cruelty which had marked 
 her past conduct, setting aside the evil conse- 
 quences of it ; but, when she reflected upon the 
 sincerity she had abused, and the worth she had 
 insulted, she began to envy even the victim of her 
 
206 THE WIG. 
 
 infidelity. As a full proof of her earnestness and 
 contrition, she immediately cut short the colonel's 
 chase ; and the gallant son of Mars, having lost his 
 game — far from losing his senses likewise — bore the 
 disappointment like a true man, and started another 
 hare. Laura was by no means piqued to see the 
 coolness with which the colonel treated the matter : 
 it only served as additional evidence in proof of 
 O'Connor's superiority. 
 
 Pier nature had been perverted. She was an 
 only — and therefore — a spoiled child : not spoiled, 
 however, past recovery ; although she unquestion- 
 ably would have been, had she been deficient in 
 that strength of mind and natural goodness of heart 
 which the folly of her parents could only hide — not 
 destroy. The mother was vain ; but blessed with 
 that kind of sparkling frivolity in conversation, 
 manner, and opinion, which a dull husband takes 
 for wit ; and the child of their love, between the 
 folly of the one, and the stupidity of the other, 
 stood a fair chance of remaining a mere cypher in 
 the circle of society. But the better part of her 
 nature was now called into action. Her heart was 
 opened : her tenderness evinced itself in tears ; 
 and she felt convinced, that if O'Connor had really 
 reached her affections, when, in fact, he had only 
 
THE WIG, 207 
 
 roused her vanity, she should have loved him all 
 along, as truly and faithfully as she could do now, 
 were it the will of fate that they should meet 
 again. 
 
 What would she not now have given for a recur- 
 rence of past opportunity ? Sometimes she would 
 indulge in the idea of seeing him again, and specu- 
 late on the sweets of reconciliation e She corre- 
 sponded with her ci-devant proposed mother-in-law, 
 and was indeed willing to visit her ; but she could 
 never make up her mind to accept the old lady's 
 invitation, so averse was she to tread the scene of 
 her former treachery ; and she fancied that her 
 presence would be fraught with associations rather 
 tending to increase than assuage the sorrows of 
 Mrs. Connor and her daughter. 
 
 It was long ere she resigned all hopes of seeing 
 her lover again. At length, however, she yielded 
 to the general belief that he was gone for ever, and 
 from the extreme depression of her spirits in con- 
 sequence, it was feared she might follow his ex- 
 ample. 
 
 Three long years passed away, and with them 
 much of Laura's bloom. Deep sorrow had evi- 
 dently taken hold upon her heart; and, though 
 her general health did not seem to be materially 
 
208 THE WIG. 
 
 impaired, she was no longer distinguished by that 
 buoyancy of manner and laughter-loving expression, 
 which formerly rendered her conspicuous among 
 her sex. She appeared to avoid company as much 
 as possible ; showed herself careless to the atten- 
 tions of men, and indifferent to rivalry. Her con- 
 versation would usually turn upon music, literature, 
 and the fine arts : any thing, in short, rather than 
 the bandying of compliments ; and the very tone of 
 lier voice betokened the alteration in her feelings. 
 Her step in the dance was graceful as ever ; her 
 voice in the song, as sweet ; but where she before 
 seemed to claim admiration, she now only appeared 
 to solicit indulgence. 
 
 Some vague reports were at length heard, leav- 
 ing it to be inferred that O'Connor was no more. 
 The effect of this intelligence upon the mind of 
 Laura was even more violent than on Mrs. O'Con- 
 nor and her daughter ; and old Kirkup, alarmed 
 at her increasing despondency, and fatigued by so 
 long a continuation of melancholy, for which he 
 had an utter abhorrence, determined on diverting 
 her thoughts by the charms and novelty of travel. 
 In pursuance of this resolve, he forthwith bought 
 an old posting carriage, and having learnt the Ita- 
 lian for beef steaks, boots, and a few other leading 
 
THE WIG. 209 
 
 matters, transported his wife and daughter to the 
 continent, and, after a glance at the gaieties of 
 Paris, moved onward into Italy. 
 
 The good taste of Laura enabled her fully to appre- 
 ciate the classic beauties of this charming country; 
 and her health and spirits were shortly very visibly 
 improved by the change of scene and climate. After 
 visiting the principal cities, Mr. Kirkup determined 
 on taking up his abode at Florence, with the inten- 
 tion of remaining there for some months ; nor had 
 he been long settled in his new quarters, ere No. 
 3375, Piazza, S. M. Novella, became a marked spot 
 as the residence of " the beautiful English girl," 
 — la beW Inglese, as she was termed, par excel- 
 lence* 
 
 Four years had elapsed since Laura received the 
 first intelligence of O'Connor's exile, and little 
 doubt now remained upon the subject of his death. 
 Though his repentant mistress had begun slowly to 
 recover her health of mind and body, she was still 
 given to occasional dejection, and might be said 
 rather to enjoy tranquillity than happiness. The loss 
 of her lover was, perhaps, more easily to be borne 
 than the recollection of her conduct ; and any chance 
 allusion to certain times or circumstances, would 
 invariably disturb her. However, altogether, she had 
 p 
 
210 THE WIG. 
 
 certainly altered for the better, and old Kirkup was 
 happy to find the chief purport of his continental 
 visit so satisfactorily answered. Neither did he 
 object to the attentions bestowed upon his daughter 
 by an Italian gentleman of good family and for- 
 tune — a marquis, withal : in respect to his title, 
 most agreeable to Laura's mother : in regard to 
 his religion, more fortunate than poor O'Connor had 
 been ; but, with respect to his suit, as finding favour 
 in the eyes of his foreign mistress, somewhat in 
 doubt ; for Laura, though she less deplored her 
 old lover, could never forget him ; and, however 
 sensible she might be of the high merits of II $ig- 
 nor Marchese, she only treated him with such kind- 
 ness as ordinary friendship might warrant, care- 
 fully avoiding every appearance of encouraging his 
 pretensions, 
 
 The marquis, however, was obstinately bent on 
 completing his alliance with one whom he termed 
 " the most charming of England's daughters ;" 
 nor was the deep seated affection, with which she 
 cherished the memory of her former admirer, at all 
 calculated to damp the ardour of his own attach- 
 ment : on the contrary, it inflamed it ; and he was 
 only the more anxious to possess, at least, some 
 share in that constancy and affection, which had 
 
THE WIG. 211 
 
 been for so long a time uselessly expended upon 
 the dead. He thought it a pity she should waste 
 her sympathies on the grave ; and was resolved on 
 inducing her to the more rational purpose of be- 
 stowing them where they would be so ardently met 
 and duly appreciated. 
 
 He proceeded in his design with the utmost 
 care, and — I might add — cunning ; undermining 
 the citadel, and secretly possessing himself of all 
 the unguarded outposts of friendship, esteem, and 
 reliance, ere he ventured to throw out " the flag 
 and sign of love." The delicacy with which he 
 alluded to the memory and cause of his deceased 
 rival, was no way prejudicial to his own interests. 
 Besides, the marquis, in some points of his con- 
 duct, resembled him whose fate she had so much 
 reason to lament ; and she was, at least, determined, 
 if she could not love, to treat no worthy man with 
 cruelty, particularly if he bore any resemblance to 
 the faithful Hibernian. Like CVConnor, the mar- 
 quis was gentle, though fervent ; never guilty of 
 unmeaning compliment ; well informed ; handsome 
 — (but that was nothing)— in short, he had many 
 qualifications, highly recommendatory, and she 
 could not but acknowledge them. 
 
 'Twas, therefore, now time to drop all stratagem, 
 p 2 
 
212 THE WIG. 
 
 A breach being made, the marquis followed it up 
 immediately by a formal declaration of his passion ; 
 and received a check. The refusal was, however, 
 qualified with assurances of her esteem for his 
 many virtues ; her admiration of his acquirements ; 
 her gratitude for the great delicacy he had evinced 
 throughout the whole course of their acquaintance, 
 which, she hoped, would not be discontinued alto- 
 gether ; and, in conclusion, some slight intimations 
 were held out, that if it had not been for certain 
 circumstances, connected with a former engage- 
 ment, the marquis's flattering kindness might have 
 met with an adequate return. 
 
 The marquis, on his part, admired the firmness 
 of the lady; but thought, of course, that a relaxa- 
 tion of her present determination would be, in no de- 
 gree, indicative of any weakness ; for she had amply 
 paid the debt of early severity, and to mourn longer 
 in single barrenness was to cheat nature of her due, 
 and to offend (though the offence was certainly 
 most pardonable) even virtue. 
 
 Mr. Kirkup talked the matter over with his 
 daughter: but, if his persuasions had any weight, 
 it was certainly more attributable to a sense of filial 
 duty on the part of Miss Kirkup, than to any 
 strength of reasoning on his. Her mother got 
 
TIIK WIG. 213 
 
 violent upon the subject ; but Laura was not to be 
 frightened into marriage ; and the silent eloquence 
 of the marquis did more towards the subversion of 
 her resolves, than any thing which her parents could 
 say. After a time, he ventured again to address 
 her upon the tender subject. She hesitated ; and, 
 after a pause, without either blush or emotion, can- 
 didly put to him the following question : — 
 
 "Can I, Signor Marquis, feel justified in giving 
 away my hand, while my heart remains divided ?" 
 
 u Certainly — if your admirer, like myself, is 
 content to be blessed on such terms.'*' 
 
 " But, surely, you are not so. v 
 
 " Assuredly I am" replied the marquis. 
 
 " The better part of my heart," said Laura, as 
 the tears started into her eyes, u is in the grave 
 with James O'Connor!" 
 
 u 0, v exclaimed he, " give me but so much of 
 your heart as may be unentombed, and I shall be 
 content." 
 
 " I will think upon it, v said she. 
 
 She kept him in suspense for some time, and, at 
 length, yielded. In a month she agreed to become 
 his wife. 
 
 One of the oddest whims that ever entered the 
 head of woman now took possession of her brain ; 
 
214 THE WIG, 
 
 nor could all the persuasions of her parents serve 
 in any way to avert her determination of becoming 
 a Roman Catholic. Her proposed husband de- 
 sired it not ; and she had certainly too much good 
 sense to be captivated by the mere " pomp and 
 circumstance' 9 of the papal worship. Be it from 
 whatever cause, her resolution was fixed ; and her 
 parents, to say truth, were now rather careless about 
 the matter. Failing in the first instance to dis- 
 suade, they ultimately suspended their attempts ; 
 and it was at length decided, that, on a certain 
 day, the ceremonies of her conversion and marriage 
 should be performed together in the church of 
 S. M. Novella. 
 
 Overjoyed as the marquis was at possessing the 
 right of constant attendance upon his fair one, he 
 still found the month of courtship drag slowly on. 
 Laura was less impatient ; indeed, her behaviour 
 exhibited no ardour — she appeared contented, but 
 nothing more. 
 
 The marquis was well known in Tuscany, his 
 title recommending him to the higher circles of the 
 dukedom ; and his frequent appearance in public, 
 together with the splendour of his equipage, ren- 
 dering him conspicuous in the eyes of the vulgar. 
 His unostentatious benevolence had likewise con- 
 
THE WIG, 215 
 
 tributed much to his favour among the poorer 
 Florentines: his weekly soirees formed a never- 
 failing inducement to the fashionable : while a well 
 furnished museum and picture gallery, ever open 
 to general inspection, secured him a due share of 
 popularity among all classes. Whenever he formed 
 one among the gay throng who frequented the 
 evening ride in the Cascina, he was marked as a 
 constellation of the first magnitude ; and the Con- 
 tadine would exclaim, as he whirled rapidly by in his 
 carriage, " Ecco, il buono Marchese /'• He was, in 
 fact, the marquis. As an object of general inte- 
 rest, he almost disputed the precedency with the 
 grand duke himself; and the latter, it was ob- 
 served, always returned the marquis's respectful 
 salutation with peculiar courtesy. 
 
 Thus much for the marquis We have already 
 seen, on the other part, that Laura had attracted 
 general notice ; and certainly her appearance was 
 such, that whatever notice she did attract, could 
 not be otherwise than favourable. She was, per- 
 haps, at this time, even more to be dreaded by the 
 susceptible, than during her glittering reign some 
 years before. Coquetry and flirtation in a woman, 
 when carried to a certain extent, have their effect 
 upon some men ; but it is a mode of warfare far 
 
216 THE WIG. 
 
 less calculated to insure a decided victory, than 
 that more genuine effeminacy, which is abashed by 
 boldness and shrinks from display ; which claims 
 nothing as a right ; evinces no disposition to patro- 
 nize; but, on the contrary, tacitly acknowledges 
 dependence, and seems to solicit support. Yet, 
 men have their vanities ; and to enjoy the empty 
 favours even of a woman who has no real affection 
 to bestow, is among them. They hold such pre- 
 ference as they wear a smart coat ; and the grati- 
 fication rests less in the true value of the thing, 
 than in the observation which it may attract. 
 
 Laura's looks were altered with her manners. 
 The beauty which had charmed before, charmed 
 still ; but, as in the case of Astarte, " 'twas tem- 
 pered all, and soften' d into mildness. r> If her 
 charms were less sparkling, they were more insi- 
 nuating. The women could not feel jealous of 
 such unostentatious dominion, while the men were 
 obliged to acknowledge its supremacy. She had 
 but one rival in Florence, and that a child of 
 Praxiteles — the Venus de Medici. 
 
 Both parties, therefore, having a hold upon the 
 public notice, it may be readily supposed that the 
 intelligence of their probable union would prove a 
 matter of considerable interest ; and, no sooner 
 
THE WIG. 217 
 
 was it known in one quarter, than it spread about 
 the place like a conflagration. Still our heroine's 
 intended conversion was a circumstance more 
 deeply touching the minds of the Italians, than 
 her marriage with their noble compatriot ; and the 
 day appointed for the joint ceremony was looked 
 forward to as a kind of fete, or holiday, and anti- 
 cipated with impatience. 
 
 On the eventful morning, much to the dismay of 
 poor Laura, crowds of people were seen collecting 
 in the Piazza. Many had even put on their best 
 dresses for the occasion. The Contadine were 
 there in all their festive finery ; their gold earrings, 
 crosses, and buckles, with their black beaver hats 
 bearing a mighty plume of ostrich feathers. Car- 
 riage after carriage drew up to the door of the 
 church, each bearing a family of fair Florentines, 
 with their nurse bedizened in all the splendours of 
 white lace and yellow ribbons. Spectators, in 
 short, of all degrees, were huddled together in 
 anxious expectancy ; and among the motley throng 
 was many a fat friar and smooth-browed priest, 
 chuckling with a kind of triumph at the idea of 
 what was forthcoming. The fact of a Protestant 
 — and an English woman too,— embracing the 
 
218 THE WIG. 
 
 Roman faith, was deemed a full warrant for the 
 suspension of all ordinary labour. 
 
 All was now in readiness : — certain qualms dis- 
 turbed the mind of poor Laura ; and she became 
 so nervous and agitated, that it was more than 
 doubtful whether or not she would be able to go 
 through the ceremonies. On her ascending the 
 carriage, a general buzz pervaded the square, and 
 as the crowd opened to let her pass, the old women 
 exclaimed, in the most sugared tone possible, — 
 "BeUma! n —«Dio la benedica!"—" Che bettezzaP 
 &c., &c. 
 
 Of course, the ceremony of conversion was to 
 precede that of marriage ; but considerable diffi- 
 culty arose on the subject of certain explanations 
 necessarily required, concerning the difference of 
 the faiths. The priest desired the most precise 
 information as to our sacraments and creed. He 
 wished to have a verbal translation of the belief, 
 and certain parts of our catechism ; but the mar- 
 quis understood little of English ; Mr. Kirkup less 
 of Italian ; while Laura and her mother were so 
 bewildered, that they could neither of them be of 
 any service in the way of elucidation. 
 
 " Send for brother James," said one of the monks 
 of the Franciscan monastery adjoining, and a mes- 
 
THE WIG. 219 
 
 senger was despatched accordingly. When brother 
 James made his appearance, he was summoned into 
 the presence of the officiating priest, the marquis, 
 and Mr. Kirk up ; and they remained closeted 
 together for some time. At length, the interroga- 
 tory was brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and 
 all things being made clear, the ceremony pro- 
 ceeded. It was long and tiresome ; the day re- 
 markably hot, and smelling-bottles were as plenti- 
 ful as Ave Marias. Laura was near fainting once 
 or twice ; however, with the utmost difficulty she 
 managed to sustain herself to the end, and then 
 sank exhausted into her mother's arms. At this 
 moment father James stepped forward to offer his 
 assistance : — 
 
 It was not the first time Laura had benefitted 
 by it! 
 
 The eyes of Father James and Miss Kirkup 
 encountered at the same instant, — the former main- 
 tained his self-possession, but the lady went into 
 violent hystericks, and people wondered what was 
 the matter ! 
 
 It was evidently impossible that the ceremony 
 could be concluded that dayi and though a sad 
 disappointment to the marquis, he was obliged to 
 put up with it. She became very ill ; kept her bed 
 
220 
 
 THE WIG. 
 
 all the next day; but, during the two following 
 days, appeared to be gradually recovering. " I 
 promise you firmly," said she to her anxiously 
 inquiring lover, " I will be married before a week 
 is passed." 
 
 On the morning of the fourth day, there were 
 two marvellous hubbubs going on in Florence; the 
 one, at No. 3375, Piazza, S. M. Novella, where a 
 distracted lover was vainly seeking a lost mistress : 
 the other, at the convent opposite, where the Fran- 
 ciscans were all in a stir at the sudden disappear- 
 ance of one of their brotherhood ! 
 
 I shall not trouble the reader with a relation of 
 the means by which the friar deceived the police, 
 and carried off the lady. Love is pregnant with 
 stratagem when difficulties intervene, and Dr. 
 O'Connor (Father James no longer) soon recon- 
 ciled the fears of his beloved Laura and the 
 scruples of his conscience. The difference in their 
 religions was no longer a bar to their union ; and 
 the melancholy monk, throwing off his sorrows 
 with his cowl, has returned to love and life, and is 
 the happiest of the sons of Erin. The fugitives 
 were on their way to England when I met them at 
 Paris. Long mortification had worn O'Connor to 
 the bones; but Laura's love, aided by a few 
 
THE WIG. 221 
 
 months^ recreation amid the scenes of his earlier 
 life, have set him up completely, and a handsomer 
 couple than the doctor and his wife is not to be 
 found in Ballimakin. 
 
 Now, you will please to observe that friars 
 have always the crown of the head completely 
 bare ; it was, of course, necessary that O'Connor 
 should conceal his baldness, to prevent suspicion 
 during his escape from Italy — and that was his 
 reason for wearing a wig. 
 
 The story of the Wig being concluded, some 
 discussion arose upon its merits and tendency. Miss 
 Emily was much pleased with it, and returned the 
 gentle compliment, which, it may be remembered, 
 was conveyed in the remark made by her lover, at 
 the close of the former narrative. She was " charm- 
 ed with the forgiving disposition of the hero ; but 
 could scarcely pardon the caprice and infidelity of 
 the heroine, notwithstanding her extreme remorse 
 and ultimate behaviour. " 
 
 The rector decidedly objected to one point in the 
 story, affirming that the M ultimate'" conduct of the 
 heroine had been rather spirited than praiseworthy. 
 
222 THE WIG. 
 
 " The circumstance of her conversion," said he, 
 " though it heightens the interest of the story, de- 
 cidedly impairs its moral tendency : and I sincerely 
 wish that Cupid and Fate could have brought 
 about the denouement^ without dressing their chief 
 actors in the tinsel of Catholicism. " 
 
 The company then rose to take their departure 
 for the night ; but the worthy squire, anxious to 
 pacify the startled conscience of the rector (whom 
 he knew, with all his prejudices, to be a well mean- 
 ing man), begged that each would once more reple- 
 nish his glass to — 
 
 " The Protestant Ascendancy !" 
 
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 
 
 Peace ! thou talk'st of nothing. 
 
 Romeo. 
 
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 
 
 Having business still farther up the country, I 
 was prepared to bid a final adieu to my worthy 
 host, when he insisted on my revisiting his mansion 
 in my way back to town. After the usual hesita- 
 tions, becoming a man of modesty, I answered as 
 inclination prompted, and assured him that ere long 
 I would again partake of his hospitality. 
 
 On getting into the coach I was somewhat sur- 
 prised to find myself in the company of young Al- 
 fred — none other than the love-sick Romeo of the 
 preceding evening. The pleasure was not the less 
 because unexpected, and I congratulated myself 
 upon being so fortunate in my companion ; for, be- 
 side ourselves, there was no inside passenger, 
 a 
 
226 TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 
 
 It soon appeared, however, that I had been 
 overhasty in estimating the conversational inclina- 
 tions of my fellow-traveller, whose internal resources 
 were evidently such as to render him completely 
 independent of all ordinary companionship. His 
 first salutation was more than usually courteous ; 
 but, after a few passing remarks, he became gradu- 
 ally silent, thoughtful, and abstracted. With his 
 arms folded, he reclined within the angle of the 
 coach, and his eyes became fixed as his thoughts. 
 Every now and then a peculiar smile, and still more 
 frequently a sigh, would seem to indicate that his 
 heart rather than brain was concerned in the sub- 
 ject of his meditations ; nor would it have been dif- 
 ficult for any one, who, like myself, had witnessed 
 his behaviour on the preceding night, to judge of 
 what was passing in his mind. Concluding that 
 my reader has attentively perused the statement of 
 what then occurred, I deem it unnecessary to ex- 
 plain why my very pensive companion started from 
 his reverie at hearing a poor cottager suddenly ex- 
 claim—" Emily, you little d — 1, come out of the 
 snow l n 
 
 Whether the mere pronunciation of the lady's 
 name, or the connexion of so angelic a sound with 
 another so diabolical, was the cause of the deep 
 
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 227 
 
 sigh which immediately followed, I know not. He 
 became more thoughtful than ever ; and in the 
 fervour of his heart whispered a blessing on his lady- 
 love, not in so subdued a tone, but that I could 
 distinctly hear him. 
 
 There is certainly something in the motion of a 
 coach peculiarly conducive to the workings of 
 thought ; and in proportion that a man is by na- 
 ture imaginative, he is usually silent as a stage tra- 
 veller. It is true, the English vary considerably in 
 this particular, and may be divided into the talka- 
 tive, the somniferous, and the meditative travellers. 
 
 The somniferous, though, in point of fact, he can 
 scarcely rank above the luggage which accompanies 
 him, is a much more welcome companion to the me- 
 ditative traveller than the talkative gentleman ; not 
 that the snores of the one are in themselves less 
 disturbing than the prattle of the other, but that 
 they require no answer ; while a talkative compa- 
 nion is seldom reasonable enough not to expect a 
 reply to his arguments, although he may conceive 
 them unanswerable. — Could he but be satisfied with 
 silent acquiescence, all were well ; but it is seldom 
 he can hear a remark without a wish to provoke 
 discussion. 
 
 Female travellers, I believe, are rarely disin- 
 q2 
 
228 TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 
 
 clined to be communicative ; and, generally speak- 
 ing, they may exercise their volubility without 
 taxing our patience. If they be amiable, much 
 licence will be allowed them : if pretty, they may 
 monopolize without offence. In fact, a woman of 
 beauty, and a man of wit, may converse at large ; 
 for it is our sensibility rather than our sense, which 
 is acted upon in both cases. 
 
 But, under whatever circumstances, a lover must 
 be allowed the full privilege of silence when travel- 
 ling by the coach. A woman's beauty, if it remind 
 him not of his Thyrza — a man's wit, if it hinge not 
 on the ecstacies of love, can have no interest for him. 
 Conscious, that, while he is on his journey, no 
 active steps can be taken towards that worldly 
 advancement which may be necessary to the acquire- 
 ment of his object, he feels the greater licence to 
 indulge in the luxuries of imagination. The exer- 
 tions of the horses, for the time, supersede his own, 
 and the coachman becomes the temporary director 
 of his fate. Thus emancipated from all considera- 
 tion of the means of attainment, he revels in con- 
 templation of the object attained ; and the scenes of 
 happiness he pictures on his mind, are as varied in 
 their colouring, and as rapid in their change, as 
 the landscape through which he passes. 
 
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 229 
 
 Thus, pursuing uiy own reflections, my grave 
 companion suffered little from interruption. He 
 would occasionally make some trifling remark as a 
 tribute to civility ; but I, at length, relieved his 
 anxieties, in this particular, by feigning to doze. 
 
 We had not proceeded very far upon our jour- 
 ney, when the coach stopped to take in a new pas- 
 senger. He was a country gentleman, residing in 
 the neighbourhood ; and, as it very shortly appeared 
 in his discourse (though he evinced no signs of 
 intimacy with my companion), was not unacquaint- 
 ed with Mr. Wheatley. He spoke of the worthy 
 squire in the highest terms — " A better man/' said 
 he, " there is not living ; and he has a family also 
 who are likely to do him credit M 
 
 The apprehensive lover turned his head towards 
 the window. 
 
 u His wife, Sir," continued the former, "is 
 always doing some good in the neighbourhood ; 
 
 and, as to his eldest daughter Miss Miss 
 
 zounds ! my memory is one of the worst in the 
 world " 
 
 (Few situations, apart from danger, are more 
 agitating than that of a lover, under the circum- 
 
230 THE LOVER. 
 
 stances which now environed Master Alfred. All 
 who have experienced an earnest and an early 
 attachment, must have been frequently subject to 
 similar perplexity. Yet, why should it be thus ? 
 By what strange perversion of nature is it, that we 
 should fear the casual mention of a name, which is 
 in itself the very essence of harmony ? Nothing is 
 so sweet — yet nothing so subversive of fortitude ; 
 and, while all other themes are devoid of interest, 
 this alone is encountered with dread. 
 
 Mark the stricken youth at a dinner table. The 
 room resounds with conviviality : compliment and 
 courtesy fill up the intervals. The huntsman tells 
 of five barred gates, and fearful precipices — the 
 traveller of the bandit's resort, or Alpine pass : the 
 politician is vociferous in decrying the measures of 
 the cabinet ; while the theatrical man is louder 
 than all in the support of his favourite tragedian. 
 
 But the lover hears not— sees not. cC His eyes are 
 with his heart, and that is far away" — there, 
 where some Emily roams amid nature's beauties, 
 like the moon among the stars. 
 
 Lo, the table resounds beneath the knuckle of 
 the toast-master ; and with a cheek reddening 
 under the consciousness that his feelings are either 
 
THE LOVER, 331 
 
 known, or will be discovered, he fills with trembling 
 hand his glass to— " her we love best." 
 
 The inexpressible she is perhaps by accident 
 personally alluded to. How his heart palpitates. 
 Her playing is admired : his cheek is again suffused, 
 while his love and pride swell under the eulogium 
 bestowed upon her temper. Her person is the 
 next subject of panegyric. Ah ! that touches him 
 too nearly. Doubtless, it is most delightful to find 
 that the object of his love is appreciated by others: 
 but, can they appreciate without envy? and can 
 they envy without wishing to supplant ? He would 
 have her admired, but not courted; and he fears 
 the rival merits of others, for he is modest, and 
 mistrusts his own. 
 
 Such fears and jealousies, however, may in some 
 measure be accounted for : but how shall we ac- 
 count for a man's hesitating to call that his own, 
 in the possession of which his happiness is vested. 
 Concealment scarcely seems politic : wherefore 
 should we be ashamed to reveal ? Why affect to 
 disown a passion that does honour to the heart ? 
 or seek to hide, as among its weaknesses, the most 
 divine — certainly the most amiable passion of our 
 nature ? Does the thirst of renown actuate us, or 
 the desire of wealth incite ? We boldly proclaim it 
 
232 TKAVELLING COMPANIONS. 
 
 by our words, or evince it by our zeal. We boast 
 the fruits of o'er- wrought ambition, and glory in 
 acts of blood. We occasionally affect a little mo- 
 desty in the performance of charitable deeds, and 
 more frequently pretend to diffidence on the subject 
 of our own merits : but, our love alone we hesitate 
 to acknowledge. In the servitude of Fame or 
 Ambition we exhibit our fetters with all the non- 
 chalance of a galley slave ; but, only detect upon 
 us the silken chains of Cupid ; and, like Master 
 Alfred, while our companion was endeavouring to 
 recal to his memory the name of Emily, we blush 
 for very shame.) 
 
 u Miss Emily ," said I. 
 
 " Aye/' continued our companion, " such is the 
 name of the sweetest girl in the county." 
 
 Master Alfred had now both heard and travelled 
 enough. The coach drew up to his father's door, 
 and wishing us a brief " good morrow,*" he hastily 
 withdrew. 
 
 I found my new companion a most agree- 
 able man ; he was perfectly ignorant that he 
 had been seated by the admirer of Miss Wheatley; 
 but not unacquainted with the existence of some 
 attachment. 
 
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 233 
 
 " The young man," said he, " is I believe 
 clever and well principled, but of a very sensitive 
 disposition ; and, as I am told, equally capable of 
 loving with truth, and of being jealous without 
 foundation/' 
 
 In the course of our journey we passed a sub- 
 stantial looking residence on the road side. On 
 inquiring as to its possessor, my fellow-traveller 
 said that it belonged to a Mr. Halworth. " Do 
 you know any thing of him ?" said he. 
 
 " Nothing ;" I replied. 
 
 " He scarcely knew himself some years back," 
 continued my informant. 
 
 After a short pause, he proceeded as follows. 
 
HENRY HALWORTH. 
 
 Is it come to this, i' faith ? Hath not the world one man, but he 
 
 will wear his cap with suspicion ? Shall I never see a bachelor of 
 
 three score again ? 
 
 Much ado about Nothing. 
 
HENRY HAL WORTH. 
 
 " I'll be a bachelor for the remainder of my 
 life," said Harry, as he sat at his wine one after- 
 noon : " yes, as Benedick says, / will die a 
 bachelor" 
 
 " And I," said his sister Kate, " (to use the 
 language of Beatrice) am of your humour for that 
 — I will die a maid." 
 
 " Well," said their mother, " (to quote from 
 the same author) — as time shall try : in time the 
 savage bull doth bear the yoke." 
 
 The old lady, however, disapproving all rash 
 resolutions, hoped in time to see them both well 
 mated. " As your vows," said she, " were put 
 up in the language of Benedick and Beatrice, I 
 
238 HEttllY HALWORTH. 
 
 trust they were also formed in the same spirit; 
 that like Benedick and Beatrice, you may be 
 hereafter justified in breaking them.'" 
 
 Harry is a fine open-hearted fellow, with the 
 frame of a Hercules, and the spirit of an eagle. 
 Though brought up chiefly amid scenes of rural 
 activity, and accustomed from his youth to the 
 hazards of the chase, his education has been by no 
 means neglected, and he is equally an adept in 
 solving the difficulties of Euclid, and mastering 
 the fury of a young horse. He does not exactly 
 possess that capability for small talk which renders 
 a man agreeable as a drawing-room companion; 
 but his society is still extremely enviable, and his 
 friendship such as every one must be proud to 
 possess. His chief employment now consists in 
 farming an estate left him by his father ; this, and 
 the sports of the field, form his outdoor occupa- 
 tions ; otherwise, he is a domestic character, fond 
 of his family, his books, and his fireside. 
 
 He has, it is true, a few peculiarities of opinion 
 which lead him occasionally into violent argu- 
 ments ; for, whether in the right or the wrong, he 
 is always in earnest. Liberal in his politics, he 
 entertains a few notions that smack of illiberality ; 
 and I am ready to allow that he is too much given 
 
HENRY HALW0RTH. 239 
 
 to visit the errors of individuals upon entire bodies. 
 This is, perhaps, a common fault with all men of 
 enthusiasm, who are for the most part incapable of 
 sifting their opinions, and utter what their feelings 
 dictate, rather than what their judgment approves. 
 They establish notions without consideration, and 
 censure upon impulse. Thus it is with my friend 
 Halworth. Having met with a few cases of delin- 
 quency among the members of the church and 
 army, he regards the entire establishments with 
 suspicion. He thinks the clergy are getting lazy, 
 and the soldiery impudent ; and I have heard him 
 declare, that were he a married man with a family 
 of pretty daughters, he should be careful how he 
 introduced either a young churchman or warrior 
 into his house. — Acknowledging the importance of 
 both their vocations, he thinks their irregularities 
 meet with too great a licence, and is equally severe 
 when he discovers hypocrisy in a black coat, or 
 debauchery in a red one. 
 
 He has likewise a special contempt for " pretty 
 fellows" (as they are termed,) and their petty 
 gallantries ; " being," as he used to say, " fully 
 assured, that universal benevolence is inconsistent 
 with matters of heart between the unmarried of 
 the sexes, — that such affection, if not concentrated, 
 
240 HENRY HALWORTH. 
 
 is nothing worth ; and that he who is attentive to 
 all women cares for none"'' He had no objection 
 to the conversation of a sensible woman, and would 
 be always happy to take a ramble with any lady 
 who might feel inclined to honour him with her 
 company ; " but," said he, "if ever you see me 
 6 bandying compliments'' with a giggling girl, who 
 expects me to feed her vanity with flattery, and to 
 pocket her pert repartees with patience — c write 
 me down an ass/ " 
 
 Harry, in fact, at one time avoided female 
 society in general ; not that he was intimidated by 
 the presence, or insensible to the charms of the 
 fair, but that he felt his own merits somewhat 
 scandalized by the countenance which he had seen 
 given to the unmeaning compliments of men, whose 
 conversation he should have considered as a positive 
 insult to the understanding of any woman ; and I 
 observed that he always withdrew under a proper 
 sense of his own inadequacy, whenever a gentle- 
 man appeared in the room with mustachios and kid 
 gloves. He would, with all his heart, do any thing 
 really serviceable to the ladies, — would put him- 
 self to any inconvenience (nor think it so) for the 
 purpose of holding an umbrella over them when it 
 rained, or of seeing them home on a dark night. 
 
HENRY HAL WORTH. 241 
 
 He was willing (as he was able,) to protect them 
 in a crowd, or carry them two at a time (for the 
 sake of propriety) across a marsh or miry road ; 
 but he was too proud to enlist as a competitor for 
 those favours which he conceived were more easily 
 to be won by flattery than by candour and truth. 
 
 He was, however, mistaken in this particular. 
 He underrated both the discrimination of the ladies 
 and the hold which he possessed upon their esti- 
 mation. The married women were as partial to 
 him as they well could be, consistently with that 
 duty which they owed their lords; and several 
 were the maidens who would have been willing to 
 shew their sense of his sterling qualities, if he had 
 afforded them an opportunity. They knew how to 
 appreciate the worth of manliness better than he 
 imagined ; and I hope, that, ere this, he has dis- 
 covered such to be the case. 
 
 He lived with his mother and sister, and loved 
 them from his very heart. I remember, on the 
 first evening of my being in company with them, 
 they were conversing upon the subject of marriage, 
 and he was earnestly enjoining his sister, if ever she 
 should think of becoming a wife, to choose " a 
 husband of God's making,'"* and not some " popin- 
 jay, who lives but in his form and fair habiliments- * 
 R 
 
242 HENRY HALW0RTH. 
 
 — " Do not," said he, " mix the blood of the Hal- 
 worths with that of the first lapdog that crosses the 
 threshold. — Do not let go my grasp till you have 
 met with some one who can love you as well?'' — 
 
 " But, Harry," said the mother, " you must be 
 aware that a woman can scarcely form a correct 
 judgment of her husband till it is too late to remedy 
 any evils that may be the consequence of her mar- 
 riage. — 
 
 " Why,° said Harry, in reply, " something must 
 depend upon herself. She must, of course, meet 
 her husband half way in all his whims and weak- 
 nesses — far be it from me to defend her indiscri- 
 minately." 
 
 " Alas !" said Mrs. Halworth, with a sigh, " I 
 have known girls as deserving as herself, who have 
 been deceived, though married under the most aus- 
 picious circumstances ; and Kate, for aught we 
 know, may meet with a husband, who w r ill only 
 take her hence to break her heart !" 
 
 u And if he does" said Harry, with vehemence, 
 " I'll break his head, and fetch her home again !" 
 
 His mother and sister would occasionally joke 
 him about some pretty girl or other ; but he 
 always denied the charge, and at one time was 
 even rash enough to defy the little god in all his 
 
HENRY HALWORTH. 243 
 
 power. He said that he had stood the test of 
 beauty and of time — for he was now thirty years 
 old — and intended for the future to pay his court 
 to the married women, and not " meddle with the 
 young girls w till an additional twenty years should 
 authorise the freedom. 
 
 Vain was the determination ! 
 
 It certainly was a most extraordinary circum- 
 stance, that, of all the women in the neighbour- 
 hood, he should fix upon the only one who might 
 be said to realise his opinion of female demerit : 
 yet such was Miss Amelia Musgrave — the prettiest 
 girl in the place, and the vainest. No sooner had 
 she attracted attention by her beauty, than it was 
 superseded by disgust for her affectation; and 
 Harry Halworth—as if to prove the impotence of 
 the stoutest heart that ever boasted invulnerability 
 — became enamoured of her ! 
 
 The first symptom of my hero's apostacy ap- 
 peared in his dress, which was completed with 
 more nicety than usual: the jockey coat was ex- 
 changed for one of a London cut ; and the spotted 
 neckerchief was superseded by a cravat of the 
 whitest muslin. Reports had already found their 
 way to the principal tea-tables in the neighbour- 
 hood., and became still more general on his havings 
 
244 HENRY HALWORTH. 
 
 upon one occasion, escorted the lady through the 
 high street. This circumstance, in short, was 
 deemed conclusive. Successively related at each 
 house, it gained an accession at every transfer, till 
 it reached the parsonage at the end of the town, 
 when suppositions were augmented into certainties, 
 and appearances established as facts. The clergy- 
 man's wife issued a second edition, improved by 
 her own addenda ; and it was soon almost univer- 
 sally understood, that if Mr. Halworth and Miss 
 Musgrave had not been already united in some 
 other parish, the ceremony would be immediately 
 performed in their own. 
 
 When all this came to Harry's ears, he had but 
 one reply to make : he honestly confessed that he 
 liked Miss Musgrave, and was only sorry that the 
 report was so great an exaggeration, 
 
 6i However,"" said he, " 'tis a pity all this talk 
 should be about nothing; so I'll e'en give them 
 cause for a little more tattle, and make the young 
 lady a regular offer." 
 
 He did so —and was refused. Neither was he 
 rejected in the civilest way possible; and he sub- 
 sequently heard that she had deemed his offer 
 " bold" and " presumptuous. 1 " 
 
 « Why, d — n it," said Harry, " I don't exactly 
 
HENRY HAL WORTH. 245 
 
 see how I can have offended her, either ; egad, I 
 think I have paid her a very high compliment. 
 Have I not broken my vow of celibacy on her 
 account? Have I not offered her the dominion 
 of my house? the possession of my ewes and 
 lambs? — I'll be a bachelor," said he, " for the 
 remainder of my life." 
 
 And thus we return to the point whence we set 
 off. 
 
 Harry evinced more philosophy under his disap- 
 pointment than he had shewn in the selection of 
 his lady-love ; and was to be seen, on the following 
 morning, whistling cheerily through his farm-yard 
 —his heart once more independent, and his spotted 
 neckcloth reinstated. 
 
 There was, just about this time, a detachment of 
 foot-soldiers quartered in the town, which assumed 
 in consequence an appearance of life and gaiety- 
 such as the peaceable inhabitants were but little 
 accustomed to. The young officers^ in all the pride 
 of their dazzling accoutrements, strutted about the 
 streets as usual, winning smiles from every shop- 
 keeper's daughter as she sat at the window, decked 
 in her holiday finery ; while the market-place, which 
 erst now had only known the sounds of some gab- 
 bling cabbage vender, or honest poultry woman out- 
 
246 HENRY HALWORTH. 
 
 cackling her ducks in praise of their excellence, re- 
 sounded with the beat of " the spirit-stirring drum," 
 and glittered with all the blazonry of martial pomp. 
 ■ — Mothers were busy in the guardianship of their 
 daughter's virtue, and husbands over anxious that 
 the protective power should be solely vested in them- 
 selves. Red coats and epaulettes are, it must be 
 allowed, moving things, and the eloquence of their 
 wearers is proverbial, while the music that aids 
 them in the field assists them in the promenade. 
 
 Among the officers was one Captain Sullivain, 
 who, having served his apprenticeship amid all the 
 shallow fopperies of St. James's Street, purchased 
 a commission in this regiment, and assumed the 
 dress of a soldier — 
 
 ' ( Why, God-a-mercy ! 
 When I think upon him, 'tis a miracle 
 That any woman should for such a thing 
 As he was — such a jay bedizeti'd in 
 The feathers of a peacock— leave the wiiig 
 Of a fine eagle spirit. — Yet it is — 
 For such a ci vetted, inglorious knave [" 
 
 He was a complete lady's man— one of those ex- 
 quisite personages, whose chief business consists in 
 making calls upon the fair — in leaning them about 
 from place to place — procuring them lip- salve, and 
 
HENRY HALWORTH. 247 
 
 taking boxes for them at the theatre. At a ball it 
 was his pride to " cut out" (as he termed it) " all 
 the vulgar fa-e-llows," and to walk up and down the 
 assembly room with a lady on each arm ; otto of 
 roses emanating as spontaneously from his person as 
 sentimentality from his brain. 
 
 Harry Hal worth was seated in the coffee-room of 
 an inn awaiting the arrival of his sister by the coach. 
 In due time the vehicle drew up, and was immedi- 
 ately surrounded, as usual, by a crowd of idlers, or 
 persons in expectation of their friends. When 
 Halworth appeared in the street, he was rather sur- 
 prised at seeing one of the officers standing with his 
 head through the coach window, and, as it appear- 
 ed, conversing with his sister. He turned out to 
 be the very man whom I have just been describing 
 to you, at that time a perfect stranger to Harry. 
 The latter, on coming nearer to the coach, heard 
 the officer accost his sister in a strain of the most 
 impertinent familiarity. — His blood rushed up in a 
 moment ! he held back a while to be fully assured 
 of the fellow's purpose, and heard Miss Halworth 
 desire him " to go about his business." — 
 
 " But, my love," said he, " my business is with 
 you" 
 
248 HENRY HALWORTH. 
 
 " First of all, Sir, 1 ' said Harry, turning the dash- 
 ing captain from the door of the coach by his collar 
 — " first of all, Sir, you'll settle matters with me, 
 I am a fitter person for your insult than that lady, 
 for I can resent it," 
 
 "D n it," said the warrior, "here's a 
 
 fa-e-llow ! And pray, Sir, who the devil are 
 you ?" 
 
 " One, who may prove a very devil, indeed, if 
 you don't instantly take yourself off. Come, Sir, 
 march ! or I'll so soil your finery in that gutter, 
 that your comrades won't know you again." 
 
 u I am a soldier — and — " 
 
 u So, I suppose, by your livery," said Harry, 
 " though, from your manners, 1 very much ques- 
 tion your right to the title." 
 
 " You are an impertinent scoundrel, I think," 
 said the man-o'-war ; " and, I trust, you do not 
 imagine that I shall put up with your insolence." 
 
 " You'd better," said Harry ; " it will be more 
 easy to put up with than my resentment." 
 
 "Your resentment !" exclaimed the other, fumb- 
 ling for his card case. 
 
 " Come, Sir," added Halworth, coolly, " take 
 yourself off, while your epaulettes are on your 
 
HENRY HAL WORTH. 249 
 
 shoulders. A little reflection will, I am sure, con- 
 vince you that you have done nothing worthy of a 
 soldier by insulting a woman." 
 
 66 It is not my way," said the son of Mars, " to 
 argue the matter in the open streets. Here is my 
 card — you will be kind enough to favour me with 
 your's." 
 
 " I don"t carry cards," said Harry, laughing ; 
 " but if you wish to know my name, and place of 
 abode, I'll tell you : my name is Henry Hal worth, 
 of Halworth Hall, close by." 
 
 " I shall remember, Sir — here is my card ; and 
 you may shortly expect to hear from me." 
 
 Halworth took the card from him, and instantly 
 tearing it in pieces, threw the fragments into the 
 kennel. " We differ," said he, " in our mode of 
 settling disputes." 
 
 " Then," replied the captain, " I have but one 
 alternative." 
 
 w I guess at your intention," said Harry : " you 
 mean to post my name up as that of a coward. 
 Now, hark you, Sir. It is not in your power to 
 hurt my reputation either as a man of honour or 
 courage. I neither choose to subject myself to the 
 fallacies of military custom, nor do I think that by 
 doing so, I should give any proof of bravery. My 
 
250 HENRY HALWORTII. 
 
 life, Sir, is valuable to others, and certainly of too 
 much worth to be staked against your own. If I 
 have done you wrong, seek legal redress. For my 
 own part, I should as much object to trouble my- 
 self with a prosecution, as I now scorn to take ad- 
 vantage of that physical force which would enable 
 me to shake the very soul out of you ! But you 
 know that the weakness of your cause is equal to 
 your personal imbecility." 
 
 " Sir," said the other, interrupting him, " we 
 shall meet again — or, at least — " 
 
 Halworth^s patience was now exhausted. He 
 seized Sullivain by the collar, and thus concluded 
 the conference. 
 
 " Know, then, Sir — the lady whom you have 
 insulted is my sister ! she and her mother look up 
 to me as to their only protector. You shall not 
 rob them of that protector, depend upon it. Any 
 communication from you will be treated with con- 
 tempt ; and, if you cast the slightest imputation upon 
 my courage, by G — d, Sir, Til break every bone in 
 your skin !" 
 
 I have forborne to interrupt this altercation, by 
 mentioning its effect upon the crowd, who, of 
 course, unanimously sided with Halworth, and 
 heartily enjoyed the discomfiture of the captain. 
 
HENRY HAL WORTH. 251 
 
 A loud burst of laughter followed the conclusion 
 of Harry's speech, and the officer quitted the scene 
 with as good a face as he well could do. Several 
 of his brethren, attracted by the noise, had joined 
 the crowd, but they could not penetrate it ; and I 
 am inclined to believe that they remain partially 
 ignorant of what occurred to this day. Never was 
 the triumph of a manly heart more complete than 
 in this instance. Poor Kate, having, in some de- 
 gree, recovered from the terrors which had over- 
 whelmed her during the uproar, was now conducted 
 by her brother into a post-chaise, and they were 
 driven off amid the cheering shouts of the popu- 
 lace. 
 
 Shortly after this event, the detachment left the 
 town ; and, for a time, nothing more transpired 
 concerning our military hero. At length, however, 
 he again became the subject of general conversa- 
 tion ; and, if his conduct in the affair with Hal- 
 worth had been insufficient to exhibit him in a true 
 light, his character was now fully developed. Some 
 
 months subsequent to his departure from , 
 
 it was ascertained, beyond all doubt, that he had 
 for ever crushed the peace of a certain family in 
 the neighbourhood, by effecting the ruin of a very 
 beautiful girl, who, being unable to bear the re- 
 
252 HENRY HALWORTH. 
 
 proofs of her friends, and the general knowledge of 
 her dishonour, had quitted her home in secret, to 
 seek the arms of her lover in London. It is sup- 
 posed that a promise of marriage was among the 
 temptations employed to complete her downfall ; 
 but her seducer, though he received her in town, 
 never fulfilled the chief clause in his engagement, 
 and she was reduced to the necessity of becoming 
 his mistress. For a season they were to be seen 
 together in the parks and places of public amuse- 
 ment ; but Sullivain, as might be expected, soon 
 became disgusted w r ith his paramour, and deserted 
 her. Plunged in debt, he was anticipating the 
 horrors of incarceration, when a quarrel with a 
 brother officer elicited a challenge. The issue of 
 the combat was fatal to him ; and the unfortunate 
 victim of his falsehood, no longer able to rely for 
 support on those charms of person which misery 
 had faded, soon descended into the grave. 
 
 My companion having finished his narrative, I 
 was anxious to know what had become of the gal- 
 lant Hal worth. 
 
 " Let me first inform you," said he, " that, of 
 
HENRY IIALWORTH. 253 
 
 the fate of Miss Amelia Musgrave you are already 
 acquainted — Sullivaiivs mistress was none other 
 than she !" 
 
 " Good Heaven !" I exclaimed, u and Hal- 
 worth ?" 
 
 " Married my sister." 
 66 I congratulate her. And Kate ?" 
 u You may congratulate rne^ said my com- 
 panion, " she is my wife." 
 
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 To-morrow is St. Valentine's day. 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 O, beware, my lord, of jealousy. 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 I returned to the hospitable mansion of the 
 squire on the eve of St. Valentine, and received 
 from each member of his family the most flattering 
 welcome. Miss Emily's inamorato, who was 
 staying at the house, appeared in much better 
 spirits than when he last parted from me in the 
 coach. In fact, there was every reason for the 
 change, since the doubts which then agitated his 
 mind had now given place to certainty. He had 
 in the interim declared his passion, and received 
 assurances that the attachment was mutual. 
 
 It was the custom of the gentry about this 
 neighbourhood occasionally to get up a small as- 
 sembly in the town hall of the adjacent borough, 
 
258 st. valentine's day. 
 
 and St. Valentine's Day had been fixed upon for 
 their next meeting, so that I was no less fortunate 
 in the time of my second visit than I had been at 
 my first arrival. I found all the ladies of the 
 squire's family busily occupied in preparation 
 for " the gay to-morrow." Miss Emily was 
 exercising her best taste upon an additional 
 flounce or two, and diligently studying the most 
 becoming manner of wearing a wreath of artificial 
 flowers with which her admirer had that evening 
 presented her. 
 
 On the following morning, as we were sitting at 
 breakfast, a letter arrived for Miss Wheatley. 
 The direction, written in a bold, undisguised hand, 
 was eyed with some degree of anxiety by Master 
 Alfred, whose uneasiness increased the more when 
 I suggested the probability of its being a Valen- 
 tine. 
 
 A Valentine it was : emblazoned, too, with every 
 fascinating device which the gilder and colourist 
 could supply. In the midst was a rose, which, on 
 being pulled up, discovered three hearts, two 
 united, but of these only one transfixed with Cupid's 
 arrow, while the third was to be seen in the 
 distance, copiously bleeding in solitude. 
 
 There was something so novel in all this, that 
 
st. valentine's day. 259 
 
 the young lady regarded it with more attention 
 than she would have bestowed upon an ordinary 
 Valentine, though, of course, without any feeling 
 beyond that of mere curiosity ; but Master Alfred 
 (so exquisite is the sensibility of a lover) absolutely 
 turned pale on beholding it. 
 
 " Well," said the squire, laughing heartily at 
 the perplexity of the one, and the wretchedness of 
 the other, " what is it all about ? Come, Alfred, 
 read it, my boy." 
 
 Alfred, however, declined. He seemed per- 
 fectly unable to enter into the merriment of the 
 affair, and had much difficulty in retaining his 
 fortitude while the squire perused these lines 
 aloud: — 
 
 ct And hast thou giv'n thy heart to one 
 
 Who has no love to answer thine ? 
 And hast thou on another smil'd, 
 
 And for his vows neglected mine ? 
 
 Lift by the silken string this rose — 
 
 The emblem of thyself — and see 
 How thou hast misallied thyself 
 
 And how thy fate has wounded me. 
 
 Thine is the bleeding heart united 
 
 To the other heart of stone ; 
 While the heart that loves thee truly, 
 
 Far away must bleed alone ! 
 
 s 2 
 
%6Q st. valentine's day. 
 
 To-night at Arlington's assembly, 
 
 Where Thalia's vot'ries meet, 
 Thou shalt find a packet under 
 
 The north-western window seat. 
 
 Read the packet on the morrow ; 
 
 Let my rival read it too : 
 It may teach him never more with 
 
 Jealous fits to trouble you." 
 
 Here was a strange medley ; sufficiently absurd 
 to amuse every one but our fidgetty lover, who 
 looked forward to the evening with great and in- 
 creasing anxiety. 
 
 The wished-for time at length arrived. On en- 
 tering the ball-room the lovers hastened to the 
 " north western window seat,"" and discovered the 
 mysterious packet. Alfred was about to leave the 
 room to examine it immediately. 
 
 " No," said his mistress, " it is directed to me in 
 particular, and I shall obey the mandate which 
 enjoins the perusal of its contents to-morrow." 
 
 " But consider my feelings," said the lover. 
 
 " I rather consider your folly," replied his mis- 
 tress. " Had you treated the whole affair with 
 that jocularity which it was no doubt the intention 
 of its author to excite, you might have done with 
 the packet as you pleased ; but, since you have 
 
ST. valentine's day. 261 
 
 chosen to deem it a matter of importance, let every 
 thing be conducted with regularity. If such ridi- 
 culous trifles put you into a fever, what happiness 
 may we hereafter expect ? I shall now put the 
 packet into my reticule, and to-morrow at breakfast 
 we will examine its contents." 
 
 Cl But, my dearest Emily — " 
 
 " Nay," said she, " how can you love her whom 
 you doubt?" 
 
 u I do not doubt you," replied Alfred. 
 
 " Then why fear others ?" said the amiable girl. 
 
 At this moment the music struck up, and they 
 took their places for the dance. 
 
 Unquestionably " the lords of the creation," 
 while experiencing the various little vexations inci- 
 dental to courtship, cut but a very sorry figure ; 
 and it is a difficult matter to reconcile the dis- 
 parity between the sensitive and capricious lover, 
 always in the extremes of joy, jealousy, and humi- 
 liation, and the authoritative husband of after 
 years, smiling superciliously at the vanities of his 
 wife, and reproving with frowns the follies of his 
 children. These observations were suggested by 
 the appearance of Master Alfred, who looked any 
 thing but a hero upon the present occasion, and 
 wore an aspect wonderfully assimilating to that of 
 
262 sx. valentine's day. 
 
 a drenched dunghill cock. Having once danced 
 with his mistress, he sat down for the remainder of 
 the ball to tantalize himself with groundless and 
 fear-fraught speculations. He keenly scrutinized 
 each gallant with whom she danced ; magnified the 
 common shows of courtesy into marked attentions ; 
 and successively discovered, by the most convincing 
 evidence, that each of her partners was the author 
 of the Valentine. 
 
 I was regarding the downcast lover with a 
 mixed feeling of pity and contempt, when I felt 
 a gentle tap on the shoulder, and, on turning 
 round, was equally surprised and delighted to 
 find myself once more in the company of— the 
 odd gentleman ! He had been induced to annul 
 his original intention of an immediate return home ; 
 and, as he never omitted any opportunity of giving 
 his support to the innocent gaieties of this life, he 
 had resolved to postpone his departure till the day 
 after the assembly. 
 
 " And pray," said he, pointing to the drooping 
 Alfred, " who is yon man of melancholy ?" 
 
 His ignorance, however, was affected. Taking 
 me into the adjoining waiting room, he gave me 
 to understand — what the reader shall understand in 
 due time : for the present, I would beg his atten- 
 tion to other matter 
 
ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 
 
 The amusements were drawing towards a close. 
 Many of the company were gone, and the card 
 players had begun to descend into the ball-room. 
 A country dance was proposed ; but the odd gentle- 
 man having neglected to provide himself before- 
 hand with a partner, was fearful of being obliged 
 to sit out, when, lo ! who should make her appear- 
 ance in the ball-room, but the elderly spinster, our 
 travelling companion ! 
 
 Under circumstances so peculiar, and, I may say, 
 ludicrous, this rencontre could not fail to entertain 
 me highly. The odd gentleman, though doubtless 
 much surprised, lost none of his apparent compo- 
 sure, and saluted the antiquated fair one with a bow 
 which might have done credit to Sir Charles Gran- 
 dison. It was returned by a gentle inclination of 
 the head, such as might have been expected from 
 the martial heroine of Tilbury Fort. 
 
 " Allow me, Madam/' said the odd gentle- 
 man, " to express my sincere hopes that your late 
 journey was unattended by inconvenience and 
 fatigue ?"" 
 
 " Why, no, Sir," replied she, " considering all 
 things, I was extremely glad to get to my journey's 
 end." 
 
 " At all events," continued the former, " I may 
 
264 st. valentine's day. 
 
 conclude that you have by this time entirely reco- 
 vered, and shall venture to solicit the honour of 
 your hand for the country dance." 
 
 u Excuse me, Sir, my dancing days are over." 
 
 <c Then should mine be also, Madam." 
 
 " As you think, Sir," replied the lady. 
 
 " Convinced of its propriety," added he, " I 
 would rather abide by your opinion." 
 
 " Then, Sir, since we last parted you have alter- 
 ed materially." 
 
 " And, I trust, Madam, for the better." 
 
 The lady was silent. 
 
 It was with great difficulty that the master of the 
 ceremonies prevailed upon her to accede to the so- 
 licitation of the odd gentleman. At length, how- 
 ever, she stood up, though much against her incli- 
 nation, and the dancing commenced. 
 
 O for the pencil of a Stephanoff ! The author of 
 " Poor Relations," who could so successfully depict 
 the contrast between suffering merit and pampered 
 pride, might certainly have here discovered a 
 subject scarcely less worthy of his notice. 
 
 Here was to be seen the joint personification of 
 frigid propriety and cheerful benevolence — the 
 difference between that virtue which had never 
 been subject to temptation, and the worth which 
 
ST. valentine's day. 265 
 
 had outlived it — between the stiffness of un- 
 awakened humanity and the generosity of a feeling 
 and experienced heart. The odd gentleman exhi- 
 bited a grace in his movements which the younger 
 beaux had done well to emulate; while the acti- 
 vity which he displayed, was at once a convincing 
 proof that our " dancing days" may extend beyond 
 the limits of youth. His partner, on the contrary, 
 moved along like a windmill en masse, with its 
 sails fixed. Her toes never once trespassed beyond 
 the pale of her petticoat, and her body retained its 
 perpendicular as truly as a plummet suspended in 
 a vacuum. It was evident that her " dancing 
 days" had never had an existence ; and that the 
 spring of her life had been cloudy as its autumn 
 was cold. 
 
 At the close of the ball, I parted finally with 
 the odd gentleman who had determined on leaving 
 the following morning, and rejoined the squire's 
 party. 
 
 " Why, Alfred," said Mr. Wheatley, as we 
 rode homeward, " you are all in the dolefuls to- 
 night r 
 
 " Have I not cause ?" said the youth. 
 
 " I think I have most," replied Emily, in a 
 half whisper. 
 
266 st. valentine's day. 
 
 <c Why, you seem to have been happy enough," 
 said her lover. 
 
 " I might have been happier, Alfred, I assure 
 you." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, u had I been absent" 
 
 The amiable girl scorned to answer an insinua- 
 tion so unmerited. In silence they reached home, 
 and in silence retired to their respective chambers. 
 " The usual way with us all," said Mr. Wheat- 
 ley: " amantium irce — the proverb is somewhat 
 musty." 
 
 Ere I bid " good night" to my reader, it were 
 as well that I should inform him of what the odd 
 gentleman had communicated, when, as may be 
 recollected, he took me aside from the ball-room. 
 
 " You know me," said he, u to be a queer 
 fellow, and will perhaps think I have been a little 
 too forward in meddling with the affairs of others. 
 I acknowledge it as my weakness to pry occasion- 
 ally into matters which no way concern me, and 
 have only to plead good intention as an excuse. 
 Now, Sir, I am informed that yon ' knight of the 
 woeful countenance' is desperately enamoured of 
 Miss Wheatley, who is again enamoured of him — 
 that he is a young man of sense, principle, and 
 feeling ; but too apt to make both himself and 
 
st. valentine's day. 267 
 
 mistress unhappy, by suffering appearances to 
 imply more than assurances can contradict. I 
 like to plague these captious gentlemen a little, 
 and thence my motive for sending a Valentine to 
 the fair Miss Emily. The packet alluded to con- 
 tains the narrative of a few facts — not precisely 
 applying to the love-match in question, but suit- 
 able, nevertheless — and the perusal of it may do 
 them both a service/' 
 
 Our party having assembled at the breakfast 
 table next morning, Miss Wheatley opened the 
 packet, and a loose strip of paper, containing the 
 following exordium, was the first object of notice. 
 
 " Ye, who listen with tenderness to the whisper- 
 ings of love, and hasten with eagerness to the altar 
 of Hymen ; beware how appearances induce you to 
 mistrust ; nor accuse your lovers of being faithless, 
 till you have proved their infidelity ." 
 
 Within a second envelope was a fair manuscript, 
 of which the following tale is a correct copy. 
 
GORDON. 
 
 "All's well that ends well." 
 
GORDON. 
 
 Few people, I trust, would incur the imputa- 
 tion of being so insensible to the charms of the pic- 
 turesque, as to remain for any length of time in the 
 neighbourhood of Chepstow, without paying a visit 
 to Tintern Abbey. Both the ruin itself, and the 
 beautiful scene in which it lies imbosomed, are, 
 perhaps, unequalled in their kind ; and were it my 
 present object to paint a picture, instead of to tell a 
 tale, I should be unable to find a subject more pleas- 
 ingly diversified than the one in question. But 
 the associations connected with this venerable re- 
 main, are such as would render it in teresting to 
 me, though its individual claims to notice were 
 comparatively weak : for, it was while rambling 
 
272 GORDON. 
 
 among its roofless and ivy-grown recesses, that I 
 became acquainted with three among the most esti- 
 mable of the human species. 
 
 Some people object to dine alone : — I can't say 
 that I do. I have, however, a decided aversion to 
 feast in solitude on the beauties of Nature ; and, 
 like Sterne, cannot thoroughly enjoy a charming 
 prospect, without some one to whom I may impart 
 the pleasure it affords. There was consequently 
 every reason for self-congratulation, when I receiv- 
 ed the polite salutation of an individual, who by his 
 dress appeared to be a clergyman, and whose con- 
 versation bore ample testimony to the intelligence 
 of his mind. Having explored the various parts of 
 the abbey, and conversed a while upon the history 
 of its foundation and subsequent fate, my companion 
 changed the subject of our discourse, by pointing 
 to a fallen capital in the area of the north transept :_ 
 
 " That stone," said he, " is a memorial of inte- 
 rest. You are most probably ignorant of the little 
 romantic history connected with it ?" 
 
 u As you have excited my curiosity," I replied, 
 " I hope you will now gratify it." 
 
 " Most willingly," he answered. 
 
 Never was a st-ory of romance delivered under 
 circumstances more favourable. The mildness of 
 
CORDON. 273 
 
 the evening, the beauty of the scene, and the elo- 
 quence of the relater, were all in unison ; and I 
 only regret that my reader must receive the nar- 
 rative under such comparative disadvantages. 
 
 It was on a fine summer morning, (said my 
 companion,) about three years back, that I paid 
 my first visit to these ruins, having just before been 
 appointed to the rectorship of a village hard by. 
 As I advanced towards the ruined choir, I perceiv- 
 ed a young man seated on the stone to which I have 
 already called your attention. He was dressed in 
 black, and appeared to be about the age of two- 
 and-twenty, while his pale and care-worn face be- 
 tokened him a child of misery. It was natural I 
 should suppose him a mourner for the dead — yet 
 there was no crape upon his hat to denote the loss 
 of any near alliance, and my surmises began to 
 lean towards disappointed love. I walked by him 
 once or twice ; but could perceive no indication of 
 his being inclined to communicate with me ; and, 
 though my curiosity was great, my sense of deli- 
 cacy prevailed. 
 
 On leaving the abbey I inquired concerning him 
 at a neighbouring cottage., and learned that he had 
 been in the vicinity upwards of a twelvemonth. 
 
'.'< I GORDON 
 
 When hi flint oamei there was a gloominess in his 
 
 maimer, and an apparent haek wardness to allow of 
 tin' advances of intimacy, which gave rise to much 
 
 speculation amon«;- the inhabitants: — 
 
 44 Sdinc <Wrm\l him womlrouM wise, niul noiiiu hclk'vM him mud." 
 
 He was continually to be seen walking l>y the side 
 of the river Wye f either absorbed In thoughti or 
 
 attentively perusing a hook. Sometimes he would 
 Hto|> and giv/,v on the children as they were at pkiy, 
 conversing occasionally with the younger ones, and 
 making them little presents. The first person with 
 
 whom he became in any way intimate, was s neigh 
 homiii;;- farmer, whose youngest l»>y, being a child 
 
 of unusual intelligence, had, as I conceive, al- 
 tracted the stranger's attention h\ the precocity 
 of his remarks. The little fellow came running 
 
 home one day | with a nicely hound ropy of John- 
 son's Uasselas, which, he said, the % strange gentle- 
 man" had given him. On the following morning 
 
 the father met him l>y accident, and ventured to 
 
 (hank him for Ins kindness to the child. He replied 
 
 wiih much courtesy, and the farmer frequently oon* 
 versed with him aftei wards, though without elicit- 
 ing anything of his historyt n 
 
 An advance having heen thus niadr hy one ol 
 
GORDON. 275 
 
 the villagers, others would occasionally venture to 
 address him. By this means a sort of qualified in- 
 timacy became generally established, though it was 
 remarked that he always seemed particularly care- 
 ful not to encourage any familiarity on the part of 
 his landlord, and the people where he lodged. 
 
 In the course of time I managed to introduce 
 myself; and, by slow degrees, winning upon his 
 confidence, at length obtained from him the his- 
 tory of his griefs. 
 
 He gave his name as George Cunningham. At 
 a very early age, it appears, he became an orphan, 
 inheriting an income of something more than a 
 hundred a year, together with an independence of 
 spirit, which rendered him a very unfrequent guest 
 in the mansions of his several wealthy relatives. 
 
 He soon discovered himself to be a young man of 
 refined intellect, and much intensity of feeling; 
 and, while the former subjected him to the sneers 
 of the envious, his sensibility little qualified him for 
 the endurance of repartee. 
 
 " The man renown'd for repartee, 
 Will seldom scruple to make free 
 
 With friendship's finest feeling- 
 Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
 And tell you c 'twas a special jest' 
 
 By way of balm for healing." 
 T 2 
 
276 GORDON. 
 
 Too early accustomed, perhaps, to think for him- 
 self, he acquired a singularity of opinion, as well as 
 habit, highly displeasing to his common-place ac- 
 quaintance. He had, in short, a few original 
 notions, and uttered them boldly ; drawing upon 
 himself the heaviest accusations of pride and arro- 
 gance, and, in some measure, courting the charge 
 of misanthropy. 
 
 Of course, it was not to be expected that so 
 susceptible a heart would long remain unmoved by 
 the fascinations of beauty : though he was some 
 time ere he met with a mistress answering the 
 beau-ideal of his mind. His imagination had fur- 
 nished him with a highly-coloured portrait, and it 
 was not till he met with Miss Caroline Sterling, 
 that Fancy acknowledged the superiority of Truth. 
 Here, then, he found a supposed realization of his 
 airy dreams. Those affections which had been, as it 
 were, increasing in his breast till it would permit 
 no further accumulation, now burst forth in all 
 their plenitude; and Cunningham, who had so 
 long suffered under the ribaldry of the unfeeling, 
 was now happy in the possession of a beloved 
 woman's sympathy. 
 
 There was only one bar to his joy — the necessity 
 of being secret. With the family of his mistress 
 
GORDON, 277 
 
 he was no favourite. His intellectual merits were 
 not likely to be appreciated by Mr, Sterling, who 
 was an extremely illiterate man, while his devoted 
 attachment to money would, of course, prove an 
 additional obstacle to a poor lover's suit. Ob- 
 stacles, however, in matters of the heart, may be 
 almost termed inducements, every new difficulty 
 giving a fresh impetus to determination 
 
 But the happiness of my hero was of short dura- 
 tion. The fervour of his passion was too great to 
 allow of the concealment which policy required, 
 and Mr. Sterling began to suspect the existence of 
 some attachment. His apprehensions aroused, 
 there was but little chance of escaping his watchful- 
 ness, and the interception of a letter brought the 
 whole affair to light. It was directed to his 
 daughter in the hand- writing of Cunningham, and 
 the enraged parent, on breaking the seal, disco- 
 vered, to his astonishment, that an attachment was 
 not only commenced, but an engagement formed. 
 Amiable under no circumstances, he violated every 
 decency when inflamed with anger, and disho- 
 noured the sensitive Cunningham with a blow ! 
 
 The latter was, of course, forbid the house ; but 
 the mere act of denying him all access to his mistress 
 was deemed a very inadequate stretch of severity, 
 
278 GORDON. 
 
 and the honesty of his intentions towards the lady was 
 even called into question. Miss Sterling was sent 
 from home for the effectual prevention of any com- 
 munication with her lover; and it was shortly 
 reported that her heart was not only weaned from 
 the passion which had so lately engrossed it ; but 
 that she had become fully convinced of the danger 
 she had escaped, and was thankful for her deli- 
 verance. 
 
 The wretchedness of Cunningham may be con- 
 ceived. Malice contrived to support her proceed- 
 ings with so much corroborative ingenuity, that he 
 was left to ruminate on the too great likelihood of 
 an alteration in Caroline's feelings. 
 
 At length her approaching marriage with a 
 young man, who had long been her suitor, was 
 noised abroad ; and the intelligence fell on the ears 
 of the wretched Cunningham like a withering blast ! 
 u Perplexed in the extreme," he remained for a 
 while writhing under the triumphant sneers of 
 gratified envy, occasionally seeking for a solitary 
 hope in the possibility of false report. Never had 
 his mistress evinced a greater ardour of attachment 
 than when he last saw her ; and, as he wept over 
 the locket that she had given him just before their 
 separation, he could not but entertain some faint 
 
cordon. 279 
 
 surmise that she had been, with himself, the sub- 
 ject of cruel misrepresentation. By this shadow 
 of a hope he enabled himself to await some further 
 intelligence concerning the truth of what had been 
 reported ; nor was it till six weeks after the day 
 of their parting that he resigned himself to misery. 
 His fate, however, as he had every reason to con- 
 ceive, was now decided by the following brief com- 
 munication which he received from the hands of 
 Mr. Sterling's servant. The superscription, he ob- 
 served, w T as in the hand-writing of her impenetrable 
 sire ; but the more important part had been too 
 truly penned by Caroline. 
 
 " Sir, 
 " It will be useless to inquire my reasons for 
 peremptorily refusing (as I hereby do) to permit a 
 continuation of your addresses. Any further im- 
 portunity will be considered as insulting. 
 
 " Caroline Sterling." 
 
 The poor fellow was stupified. Thrice he read 
 the letter, and as often had to await the recovery 
 of his stunned senses. 
 
 u Gracious Heaven," said he, " wherefore this 
 wanton cruelty ? ,? 
 
280 GORDON. 
 
 (The narrator here paused, and the tears gushed 
 into his eyes. " I am always affected, Sir,*" said he, 
 " when I think upon the peculiar tone in which 
 Cunningham repeated those words. It was the 
 climax of agony depicted. He sat for several 
 moments, with his clenched hands upon his knees, 
 and seemed to be enduring such a struggle with 
 wretchedness, that I almost feared to permit his 
 continuation of the narrative. i It is almost con- 
 cluded,' said he, panting for the recovery of his 
 composure — c I never related it till now, and shall 
 never attempt it again P") 
 
 Fully assured of the identity of this letter, he 
 had no longer any doubt of the writer's baseness ; 
 and recovering in some degree from the violence of 
 the first shock, he took the earliest means of flying 
 from the scene of his blighted happiness. Restor- 
 ing to Miss Sterling the several letters and little 
 presents which he had received from her at various 
 times, he implored for her the pardon of heaven, 
 and bade adieu to the scene of her falsehood for ever. 
 Chance brought him here, where he determined 
 on spending the remainder of his days as became 
 a christian ; and he was never heard to repine, 
 although the silent workings of memory were evi- 
 dently effecting his gradual dissolution. 
 
GORDON. 281 
 
 Never shall I forget my feelings when he parted 
 from me at the conclusion of his melancholy tale. 
 " A little while," thought I, " and his cheek will 
 be cold as it is pale — the grave will close over his 
 wretchedness, and I alone shall retain the memory 
 of his wrongs !" 
 
 Of course, having entrusted me with his confi- 
 dence, our intimacy soon ripened into friendship ; 
 I gradually introduced him to my congregation, 
 and he became the village favourite — not a lively 
 member of our little community, but a deservedly 
 respected one: daily proving his claims to the 
 gratitude of the poor, and the solicitude of the more 
 fortunate. 
 
 These ruins became his favourite resort ; nor 
 can we wonder at his preference for a scene, the 
 character of which was so much in unison with the 
 state of his own mind. 
 
 It was several months after our first acquaint- 
 ance that I met him on this very spot, looking, as 
 I conceived, more wretched than usual. As we 
 paced together up and down the nave, the sky 
 became suddenly overcast with every appearance 
 of a forthcoming storm ; and hastily directing our 
 steps towards the village, we arrived at a small inn 
 on the road side, just time enough to escape one of 
 
282 GORDON. 
 
 the most tremendous tempests I have ever witnessed. 
 The rain fell in torrents. The thunder roared in 
 loud and lengthened peals, and vivid flashes of 
 forked lightning followed each other in quick and 
 constant succession. 
 
 " It is an ill wind," says the proverb, " that 
 blows nobody any good ;V but George Cunning- 
 ham little calculated upon the full extent of the 
 benefit which his fate had ordained as the conse- 
 quence of this storm : — 
 
 €t If after every tempest come such calms, 
 
 May the winds blow till they have waken'd death !" 
 
 We had scarcely entered the parlour of the inn, 
 when a horseman gal lopped into the adjoining yard, 
 and tying his panting steed to a cross bar in the 
 shed, entered the house, called for refreshments, 
 and joined Cunningham and myself in the par- 
 lour. My companion regarded him for a mo- 
 ment, as if not unacquainted with his features, and 
 the stranger, mistaking his expression of curiosity 
 for one of social inclination, immediately entered 
 into conversation. 
 
 After a few common-place remarks, Merton (for 
 such was the stranger's name) made an allusion 
 to Lord Byron, whose lamentable death was just 
 
GORDON. 283 
 
 then the theme of general conversation. This led 
 to a discussion on the writings of that illustrious 
 individual, in which Cunningham displayed an 
 enthusiasm of mind and fervour of manner, form- 
 ing a striking contrast to the coolness and suavity 
 which marked his ordinary discourse; while Merton, 
 whose opinions upon the subject were directly 
 opposed to those of my companion, argued, in his 
 turn, somewhat warmly; strongly contesting the 
 immoral tendency of writings he had never read, 
 or could not understand ; and boldly asserting, as 
 unquestionable fact, every thing which the calum- 
 nies of the envious, and the ignorance of the pre- 
 judiced, had brought forward in the depreciation of 
 a man, perhaps, " more sinned against than sin- 
 ning,"" — "Nay, more," said Merton, "I can quote 
 at least, one case in support of what I have ad- 
 vanced. I know something of a disciple of the 
 Byron school, who has most effectually succeeded 
 in bringing a highly respectable family into a state 
 of wretchedness ; and has either retired from the 
 world, or immersed himself in its debaucheries, 
 because he failed in his attempt to seduce an amia- 
 ble and lovely girl, whose affections, I presume, he 
 obtained, by an artful appliance of those cursed 
 fascinations, which are so frequently to be found in 
 
284 GORDON. 
 
 the strains of these poetical reptiles. She, poor 
 girl, was persuaded of her error too late ; for, 
 though she must have been ultimately convinced of 
 his baseness, she was unable to extricate her affec- 
 tions from one, whom she abhorred as an atheist, 
 while she loved him as a man ! Yes, Sir ; the 
 fellow was an atheist ! made up of pride, indolence, 
 and my Lord Byron's poetry. No sooner were his 
 clandestine proceedings discovered by the father of 
 the young lady, than he at once proclaimed the base- 
 ness of his intentions, by the skulking meanness of 
 his conduct. He flew from the village, and deserted 
 her. Without explanation, he sent back all her let- 
 ters, and tokens of affection, and, in short, broke 
 her heart ! Perhaps, he is now wandering about 
 the world to cheat the understandings of the weak 
 and sensitive, by persuading them that he is the 
 ruin of a once fine and noble minded creature, who 
 was born with a love for his species, and a natural 
 desire to promote its good : but, finding that the 
 c world never loved him,' and that his fellow- 
 creatures thought him — if not a fool — something 
 infinitely worse, he has very magnanimously be- 
 come a hater of men, making drinking cups of their 
 skulls, and courting the friendship of Newfound- 
 land dogs." 
 
GORDON. 285 
 
 " 1 am too much interested," said Cunningham, 
 with impatient anxiety, "in the behalf of the 
 young lady, to attend to your sneers at the noble 
 poet in question : they may, or may not, be just ; 
 — but, pray, Sir (his voice faltered as he put the 
 question), does she still live ?" 
 
 " She lingers, Sir/' replied Merton. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the name of the — villain ?" 
 
 " O, yes — and was once, I believe, in his com- 
 pany, although I have no recollection of his per- 
 son. When we wish to sum up every thing that 
 is opprobrious, in one word, we pronounce the 
 name of Gordon !" 
 
 This was the first time of my being acquainted 
 with the real sirname of my companion ; but my 
 surprise bore no comparison with the astonishment 
 of Merton, when he encountered the following 
 reply. 
 
 u Liar ! — restrain the torrent of your cruel and 
 unmerited abuse. In me behold the object of your 
 calumniation !" 
 
 Merton was a man of more passion than spirit, 
 and rather weak than unamiable. He knew that 
 he had grounded his opinion on report, and that 
 in expressing it, he had been influenced by one 
 of his strongest prejudices. Though scarcely a 
 
286 GORDON 
 
 time for levity, it was impossible to behold the 
 sudden change in Merton's manner and counte- 
 nance, without an inclination to smile. He re- 
 mained, at first, wholly confounded ; his censorial 
 dignity having been completely crushed beneath 
 the sudden proclamation of Gordon's identity ; 
 and, while the latter paced up and down the room 
 with angry strides, he sat with open mouth, and 
 fixed eyes, like a man just thrown with all his per- 
 ceptive qualities into a new world. 
 
 At length, when he attempted to speak, it was 
 in so confused a manner, that Gordon really felt 
 for and relieved him. 
 
 " You are somewhat embarrassed, Mr. Merton, 
 and well you may be : but I do not scorn to ame- 
 liorate my character — even in your eyes ; and if 
 you will condescend to examine both sides of a 
 question which you have decided upon too prema- 
 turely, you may, perhaps, be induced to think 
 better of me." 
 
 After a short pause, he resumed :— 
 
 " We have both been wrong. You treated me 
 with undue severity ; but I have returned it in full, 
 and hope you will overlook what has just passed." 
 
 Here Merton stammered out something like an 
 apology — quoted his authorities for those sup- 
 
GORDON. 287 
 
 positions, which he was happy to find had proved 
 erroneous, and gradually resumed his self-possession. 
 
 " You are probably ignorant/' said Gordon, 
 " that I have at this moment in my possession a 
 letter from Miss Stirling, in which I am denied 
 all farther communication with her, and even re- 
 fuse an explanation ?" 
 
 Merton was surprised. 6 ' The question/' said 
 he, " has been repeatedly put to her ; and she has 
 as often answered on her oath, that she never ex- 
 pressed, either by word or letter, any decrease of 
 her affection for you." 
 
 Gordon in his turn was astonished. 
 
 " Ah !" said Merton, musing, " I now recollect, 
 though indistinctly, some circumstances connected 
 with a letter which she had intended should be 
 privately conveyed to a young man who had long 
 been her unsuccessful suitor, but which never came 
 to his hands." 
 
 " Why," said Gordon, " it was even reported 
 that she was about to unite herself in marriage with 
 the individual of whom you speak." 
 
 " Aye, Sir — it was reported, and very generally 
 believed. It was her father's determined intention 
 that she should marry him ; and he died without 
 retracting the command." 
 
288 GORDON. 
 
 " He is dead, then !" exclaimed Gordon ; " God 
 forgive him ! I see the entire state of the case !" 
 
 Nor was he wrong in divining the mystery. It 
 may be remembered that the letter he received was 
 directed, not by his mistress, but in the hand-writ- 
 ing of her father. Here, then, at one view, he saw 
 the whole range of heedless misconceptions which 
 had nearly broken the heart-strings of Caroline and 
 himself. He questioned Merton with impatient 
 rapidity, and invariably received answers confirm- 
 ing the truth of his suppositions. Merton also could 
 now look upon matters in a different light ; and, 
 aware that he had been precipitate, was anxious to 
 make amends. Stating his intention of remaining 
 at the inn for the night, he retired with Gordon to 
 his lodgings, and the following deduction arose from 
 their conference : — 
 
 Caroline had never for a moment harboured an 
 evil wish against her deeply attached lover ; much 
 less had she been the conscious cause of his unhap- 
 piness. The letter he had received was intended for 
 his unsuccessful rival ; and it was evident that the 
 father, in a moment of wrath at his daughter's in- 
 flexibility of purpose, had directed it to Cunning- 
 ham. Hence, it was clear that George had been 
 labouring under a false conviction of his mis- 
 
GORDON. 289 
 
 tress' infidelity, while her happiness had been 
 blighted by his supposed neglect. 
 
 The effect of this discovery upon my hero was 
 overwhelming. Hope, fear, and self-reproach, corn- 
 batted for precedency in his bosom ; while M erton, 
 hitherto among the ranks of his enemies, was now 
 looked up to as his most available friend. The latter 
 offered again and again every assistance in his 
 power, revisited Gordon on the following morning, 
 and promised immediately to interest himself in a 
 negociation between the parties. " I doubt not," 
 said he, " that all will yet be well. At any rate, 
 you shall receive a letter from me in a day or two ; 
 and, in the mean time, I pray you keep up your 
 spirits.'" Gordon grasped him warmly by the 
 hand, while tears of joy suffused his eyes. " You 
 have indeed mistaken me," said he. " Aid me then, 
 I beseech you, with your best exertions. If they 
 succeed, my heartfelt gratitude will be yours, dur- 
 ing the remainder of a life, which I feel would be 
 prolonged under such felicitous circumstances. If 
 they fail, I shall not long remain to bear the disap- 
 pointment, and will thank you for your charitable 
 intentions, with my dying breath." 
 
 Dreadful was the interval betwixt the time of 
 Merton's departure and the arrival of his promised 
 
290 GORDON. 
 
 communication. Immeasurable bliss or insupport- 
 able misery awaited the bewildered Gordon. Now, 
 fancy would picture all the joys of a restoration ; 
 and now all the more probable miseries of disap- 
 pointment. Perhaps he might see her on her 
 death-bed ! It would be some consolation to hear 
 her parting breath dwell upon his name. " Then/' 
 said he, "I shall soon follow her, and we may find 
 a recompense for our earthly woes by a union in 
 heaven !" 
 
 Two miserable days, and sleepless nights, passed 
 on, and the state of Gordon's mind was such as to 
 alarm all around him. On the morning of the 
 third day a letter arrived. The superscription was 
 Merton's. With a tremulous hand he broke the 
 seal, and found two letters within the enclosure. 
 Merton's, which alone was directed, ran thus : — 
 
 " Injured Sir, 
 " I hope I have in some measure redeemed my- 
 self in your opinion. Be as collected as possible, I 
 conjure you. Open the accompanying letter, and 
 believe it genuine. I shall be with you in the 
 course of the day. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 " Wm. Merton." 
 
GORDON. 291 
 
 He opened the precious cofrimunication, and the 
 following presented itself to his ravished sight : — 
 
 " O, my dearest George, how much have we been 
 deceived ! Be assured your poor Caroline is per- 
 fectly innocent, where you have had too much rea- 
 son to suppose her guilty. I have loved — lamented 
 — any thing but wronged you ; and I trust you will 
 now give that full credit to my fidelity, which I do 
 to yours. I was dying, but now look forward to 
 life — to the joy of being once more lodged in the 
 arms of him, under whose supposed defection, I 
 have been gradually sinking to the grave. 
 
 " I can write no more at present, being exces- 
 sively weak and agitated, I am innocent, my 
 dear George — indeed I am. God bless you ! 
 
 " Your Caroline." 
 
 I need not say how often he perused this letter — - 
 nor that he kissed it again and again, " as if it had 
 been the hand which penned it.'" 
 
 Merton arrived according to his promise, and 
 poured the balm of comfort into Gordon's ear by 
 every word he uttered. Every precaution had 
 been taken to prevent the too violent effect of 
 extreme joy upon a frame which excessive grief 
 u 2 
 
292 GORDON. 
 
 had almost ruined. The medical men had recom- 
 mended change of air as a last resource ; and 
 Merton found but little persuasion necessary to 
 make Caroline's mother fix upon South Wales as 
 the point of destination, the union of the lovers 
 being no longer a matter of prudence, but of posi- 
 tive urgency. 
 
 " They will be here, therefore," said Merton, 
 " in a few days ; and all you have to do is to pre- 
 serve your mental composure till the end of the 
 week, when you may expect to see them." 
 
 The evening previous to the day appointed for 
 the meeting had arrived, and Gordon was revelling 
 in joyful anticipation of the morrow, when Merton 
 unexpectedly broke in upon his meditations : — 
 
 ct They are come," said he, " somewhat sooner 
 than I expected." 
 
 " Good God !" exclaimed Gordon, u is she 
 here?" 
 
 " Gently, young man," added the cautious 
 Merton : " prepare to accompany me, and promise 
 to be calm. She does not expect you till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 On arriving at the house which Merton had 
 provided for the accommodation of Mrs. Sterling 
 and her daughter, they were met in the hall by a 
 
GORDON. 293 
 
 young woman, who requested them to ascend the 
 staircase as quietly as possible, for that Miss Ster- 
 ling had, for the first time during the last two 
 days, fallen asleep. Fatigue from travelling had 
 at length promoted repose, and she was now on 
 the sofa in the drawing-room above. 
 
 The trembling lover was introduced to her as 
 she slept ! He advanced with breathless emotion 
 towards the sofa, but paused ere he reached it, as 
 if hesitating to break too abruptly through " the 
 divinity which hedged her in." Heaving a long- 
 drawn sigh, he stood for a few seconds regarding 
 the wasted form of his beloved girl, and was cut to 
 the heart to think that he should have been even 
 the unintentional cause of her suffering. 
 
 He approached still nearer — she moved ! His 
 breath was suspended — but she became again com- 
 posed, and he seemed relieved. 
 
 Sitting down at the head of the sofa, he gently 
 took her hand within his own, and refraining to 
 indulge in any closer endearment, 
 
 " With looks of cordial love 
 Hung over her enamour' d." 
 
 Suddenly she became restless, and muttered some- 
 
294 GORDON. 
 
 thing indistinctly. He fancied she had pro- 
 nounced his name. 
 
 " I shall now be unhappy no longer — I am 
 the wife of Gordon ;" said the affectionate girl, 
 as she lay unconsciously beneath the fond gaze of 
 her lover. 
 
 Unable to restrain his feelings any longer, he 
 entwined her in his embrace, and she awoke with 
 the pressure. His altered appearance evidently 
 shocked her. Incapable of utterance, she fainted 
 on first seeing him, but soon recovered ; and, laying 
 her head upon his bosom, relieved the agony of her 
 joy by a flood of tears. 
 
 The rector had arrived at this point of his story 
 when the moving bolts of the Abbey door an- 
 nounced the approach of some visitors. I had be- 
 come too much interested in the narrative not to 
 feel the annoyance of any interruption, and was so 
 far unmindful of being in the presence of a clergy- 
 man, as to vent my anger in an oath. 
 
 " Nay," said he, " you may consider the nar- 
 rative as finished." 
 
 " But, were they married?" I anxiously in- 
 quired. 
 
GORDON. 295 
 
 He had barely time to reply in the affirmative, 
 when a lady and gentleman of youthful and pre- 
 possessing appearance entered the Abbey, and ad- 
 vanced toward us. Health and happiness were 
 depicted in their countenances : — 
 
 " Allow me," said the rector, " to introduce 
 you to 
 
 " Me. and Mas. Gordon." 
 
THE PAINTER'S ACCOUNT 
 
 OF 
 
 HIMSELF. 
 
 "—And one man in his time plays many parts." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
THE 
 
 PAINTER'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 It was with unfeigned regret that I, at lengthy 
 bade adieu to the hospitable squire and his family ; 
 intending, without further delay, to proceed on 
 my journey to London. Instead of taking coach 
 at the neighbouring town, it was thought more 
 advisable for me to proceed by the cross road to 
 the inn, where, as the reader may recollect, I was 
 on a former occasion so sorely beset with phantoms 
 grim and horrible in the painter's apartment. 
 Never, surely, had a two months' trip been more 
 pregnant with incident and matter for narrative : 
 neither were my adventures yet at an end, for, on 
 reaching the inn, where I had to await the arrival 
 of the mail, I was immediately introduced by the 
 landlord to the author of the picture, which had con- 
 tributed so materially to the disturbance of my rest 
 
300 the painter's 
 
 The painter saluted me with much courtesy, 
 apologising for the terrific influence which he had 
 imparted to his canvass, and assuring me, that, 
 " however his works might be formidable to those 
 whose digestive organs were impaired, the work- 
 man himself was by no means to be dreaded/' 
 
 This it was easy to believe. Candour and good- 
 humour were depicted in his countenance ; and I 
 no sooner beheld him than I wished for his ac- 
 quaintance. " Notwithstanding the nocturnal 
 troubles/' said I, " which your picture occasioned, 
 it pleased me exceedingly ; and I have since often 
 coveted an opportunity of becoming more familiar 
 with the produce of your talents." 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I am proud of your appro- 
 bation, and only regret that you should now have 
 paid us so flying a visit ; since I have several pic- 
 tures on hand, and a tolerably rich portfolio ; and, 
 had your leisure permitted, I should have been 
 most happy in submitting them to your inspec- 
 tion." 
 
 Regretting in turn my " positive inability" 
 to stop, the coach drove up ; and, shaking hands 
 with the painter, I was about to enter the vehicle, 
 when " mine host of the garter" very politely inti- 
 mated, that I had better make up my mind to try 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF, 301 
 
 another encounter with the ghosts, for that the 
 coach was fulL 
 
 It is surprising how peremptory obligations are 
 frequently annulled, only by the removal of some 
 ordinary opportunity. There being no room in 
 the coach, I felt no longer any reluctance to put 
 up with a room in the inn ; and, returning to the 
 painter, I could scarcely do less than observe, that, 
 although the obligation to go immediately to Lon- 
 don had been the more urgent, the obligation to 
 stay in his company was by far the more agreeable. 
 The coach went off without me, and I ordered a 
 bed for the night. 
 
 I soon discovered that my companion was an en- 
 thusiast : fanciful, thoughtless, and benevolent. 
 He had at one time been affected by a theatrical 
 mania ; at another by the madness of poetry ; but, 
 unlike men of feeling in general, had never been 
 prone to despondency. He was now earnestly de- 
 voted to the pictorial art : it had been always a 
 favourite pursuit ; and during the latter part of 
 his life he had studied it exclusively. Fuseli had 
 been his chief model ; but, while he admired the 
 poetical vigour and anatomical knowledge of his 
 favourite, he considered him as occasionally extra- 
 vagant, and always too angular. 
 
802 the painter's 
 
 As we sate at our wine after dinner, he gave me 
 a sketch of his life. 
 
 My father (said he) was a Liverpool merchant, 
 who, partly to gratify his passion, and partly to 
 increase his capital, had married the well endowed 
 sister of a wealthy tea merchant in London. Being 
 a younger son, I was not brought up in my father's 
 business, but placed in the counting-house of my 
 uncle, where, during a stay of two years, T ren- 
 dered myself deeply conversant with Shakspeare 
 and the novelists, and, as you may readily sup- 
 pose, learnt nothing of my business. My fellow 
 labourers in the Bohea mart, on the contrary, 
 studied little else than the substantial philosophy 
 of day-book and ledger. They looked upon me 
 with contempt, and I regarded them as beneath it. 
 Occasionally, indeed, I condescended to argue with 
 them upon the subject, but found them all as incor- 
 rigible as cannisters. In vain I represented to 
 them that tea, no less than poetry, was among the 
 useless or at least unnecessary commodities of life ; 
 and that if the latter effeminized the mind, the 
 other only tended to enervate the body. The 
 blockheads, Sir, could not understand me : they 
 still maintained the worth of the plant, as they 
 would have done the importance of poetry — 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 303 
 
 if it could have been sold at eight shillings a 
 pound. 
 
 I was about to commence the third year of my 
 apprenticeship, when my grandfather, from whom 
 I appeared to have inherited my poetical propen- 
 sities, bequeathed me on his deat tubed an annuity 
 of sixty pounds a-year. This, perhaps, was one 
 of the most unfortunate circumstances that ever 
 happened to me. But for this legacy, it is possible 
 I might have been eventually weaned from those 
 follies which engrossed my youth, and by this 
 time established as a partner in the firm ; for my 
 uncle's liberality was greater than is usual with 
 men of business ; and he forbore to check with 
 violence what he conceived might gradually decline. 
 All hopes of my amendment, however, were now 
 resigned. No sooner was I sensible of my inde- 
 pendence than I laughed at my uncle, and lam- 
 pooned his clerks. The latter bore my insults with 
 politic forbearance, but the former very justly 
 turned me out of his house — " Go," said he, " for 
 a good for nothing vagabond as thou art !" 
 
 For about two months I enjoyed the otium cum 
 dignitate of a retired gentleman, in the vicinity of 
 Pentonville; but I very shortly discovered that 
 the dignitas was incompatible with sixty pounds 
 
304 the painter's 
 
 a-year, and resolved on such an application of my 
 talents, as might not only enrich but also signalize 
 me. I had frequently attended the theatre as a 
 spectator, and now entertained notions of figuring 
 upon the stage myself: nor must you suppose that 
 my object was simply to please the public, but to 
 shew them that they had been hitherto gratified 
 by performances of the most faulty description. 
 Cooke I acknowledged had some good points; 
 Kemble shone occasionally in a few characters; 
 but the audiences of Drury Lane and Covent 
 Garden were yet to witness the full development 
 of Shakspeare's glory. 
 
 I conceived it politic, however, to make a first 
 essay on some minor stage ; and waited upon the 
 manager of the West London Theatre with an 
 offer to play Macbeth for him. 
 
 " To play Macbeth for me!" exclaimed the 
 Thespian ruler, " for me ! I thank ye heartily : 
 but beg ye to understand that I can play the cha- 
 racter myself; and even were I disinclined to 
 assume the cap and tartan plaid, there be several 
 who would be prompt to fill the vacancy: we are 
 in no want of Macbeths here, I assure ye !" 
 
 Now, Sir, this was quite new to me. My fancy 
 had never even suggested the probability of such 
 
ACCOUNT OF HTMSELF. 305 
 
 a reply ; nor can I say whether surprise or morti- 
 fication was the feeling predominating within me. 
 
 u Pray, Sir," said the manager, " may I ask 
 whether you be professional, or an amateur ?" 
 
 " Can that," said I, " affect my ability to per- 
 form the part ?" 
 
 " Why, no, Sir," he replied ; " but it mate- 
 rially affects the terms on which you play." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 a Simply thus," said the manager, with a smile : 
 " if you be professional, I may probably have to 
 pay you five pounds a week : if you be an amateur, 
 you will have to pay me ten pounds a night." 
 
 To be brief — I paid the money; played the 
 character after my own fashion ; and the audience 
 treated me after theirs, which was none of the 
 gentlest. Unquestionably they were agreed as to 
 the originality of the performance, and, as I opine, 
 equally unanimous on the subject of its merits, 
 On rushing from the murder of Duncan I nearly 
 overthrew Lady Macbeth, and created much mirth 
 in the banquet scene by letting the golden chalice 
 fall upon the toes of Banquo's ghost. Forgetting 
 my part on one occasion, the prompter remained 
 unable to assist me from laughter, and a wag in the 
 gallery was induced to comment on the " beauty 
 x 
 
306 the painter's 
 
 of my pauses." Ere I fell by the sword of Macduff 
 my fate was proclaimed : — c Lay on J said I, ' and 
 damn'd be he who first cries hold, enough! — " You're 
 damn'd already/' exclaimed the wag aforesaid : and 
 thus ended my theatrical career. 
 
 I need scarcely inform you that my dramatic 
 attempt was kept a profound secret at the time ; 
 for the few remaining claims which I held upon 
 my father's indulgence would have been instantly 
 annulled had it come to his knowledge. In the 
 course of a few months after my separation from 
 the tea company, I ventured to pay him a visit, 
 and though he received me at first rather coolly, 
 he subsequently acknowledged the warmth of pa- 
 rental affection, and condescended to ask me u what 
 were my future plans ?" 
 
 " Father," said I, with a decision that seemed 
 to please him, " I wish to be a painter." 
 
 " A house-painter ?" said he, " or a landscape 
 painter ?" 
 
 u An historical painter," said I, with emphasis. 
 
 " Then, Sir," he remarked, " you would not, 
 I presume, condescend to be a Sir Thomas Law- 
 rence ?" 
 
 " His paintings," I replied, " are more than 
 mere portraits — they are pictures." 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 307 
 
 " Then, Sir," concluded he, " I wish you would 
 become & picture painter !" 
 
 In short, my father added forty pounds annually 
 to my income, and I entered the Royal Academy 
 as a student. My progress was rapid; my per- 
 formances received with favour by the critics; and, 
 in the end, I obtained the medal, with the necessary 
 allowance for a three years sojourn in Italy. Taking 
 an affectionate leave of my parents, I waited upon 
 my uncle with an humble apology for my late un- 
 dutiful conduct, snapped my fingers at his clerks, 
 and embarked for the continent. 
 
 After a reasonable stay at Paris, Genoa, and 
 Florence, I proceeded on my way to the " eternal 
 city 5 " where painting and sculpture still hold their 
 principal courts. Sated with the riches of the 
 several galleries, public and private, where martyr- 
 doms and holy families prevail even to nausea, I 
 sought for subjects of novelty among the moun- 
 tains which border the Campagnia^ and became 
 enamoured of rocks, cascades, and banditti. Such 
 were the themes which now engrossed my pencil, 
 and I was shortly fired with an emulative spirit 
 which threatened subversion to the fame of Salvator 
 Rosa. 
 
 In the course of time, however, circumstances 
 x 2 
 
308 the painter's 
 
 tended to give my mind a new turn. One of my 
 brother artists introduced me into an Italian family, 
 among whom was a pretty brunette, with a fine full 
 figure and large black eyes. I could never fancy, 
 Sir, your little English delicacies — but your looks 
 inform me that I shall offend you by dilation on 
 that point — therefore, without any odious com- 
 parisons, I shall merely state, that the lady in 
 question at once captivated my heart, and in 
 every picture that I painted was to be found some 
 intimation of the ruling passion. 
 
 Prompted by my feelings to make an instant 
 proposal of marriage, I could not but hesitate when 
 I considered my circumstances, the certainty of 
 incurring the ridicule of my fellow-students, and 
 the displeasure of my father. As to any thing 
 but an honourable alliance, it had never entered my 
 mind. The lady was of good family, and no less 
 reputed for respectability than for loveliness. Had 
 she received my addresses with indifference, I could 
 then have done as prudence directed ; but she had 
 evinced her affection, as I conceived, beyond all 
 doubt, and I had no alternative but to love. 
 
 As I was wandering one evening in musing 
 melancholy mood towards the abode of my fair one, 
 I heard a noise as of two men violently quarrelling ; 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 309 
 
 and, on approaching nearer to the scene of disturb- 
 ance, I could perceive them indistinctly through 
 the shrubs struggling for the possession of a knife. 
 It was immediately evident that the one had at- 
 tempted the life of the other : I rushed instantly 
 through the plantation, and, after some difficulty, 
 succeeded in separating the combatants and secur- 
 ing the weapon. 
 
 No sooner had they recovered from the increased 
 agitation which my unexpected interference had 
 occasioned, than they appeared to lose all sense of 
 animosity, and to be influenced alone by feelings 
 of astonishment. They first regarded me, then 
 looked at each other; and afterwards wondered, 
 " by the body of Bacchus," how I should have 
 become acquainted with the circumstances. 
 
 " With what circumstances ?" I asked. " Chance 
 brought me here just at the moment of your mur- 
 derous encounter ; but I know of nothing beyond 
 that, and have only to request,*" said I, throwing 
 the knife into the Tiber, " that you will both go 
 peaceably home, and for the future, adopt a more 
 honourable method of settling your quarrels." 
 
 Although they were strangers to my recollection, 
 it appeared I was thoroughly known to them. 
 Finding, however, that I was unacquainted with 
 
310 THE PAINTEU's 
 
 the cause of their enmity, they seemed inclined to 
 favour my ignorance ; and, with thanks for my 
 interposition, they wished me a very good evening, 
 and severally departed. 
 
 On reaching the mansion of my fair one, I found 
 her suffering from an unusual depression of spirits ; 
 and, being urged to explain the cause of her melan- 
 choly, she delicately hinted to me, after much hesi- 
 tation, that our intimacy were better discontinued, 
 for that it had already given rise to a very general 
 belief of our speedily approaching union. My 
 feelings were always quick ; and, being now 
 actuated by the sole desire of establishing her 
 comfort and my own honour, I unhesitatingly 
 solicited her hand, and left her to appoint the 
 nuptial day. — It was finally settled that we should 
 be united at the end of a fortnight. 
 
 Well, Sir, the time was fast approaching, and I 
 awaited it with a mixed feeling of desire and dread. 
 As I paced thoughtfully along the corso, two or 
 three evenings before the day of the intended cere- 
 mony, a man briefly accosted me, and, without 
 staying for a reply, bade me, as I valued my 
 honour, to leap the wall of the Signorina's garden, 
 and see what was going on in the little rotunda at 
 the bottom of the shrubbery. I had just time 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 311 
 
 enough to discover that my informant was one of 
 the two whom I had interrupted in deadly conflict 
 about ten days before ; and you may be probably 
 less surprised than I was, on becoming acquainted 
 with the facts which transpired on my reaching the 
 little rotunda as directed. — By Jupiter, (said the 
 painter, striking the table forcibly with his 
 knuckles,) whom should I discover in close con- 
 ference with my mistress, but the other party — the 
 rival (as it appeared) of the individual who had 
 accosted me in the street. 
 
 My first impression was to rush upon the 
 usurper of my rights, and give him a sound 
 English drubbing ; but it suddenly struck me, that 
 with a little management, I might render my 
 revenge more perfect, and I resolved on being made 
 thoroughly acquainted with the real truth of the 
 matter, ere I proceeded to extremities. I there- 
 fore advanced within hearing, and, secreting my- 
 self behind the rotunda, learnt a few facts relating 
 to the intentions of my mistress, which tended very 
 materially to alter my own. 
 
 It appeared then that the gentleman was by no 
 means anxious of supplanting me in the honours of 
 matrimony, and merely aspired to the pleasures 
 which might arise from co-partnership. In short, 
 
312 the painter's 
 
 Sir, I was to be the husband, and he the lover, — 
 two very different characters in Italy, I assure you. 
 The lady had long listened to his suit, and had 
 also for a considerable period been subject to the 
 importunities of his less fortunate rival, who, 
 having failed in his attempt to despatch the 
 favoured lover, had kindly afforded me an oppor- 
 tunity of doing it for him. Perhaps he conceived 
 that as my interference had been the probable 
 cause of his rival's safet}^, my exasperation would 
 only be the more violent ; and, perceiving me to 
 be a tolerably sturdy fellow, he doubtless reckoned 
 on my thoroughly avenging both his wrongs and 
 my own. 
 
 No sooner was the state of the case fully appa- 
 rent, than my anger gave way to feelings of a 
 much more harmless nature; and love, extin- 
 guished on the instant, only left me to exult on 
 my very fortunate escape from misery and dis- 
 honour. So far from being mortified, I was, in 
 truth, much entertained at hearing their stealthy 
 conference; nor could I sufficiently admire the 
 delicacy and pathos with which the intended 
 Cicisbeo perused a sonnet of Petrarch's from an 
 elegantly bound volume which I had presented to 
 the lady, with a copy of verses, some days before. 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 313 
 
 After conversing awhile, the gentleman proposed 
 that they should take a turn round the shrubbery. 
 They did so— -leaving the volume of Petrarch upon 
 the seat of the rotunda. 
 
 Now, Sir, conceiving that as I had uselessly ex- 
 pended such a sum of affection, there could be no 
 harm in redeeming so paltry a present, T put the 
 little book into my pocket, and leaving the happy 
 pair to anticipate the joys which, as they had every 
 reason to expect, so shortly awaited them, I quietly 
 retreated from the garden as if nothing had tran- 
 spired. 
 
 Assuming both my best habit and most cheerful 
 looks, I visited my fair one that very evening at the 
 usual hour, nor evinced any alteration in my man- 
 ner or sentiments. She played her part with as 
 much warmth as ever, and I answered her endear- 
 ments with corresponding fervour. One thing alone 
 contributed to damp her joy. She had lost her 
 invaluable little volume of Petrarch. Still, how r - 
 ever, she hoped to recover it ; for, she had some 
 idea " that a friend of her mother's had put it into 
 his pocket." Doubtless she conceived it was in the 
 possession of her inamorato. 
 
 On the morning of the following day, I procured 
 my passport ; and, having packed up my moveables 
 
314 THE PAINTER'S 
 
 before nightfall, again visited the charming Signo- 
 rina. — " In forty hours more/' said she, " I shall 
 be a wife !" — " In forty hours more," thought I, 
 " I shall be in Tuscany . v 
 
 I started by the mail the following morning ; and 
 while the lady expected my presence at the hymen- 
 eal altar, I was criticising the mutilated Graces in 
 the cathedral at Sienna.* 
 
 I proceeded from Sienna through Florence to 
 Bologna, where I remained for some time, and 
 thence continued my professional course to Venice. 
 Freed from the shackles of Cupid, I followed up 
 my favourite art with great application and some 
 success ; and I had nearly forgotten my Roman ad- 
 venture, when I accidentally heard of what had 
 befallen my mistress after my departure from the 
 Italian capital. 
 
 In the first instance, the loss of her Petrarch had 
 given her much pain. In the second, the flight of 
 her intended husband had nearly overwhelmed her 
 senses. " Poor girl !" said the narrator (of course 
 ignorant that he was addressing a party so deeply 
 interested) — " Poor girl ! — she was long ere she 
 recovered the shock." 
 
 * This celebrated group is in the robing room of the cathedral. 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 315 
 
 " But," said I, affecting to have heard some slight 
 report of the affair, " had not the Englishman 
 reason to doubt the truth of her affection for 
 
 him r 
 
 " Affection ! Bah P exclaimed the Italian, " she 
 esteemed him for his talents and virtue, and would 
 have made him a good wife. You Englishmen 
 are so unreasonable. You cannot separate love and 
 admiration. In Italy a woman can give her duty 
 to her husband, while her beauty is rather directed 
 to her husband's friend. — The Italian gallant was a 
 handsome youth. It was impossible to love so ugly 
 a fellow as the Englishman." 
 
 " Pray, Sir," said I, K what eventually became 
 of her ?" 
 
 " Why, Sir," he replied, " her lover, being un- 
 able to obtain her on the terms he more particularly 
 desired, was at length content to receive her with 
 the encumbrances of matrimony : they have been 
 married some months.'' 
 
 Wishing the happy couple all' those joys which 
 I at one time fancied were likely to be mine, I sus- 
 pended all further thoughts upon the subject, and 
 invoked the aid of my muse^ while I studied the 
 composition of a picture from the interesting ro- 
 mance of Romeo and Juliet— that charming history 
 
316 the painter's 
 
 (be it false or genuine) in which we are presented 
 with so forcible a portraiture of maiden love and 
 connubial fidelity. 
 
 The picture was scarcely finished, ere it attracted 
 the notice of a young English nobleman, who gazed 
 upon the face of Juliet in particular, as though it 
 bore a chance resemblance to some idol of his own. 
 In supposing such to be the case, I cannot imagine 
 that I was far from the truth ; else why should he 
 offer to purchase it on the proviso, that the nose of 
 the heroine, which was after the true Grecian mo- 
 del, should be altered in some measure to the simi- 
 litude of a snub ! I hesitated, but he was inflexible, 
 leaving me to choose between a straight line with 
 the chance of a more classical customer, and a 
 curved one with the immediate receipt of fifty 
 pounds. I took the latter. 
 
 Good fortune had not yet forsaken me. My 
 patron's recommendation brought me several pur- 
 chasers, and I meditated sending my uncle an offer 
 to paint his portrait gratis, when some temporary 
 relaxation of patronage might allow me sufficient 
 leisure. 
 
 But I had soon a real motive for self-congratu- 
 lation in this particular. My father, after a long 
 continuance of prosperity, was doomed to encounter 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 317 
 
 a very serious reverse ; and he wrote me a touching 
 letter, which urged the necessity of my abstaining 
 from all extravagance, as he feared he should be 
 unable any longer to allow me the extra provision 
 which he had hitherto afforded. I returned him 
 a cheering epistle, intimating that I stood no longer 
 in need of it ; and that I hoped, very shortly, to 
 have the means of repaying his paternal goodness 
 with more than expressions of filial gratitude — and 
 in truth (said the painter, warming as he spoke), he 
 stood in real need of my assistance ; for, (would 
 you believe it, Sir ?) that right liberal uncle of mine, 
 on being solicited for the aid of a trifling loan, 
 basely excused himself, and qualified his refusal by 
 compassionately remarking, that had I stuck to my 
 business as became a good apprentice, I should 
 have been by this time a blessing instead of an in- 
 cumbrance to my parents. 
 
 My father, however, was in no want of friends, 
 and, though he never regained his former state of 
 affluence, he ultimately succeeded in acquiring a 
 moderate competency. I pursued my professional 
 studies with fair but varying success ; and having 
 sojourned a reasonable time at Venice, and the se- 
 veral towns in the north of Italy, I once more pro- 
 
318 THE painter's 
 
 ceeded to my favourite Florence, to pay my devo- 
 tions to the Venus de Medici, and luxuriate in the 
 riches of the Pitti Palace. 
 
 During my stay in the Tuscan capital, the Carni- 
 val took place ; and I was too much aware of my 
 capacity for playing the fool in truth, to be above 
 assuming the cap and bells on an occasion like the 
 present. Most earnestly did I join in the revelry 
 of the masque, where fools without wit, harlequins 
 without grace, bandits without courage, and nuns 
 without chastity, contributed to the extravaganza. 
 Encountering an unmasked acquaintance, who had 
 merely mixed as a spectator in the throng, and to 
 whom I was much indebted for certain mischievous 
 inflictions at Venice, I so peppered his well-formed 
 physiognomy with sugar plums, that he was fain to 
 escape from the scene of action. My grudge, how- 
 ever, being satisfied, I civilly accosted him with a 
 " very good morrow," and earnest hopes " that 
 he had thoroughly enjoyed himself." 
 
 " I thank you," said he, " my pleasure has been 
 great ; but not without alloy. In the first place, 
 I have reason to congratulate myself on the invit- 
 ing courtesy with which a very lovely woman has 
 been indulging me from yonder window ; and if 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 319 
 
 some mischievous fellow had not — but, look !" said 
 he, pointing again towards the window, " there is 
 the very woman !" 
 
 On looking up, whom think you that I beheld ? 
 
 The faithless one of Rome ? 
 
 Even so, Sir ! There she was, throwing her spi- 
 rit-stirring glances upon my companion, who, to 
 say truth, was in every respect a highly favoured 
 man, — " fram'd to make women false." 
 
 In a few minutes, however, she suddenly disap- 
 peared, as if called away by some one within the 
 house ; and my companion, after waiting a consider- 
 able time, retired homewards sorely disappointed at 
 not having been enabled to complete an assignation. 
 
 Without letting him into my secret, I immedi- 
 ately retired to my lodgings, and in my best Italian 
 penned a note to the following effect : — 
 
 " Adorable, 
 " With all the force of a coup de soleil thy beauty 
 bewildered my senses the moment I beheld thee. 
 Should it be thy intention to grace the masquerade 
 in the theatre this night, assume, I pr'ythee, the 
 habit of a nun, nor reject with scorn the proffered 
 benediction of a holy pilgrim. 
 
 " Ever thy devoted slave." 
 
820 the painter's 
 
 Of course, she conceived this to be nothing less 
 than an invitation from the gallant whom she 
 had seen from the window ; and it was, doubtless, 
 under this supposition that she appeared at the 
 theatre disguised accordingly, remaining an inactive 
 member of the revel, till I approached her in my 
 cockled cap and sandal shoon. Having assumed 
 the visor of age, I also adapted my voice to the 
 character, and, after accompanying her two or 
 three times round the area of the theatre, I led her 
 into a private recess, at the back of the stage, and 
 requested her to seat herself beside me. 
 
 " What a poet is Petrarch," said I ; Cc how rich 
 in simile ! how delicate in sentiment J how deep in 
 feeling P 
 
 " Delicious !" exclaimed the lady. 
 
 " Vouchsafe, then/'* I continued, taking from my 
 pocket the little volume which she had so much 
 reason to remember — " vouchsafe, then," said I, 
 " to receive from your devoted slave this trifling 
 testimony of his admiration." 
 
 " Pazienza !" exclaimed the lady, " how came 
 you to the possession of this ? 
 
 " Pattern of virtue," said I, unmasking, and re- 
 suming my natural voice, " I took it from the 
 rotunda in your garden at Rome, while you were 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 321 
 
 rambling with your lover in the shrubbery ad- 
 joining." 
 
 Her surprise was great ; but her indignation 
 greater. "Hence," she exclaimed, "perfidious 
 traitor ! Hence ! or I will find those who shall 
 make you repent the fraud you have imposed upon 
 me!" 
 
 Of course, I was no more anxious to conciliate 
 her good opinion than to encounter her revenge. 
 Resuming my disguise, I solemnly bestowed upon 
 her my benediction, and left her to suffer under 
 the double weight of disappointment and mortifica- 
 tion. About three weeks after the conclusion of 
 the carnival, I bade adieu to Italy, and have never 
 been anxious to inquire further concerning my 
 first and only love. 
 
 Paris was my last continental resting place ; and 
 I found sufficient matter in the galleries of the 
 Louvre and Luxembourg, to induce a long stay in 
 the French capital. The Parisians, notwithstand- 
 ing their peculiarities, have a fine taste for the 
 arts; and if, in the execution of historical and 
 classical subjects, they evince not the vigour of the 
 old masters, they are scarcely inferior in apprecia- 
 tion and arrangement. 
 
 Y 
 
THE PAINTER S 
 
 I happened to be fortunate in a small copy from 
 " The Judgment of Brutus," a celebrated picture 
 by Thiers ; and was still more lucky in the chance 
 which brought it before the notice of Talma. He 
 sent me a polite note, requesting to know the price 
 I had set upon it ; and, on calling upon him with 
 my answer, the purchase was unhesitatingly com- 
 pleted. Eulogizing my professional talents, he 
 only regretted I did not more generally exert them 
 in the production of original works, and suggested 
 the illustration of a scene in some popular French 
 tragedy. 
 
 After several consultations with him upon the 
 subject, I finally determined on attempting a picture 
 from the play of Sylla. The celebrated tragedian 
 readily agreed to sit for the principal character, 
 and deeming it necessary for me to see him several 
 times upon the stage, he made me free of the 
 theatre for a season. 
 
 I was one evening present during the represen- 
 tation of Hamlet ; and, at the conclusion of the 
 first act, my right-hand neighbour (whom I had 
 not till now observed) asked me in pure English 
 how I liked the performance. 
 
 I admired it in general ; but hinted at a few 
 opportunities for giving more effect. 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 323 
 
 " Ah ! Sir,'*' said my companion, " the finest 
 performance I had ever the good fortune to wit- 
 ness, took place in one of the minor theatres of 
 London. Your patent play-house frequenters 
 little think of the quackery they endure, and the 
 real pleasure they forfeit, in being dissuaded from 
 paying an occasional visit to the Cobourg or the 
 Surrey, the East or the West London theatres. It 
 was at the latter, Sir (a deserted establishment in 
 Tottenham-street), that I once saw Macbeth en- 
 acted in such a manner, as to make me anticipate 
 that the ghost of the flattered Shakspeare might 
 usurp the i stooP of the murdered Banquo." 
 
 " I pr'ythee do not mock me, fellow student," 
 said I, gradually recognizing the person of the 
 Tottenham manager. " Remember, that if I did 
 play the fool, I paid dearly for the privilege." 
 
 Agreeably to an invitation which I had given 
 him, the manager called upon me the following 
 morning, to see the sketch of my picture from the 
 tragedy of Sylla. 
 
 " I observe," said he, " that you intend to intro- 
 duce a number of figures in the back-ground of 
 your painting : now, Sir, if you are in want of a 
 subject for a head, I shall be happy to sit for you." 
 
324 
 
 THE PAINTER S 
 
 "In want of a subject!" I exclaimed : "Sir, 
 the corps dramatique of Paris, is by no means few 
 in numbers, and certainly there is not one among 
 them who will fancy himself dishonoured by ap- 
 pearing on the same canvass with Talma. Happy 
 are they whose countenances are suitable to the 
 dignity of my subject, and whose figures," said I, 
 regarding the diminutive person of the manager, 
 " are adapted to the majesty of tragedy. Such as 
 are fortunate in these" essential particulars, I have 
 not overlooked : others, less favoured (but not less 
 ambitious), have been ready to purchase the 
 honour : and when you shall be content to refund 
 the ten pounds which you received from me four 
 years back in the green room of the Tottenham 
 theatre, I will then listen to your proposals. I am 
 in no want of models, I assure you !" 
 
 Sweet was this opportunity of revenge. I re- 
 collected well the managerial pomposity with which 
 he had treated me when I proposed myself as the 
 representative of Macbeth, and was resolved to 
 assume in turn a corresponding magnificence. All 
 was done, however, in perfect good humour ; and 
 the manager, though refused a place in my picture, 
 condescended to accept one at my dinner-table. His 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 325 
 
 conversation proved, at least, highly entertaining, 
 and that was fortunate, for he talked incessantly. 
 Supporting his colloquial volubility by plentiful 
 potations of claret, he gave me a history of his life 
 and adventures, which might serve as the ground- 
 work of a fair novel, did they not bear too strong 
 a resemblance to several tales already published 
 upon the same subject. 
 
 Having made free with the bottle, he ultimately 
 afforded additional evidence to the truth of that 
 maxim, which forbids much familiarity even with 
 our best friend ; and, after threading with con- 
 siderable difficulty the intricacies of a cork-screw- 
 staircase, he rolled along the Boulevardes in search 
 of his lodging. 
 
 And now, Sir, I have little more to say upon 
 the subject of self. My picture, on being com- 
 pleted, was bought by an ardent admirer of Talma; 
 and I returned to my native country with a con- 
 siderable augmentation of fortune and of fame. 
 That rambling disposition with which I was born, 
 is not yet extinct ; and it will, perhaps, be long ere 
 I establish myself in what may be termed a home. 
 Wherever I go, I generally obtain some patronage ; 
 and being (although a painter) of provident habits, 
 
326 THE rAINTEIi'3 ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 I doubt not but that I shall have acquired a tolera- 
 ble competency by the time when it may suit my 
 inclination to settle in peace. — Now, Sir, if you 
 please, I will introduce you to my picture gallery. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SHACKELL A NDBAYLIS, JOHNSON's-COUKT, FLEET-STREET. 
 
WILMOT WARWICK, 
 
 8fc. Sfc. 
 
 VOLUME SECOND. 
 
THE 
 
 LIFE AND REMAINS 
 
 WILMOT WARWICK. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS FRIEND 
 
 HENRY VERNON. 
 
 
 " Thus baffled at every point, my affections outraged, wherever they 
 would attach themselves ; I became sullen, silent, and desponding : and my 
 feelings, driven back upon myself, entered and preyed upon mine own 
 heart.' 5 
 
 The Young Italian. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOLUME SECOND, 
 
 LONDON : 
 JAMES RIDGWAY, PICCADILLY 
 
 MDCCCXXIX. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 SHACKEL AND BAYLIS, JOHNSON'S-COURT, FLEET-STREET. 
 
o— 
 rt 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TAGE, 
 
 Introductory 3 
 
 The Monk of Benevento 21 
 
 The Three Brothers 79 
 
 The Revolutions of a Village 117 
 
 The Boarding House 157 
 
 Death and the Grave , 191 
 
 The Will 211 
 
 An Introduction to Julia 223 
 
 Julia 243 
 
 Sternherst 277 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 " I'll write, because I'll give 
 You critics means to live ; 
 For, should I not supply 
 The cause — the effect would die.' 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 To be severe upon the works of the recently 
 defunct, is accounted uncourteous, even by the 
 critics ; who, in remarking upon the first volume of 
 " Wilmot Warwick," evinced a most politic regard 
 for their humanity, by declaring the author to 
 be still alive, ere they proceeded in the task of 
 dissecting his " Remains." 
 
 The critical, no less than the surgical professor, 
 is dependant on a due supply of subjects ; and, 
 certes, it w^ould go hard with the reviewers, if 
 authors were allowed to counterfeit death with 
 impunity. In such a case, the monthly censor 
 would be soon compelled to relieve his conscience 
 of any nice regard to the adage, " de mortuis," 
 b % 
 
4 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 &c, and we should hear him exclaim, in the ter- 
 rible language of the giant : — 
 
 " Be he alive, or be he dead, 
 
 I'll grind his bones to make my bread !" 
 
 Had the critics been merely unanimous in their 
 supposition that the deceased Warwick and 
 living Vernon were one and the same person, the 
 Editor might then have had a sufficient regard for 
 truth, to have informed them whether they were 
 right or wrong ; but, as they most peremptorily 
 declared what, at most, they had only a right to 
 surmise, it is useless for him to say a word upon 
 the matter ; since, the man convinced by his own 
 imagination, will certainly have no regard to the 
 contradictory assurances of another. At all 
 events, the grave is a barrier impenetrable to 
 critics ; and, since Wilmot Warwick is no living 
 man, they may, if they will, affirm that he never 
 had an existence, and hurl their severity upon the 
 sexton who professes to have buried him. Thanks 
 to the members of this learned body, however, they 
 have not identified the persons of Author and 
 Editor for the purpose of exercising any wanton 
 severity upon the former ; and, were the latter, 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 as they assert, the " true man," thus would he 
 deliver himself : — 
 
 In putting forth a second volume of " Wilmot 
 Warwick," the author cannot but express his 
 grateful acknowledgements for the indulgent 
 manner in which the first has been received. He 
 rises from the perusal of the numerous reviews 
 and notices, with a due sense of the debt which 
 he owes to the lenity of the critics, who have 
 been for the most part gentle in reproof; and, 
 though careful to suppress any thing like a 
 rising vanity in his breast, have not discou- 
 raged him. They have liberally administered 
 sundry doses of salutary advice, not the less 
 instructive to him, because contradictory in 
 themselves. It is true, that from the sentiments 
 expressed by the mass of his censors, he has been 
 unable to extract much available information, in 
 respect to the art of writing a tale, humorous or 
 pathetic ; but he has certainly obtained many 
 ideas which might serve for a very long essay on 
 difference of opinion; on versatility of feeling; 
 on the tyranny of taste ; and on the impossibility 
 of forming a correct decision " when doctors dis- 
 
6 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 The effect of the numerous criticisms on the 
 mind of the Author is, that he has done " a plea- 
 sant thing," but nothing to be proud of. As he 
 sought no more, he is satisfied with this. By the 
 more flattering encomiums bestowed upon him by 
 some, his modesty is very much shocked. He 
 cannot, it is true, help remembering what he read 
 in these particular publications ; but he has put 
 by the books themselves as forbidden and seduc- 
 tive fruit. With no great aversion to praise, he 
 has yet a due sense of its pernicious properties, 
 and is blessed with an uncommon love for whole- 
 some correction. He is like the child, who, 
 having some vicious propensities, had yet been so 
 virtuously brought up, and his mind was so im- 
 pressed with the beneficial influence of censure, 
 that he would sometimes run from his too partial 
 grandmamma, and bespeak a corrective for his 
 rising inclinations with the words — " Papa, I'm 
 going to be naughty — put me in the corner." In 
 like manner, the Author feels that he is about to 
 do a great number of abominable things in the 
 present volume ; and, were he within a morning's 
 walk of any of his severer censors, he would daily 
 visit them with a request that his manuscript 
 might be, in its progress^ expurged of all mawkish 
 sentiment and coarse vulgarity, of its too great 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 7 
 
 severity or overstrained indulgence towards the 
 follies of men, its far-fetched ideas and common- 
 place remarks, its affectation or bluntness, &c. 
 &c. &c. ; which, however, would render it more 
 than probable, that they who liked the first vo- 
 lume, might look in vain for a second. 
 
 But, as he said before, the Author is grateful 
 to the critics, as a body, for the indulgence with 
 which they treated his first production. He had 
 perused numerous remarks, more or less qualified 
 with favour : and was just about to do some vio- 
 lence to his sense of self-demerit, by admitting 
 the belief of his having some little capacity for 
 
 writing a story book, when, lo ! some " d d 
 
 good natured friend or another," sent him a cri- 
 ticism, in which he and his book were abused in 
 " good set terms." 
 
 w The Life and Remains of Wilmot Warwick, 
 edited by his friend, Henry Vernon," is a com- 
 pound of meagre humour and mawkish sentimen- 
 tality, hatched by some fifth-rate imitator of 
 Washington Irving. Why do people put these 
 things in books ? — Is not the 6 Ladies' Magazine 
 still in existence ? — The following is, doubtless, 
 
 an accurate picture of life of some sort : — 
 
 * * * # # 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 " Such literature as this must be popular. 
 Every village has now its circulating library ; — 
 and the milliners'* girls acquire a most accurate 
 knowledge of the refinements of high society, 
 through the medium of the numerous estimable 
 productions that are given to the world for their 
 especial edification. 
 
 " That valuable institution, the Literary Fund, 
 has a very sapient rule in the distribution of its 
 bounty — that no applicant for relief shall be eligi- 
 ble unless he has written a book. He may have 
 laboured all his life for the periodical press, but 
 unless he have qualified himself by a poem, or 
 a novel, or any other trash, duly published with 
 a bookseller's name, and all that, his claims are 
 rejected. To become eligible for the pensions 
 which this society has to bestow, is probably the 
 motive of many ingenious aspirants for rushing 
 into print, not under the safe cover of anonymous 
 magazining, but boldly in the shape of indivi- 
 dual foolscap or post octavos — with advertisements 
 in the newspapers all about themselves. Perhaps, 
 however, despair at never finding admission into 
 a periodical, drives the unhappy people to this 
 sort of exposure. There must be some extra- 
 
INTRODUCTOltY. 9 
 
 ordinary impulse to produce such books as Wil- 
 mot Warwick." 
 
 A " meagre humorist," a " mawkish sentimen- 
 talist," — a " fifth-rate imitator" — "milliners' girls" 
 — 6( trash" — " despair" — " unhappy people." 
 
 Now, this is the one notice which the author has 
 preserved. This is the one he will cherish, and 
 to the which he will give such a publication as it 
 had else never known. This is sterling in its 
 kind — written, no doubt, by a man of erudition, 
 wholesome ideas, and decided antipathies. " Hang 
 all cowards, say I ! Give me them that will face 
 me !" Come forth, thou potent plurality in one — 
 
 thou WE of the L n M ne. Thou art no 
 
 " lack brain" — thou art no " frosty spirited rogue," 
 like the unfortunate devil whom thou hast so be- 
 laboured ; and thy admiring victim only wonders 
 thou shouldst expend thy anger upon " so poor a 
 thing" as Warwick is. Thou mayest be right in 
 thy judgment of his book ; but thou art certainly 
 wrong in the violence with which thou dost de- 
 nounce what is contemptible ; for a dull author 
 may be as incapable of seeing the propriety of thy 
 fury against him, as he must be of acceding to the 
 justice of the following critical eruption on the 
 subject of a certain tragedy called " Othello," 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 written by one Shakspeare, and now held in tole- 
 rable repute : — 
 
 " How can it (Othello) work, unless to delude 
 u our senses, disorder our thoughts, addle our 
 " brain, pervert our affections, hair our imagina- 
 " tions, corrupt our appetites, and fill our heads 
 " with vanity, confusion, tintamarre^ and jingle- 
 " jangle, beyond what all the parish clerks of Lon- 
 " don, with their old testament farces, * * * * 
 a could ever pretend to ? There is in this play 
 " some burlesque and mimicry to divert the spec- 
 " tators ; but the tragical part is clearly none 
 u other than a bloody farce without salt or savour. 
 " Shakspeare's genius lay for comedy and hu- 
 " mour. In tragedy, his brains are turned — he 
 " raves and rambles without any coherence, any 
 u spark of reason, or any rule to controul him. 
 € < Desdemona is a piece of impertinent, silly flesh 
 " and blood. lago has nothing of nature in him. 
 € ' The ordinary of Newgate never had the like 
 « monster to pass under his examination ; and a 
 c; man must outdo the devil to be a poet in the rank 
 " with Shakspeare." 
 
 The author, however, would not have it ima- 
 gined that he conceives himself worthy one hun- 
 dredth part the abuse which Rymer here 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 11 
 
 showers upon Shakspeare. He even conceives 
 himself too highly honoured in thy anger, thou 
 
 WE of the L n. 
 
 Why, man ! he wrote to amuse " the milliners' 
 girls," though certainly not to give them any 
 " knowledge of the refinement of high society," 
 inasmuch as he knows nothing of it himself. He 
 wrote, too, for such good people, as, having ex- 
 erted their nobler faculties in the perusal of the 
 very deep and dignified matter with which thy 
 magazine ever teems, are afterwards inclined to 
 mental relaxation, though not absolute idleness, 
 He wrote to please the ladies, be they marchionesses 
 or milliners, (God bless them !) and for such gen- 
 tlemen as might be inclined to call for some trifling 
 volume — they care not what, when disposed for 
 u lassitude and a sofa." He observes, however, 
 with some degree of satisfaction, that thou dost 
 deem him not unworthy of the " Ladies' Maga- 
 zine." Surely, thou wouldst not speak contemp- 
 tuously of aught appertaining to the ladies. For- 
 bid it gallantry ! Thou art angry with him for 
 making ' a book.' Is it not better in him to con- 
 centrate all his follies into one little volume, (which 
 may be speedily read and thrown into the fire at 
 once, like a bad nut,) than to dribble out his 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 6 nothings' in the monthly pages of a magazine ? 
 But, in truth, thou speakest too slightingly of the 
 monthly press. Be complimented in the assurance, 
 that magazines, which were wont to be what Wil- 
 mot Warwick is, are now the vehicles for philoso- 
 phy, science, and political economy. But, good 
 fellow, the world must be amused ; and, for the 
 very reason that thou art learned, Wilmot is light. 
 Thou wilt have nothing but roast beef. Where- 
 fore object to a custard or a syllabub ? Content 
 thee, gentle coz ; and as an antidote to thy fears, 
 receive from thy obedient servant the following 
 offer : — allow him to amuse the public in his book, 
 and he will instruct it through the medium of 
 thine. At any rate, be careful lest the " milliner's 
 girls" get hold upon thee, for they have resolved 
 on clapper-clawing thee without mercy. Avoid, 
 likewise, the author's grandmother, who is mightily 
 offended at the liberty thou hast taken with the 
 work of her pet ; and, in conclusion, when next 
 thou wouldst criticise a book, take a magnesia 
 lozenge and " regard the writer's end." 
 
 Such might have been the sentiments of Wilmot 
 Warwick ; and it is the opinion of his Editor, 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 13 
 
 that, before criticism can be of any avail, its pro- 
 fessors must be coincident in opinion. A reform 
 in the taste of the reader and in the judgment of 
 the author, can never be effected but by consistency 
 in the reformer. The critics say, there are more 
 ridiculous books published at present than 
 formerly : but, what does this amount to ? That 
 the public taste is bad ? or, that the power of cri- 
 ticism is ineffectual? The fact is more likely 
 this : — the influence of the critical body is self- 
 annulled. The reader is obliged to assume a 
 wavering opinion of his own ; and the author, 
 unable to extract a corrective from the contradic- 
 tory assertions of his advisers, is left to write on 
 as he wrote before. Neither the one nor the other 
 can be benefited by a system, which, instead of 
 forming the public taste, only perplexes it. 
 
 It is true, the occasional merits of a book are 
 such as to call forth the unanimous approval of 
 the critics. When speaking of some inferior work, 
 they all differed ; but now behold their unani- 
 mity ! What are we to learn from this inconsist- 
 ency, but an effect where we have supposed a 
 cause ? Overwhelming talent gives the current 
 to popular feeling, and both the critical and the 
 careless are borne along the stream ; but, if the 
 
14 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 merits of an author be dubious, the critics go to 
 loggerheads, and public opinion finds no common 
 channel. They, who should be our guides, either 
 go as we should go without their assistance, or 
 prove themselves incapable of directing us when 
 the way is doubtful. In fact, they shew them- 
 selves to be no more than the public in general, 
 which agrees upon great and differs on small mat- 
 ters. Instead of influencing the reader by opi- 
 nions founded on some standard of taste, they are, 
 like the reader, merely influenced by their own 
 feelings and ideas ; and the mighty we of a re- 
 view, is, after all, nothing more than some accom- 
 plished gentleman of individual likings and pre- 
 judices. It is not in conformity with his opinions 
 that we admire Byron as a poet, Scott as a novel- 
 ist, Turner and Roscoe as historians, Lamb and 
 Irving as essayists : such names had been popular 
 although editors and reviewers had never had an 
 existence. In such cases the author is not to be 
 told how to write, nor the public what to read. 
 It is the more humble aspirant, on whose merits 
 they should more particularly decide — whose pro- 
 mise they should unanimously foster, or whose 
 demerits they should universally condemn. Such 
 poems as Childe Harold and Manfred require 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 15 
 
 nothing but quotations to give them a pervading 
 celebrity. Minor poets might be benefited by 
 advice no less than by recommendation : but, it is 
 clear, that while critics are inconsistent with one 
 another, authors must remain either more or less 
 perfect, as nature made them. 
 
 It should be recollected, also, that a man, ena- 
 bled by his judgment to comment with critical 
 truth on some works, may be incapacitated by his 
 temperament from speaking with justice upon 
 others. A man of imagination would be ill fitted 
 for a reviewer of Blackstone's Commentaries. 
 Too much inflated by fancy to rest long upon the 
 rock of common reason, he would substitute 
 quackery for that truth which impatience pre- 
 vents him from thoroughly regarding. On the 
 other hand, men of mere literary or scientific ac- 
 quirement, however great, are ill adapted to pass 
 sentence on works of feeling or fancy. The author 
 of Irene mistook his capacity, when he set himself 
 up as a commentator upon Shakspeare. Not, 
 however, that every man who criticizes a play, 
 poem, or novel, should be expected to possess the 
 ability of writing either. If the publication of a 
 successful poem were required from every pro- 
 fessor of poetical criticism, it would sadly dimi- 
 
16 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 nish the body of literary guardians : for the assu- 
 rance of being equal to the production of some 
 original work ourselves, would be the certain 
 cause of our never becoming merely commenta- 
 torial on the works of others. That valuable 
 institution, the Literary Fund, has, it appears, a 
 very sapient rule in the distribution of its bounty 
 — that no applicant for relief shall be eligible 
 unless he has written a book. The sapience of the 
 rule is chiefly observable in the number of critical 
 literati, which are by this means excluded from 
 any possible claim upon its funds. 
 
 The great deficiency in the present system of 
 criticism is this : — it has no effect as a corrective. 
 It is serviceable as a circulating medium — tells of 
 such and such books that are in existence ; and is 
 t*x**J particularly useful to booksellers — but it 
 cannot be depended on, either in its recommenda- 
 tory or censorious character. It is the conse- 
 quence of authorship, instead of the corrector of 
 authors. It is of no benefit either to the reader 
 or writer. It professes to cultivate the taste and 
 judgment of both ; but it merely lives on the 
 patronage of the one and the pains of the other. 
 A critic's advice is only once < blessed :' — it blesseth 
 him who gives 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 17 
 
 When critics shall have agreed among one 
 another what is good, then will an author ac- 
 knowledge the reason as well as the right of their 
 animadversion. At present, the fate of a book, 
 the merits of which are varied or doubtful, is 
 something akin to the treatment of a foot -ball, 
 when the many who are engaged in the game, 
 form a circle round it, and kick towards one ano- 
 ther, instead of unanimously propelling it to some 
 stated goal. Prevented from making any hori- 
 zontal progress, it may chance to receive a per- 
 pendicular kick, which, projecting it far above 
 the " upturned eyes " of its numerous assailants, 
 gives it a lofty conspicuousness, such as it had 
 never otherwise attained. 
 
 The second budget of Wilmot Warwick's 
 Remains is herewith presented to the public. 
 The Editor has been doubting, whether to dedicate 
 this volume to all who approved its predecessor, 
 
 or to inscribe it to the critic of the L n 
 
 M ne. He has, however, just received a 
 
 hint from a friend, to offer it, with all due humi- 
 lity, to the honorable patronage and condescend- 
 ing protection of our ancient ally, 
 
 THE GRAND TURK. 
 
 VOL. II. C 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 " Lucius. — Justice will be defeated ! 
 
 Virginius. — Who says that ? 
 He lies in the face of gods ! She is immutable, 
 Immaculate, and immortal ! And, though all 
 The guilty globe should blaze, she will spring up 
 Through the fire, and soar above the crackling pile, 
 With not a downy feather ruffled by 
 Its fierceness !" 
 
 Knowles. 
 
 c 2 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 The following tale I had from my friend, the 
 painter, in whose words, to the best of my recol- 
 lection, it is here recorded. 
 
 W. W. 
 
 Few people, who have any regard to their 
 health, pass the summer in Rome. How far the 
 accounts of malarial infection may be exagge- 
 rated, I will not take upon myself to decide. The 
 sight, however, of one among its sufferers, is suf- 
 ficient to o'erweigh the opinions of fifty who may 
 despise it ; and, how devotedly soever a man 
 may be attached to the Eternal City, I would 
 
22 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 recommend him to be so careful of his temporal 
 welfare, as not to reside either in it, or within 
 twenty miles of it, during the hotter part of the 
 year. 
 
 It was on the morning following my return to 
 Rome, after an absence of several months, that I 
 happened to meet, while crossing the Piazza di 
 Spagna, a young Englishman with whom I had 
 been slightly acquainted in London. He had also 
 arrived the preceding evening, ignorant that 
 I was at present in the country, but not the less 
 pleased at this accidental meeting ; for he was a 
 perfect stranger to the place, hitherto unconscious 
 that he had a friend to receive him, and without 
 even a letter of recommendation. 
 
 The encounter was pleasant to both parties ; 
 and a conference of five minutes in the Roman 
 Piazza, effected more towards our union in the 
 bonds of friendship, than a habit of meeting daily 
 for as many months in the streets of London. The 
 proverbial shyness of the English abroad to their 
 unintroduced countrymen may be true ; but I 
 have ever found them most gracious when satisfied 
 as to the respectability of individuals. They are 
 too apt to suspect without reason, and to presume 
 on the possibility of a man's being a rogue, rather 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 23 
 
 than on the probability of his being a gentleman. 
 " Security" should be the Englishman^ motto. 
 Assured that he is not imposed upon, he will give 
 away a hundred favours ; but, without security, 
 he will not lend one. 
 
 The respectability of my companion and self be- 
 ing mutually known, our intimacy was instantly 
 effected ; and we paced, arm in arm, up the grand 
 flight of open steps leading from the Piazza to the 
 Pincion Mount, a considerable elevation, over- 
 looking the city on the west, and the Borghese 
 gardens, with an expanse of the Campagna on the 
 east. The summit of the hill is agreeably laid out 
 and planted. It is accounted the most healthy 
 spot within the walls of Rome ; and is much fre- 
 quented by the resident English, to whose service, 
 indeed, it seems especially dedicated. In the morn- 
 ing may be seen the nurse-maids, attendant on the 
 numerous English families, with their little tribes 
 of rosy infants, so distinguished from the native 
 children by their fair skins, artless manners, and 
 boisterous mirth. In the afternoon it becomes the 
 promenade of the " children of larger growth,"-— 
 the votaries of fashion, and the followers of art — 
 who have assembled here in all their numerical 
 force, ere the bell tolls the Ave Maria, when the 
 
24 THE MONK OF BEX EVEN TO. 
 
 various domes of the city are enveloped in the pur- 
 ple veil of evening, as the sun majestically sinks 
 behind the gigantic cupola of St. Peter's. 
 
 It was a lovely morning — such as would have 
 cheered my heart, had this unexpected meeting 
 with an old acquaintance failed to gladden it. On 
 reaching the summit of the Scala, we paused to 
 breathe the fresher air of .this pleasant spot, and 
 simultaneously exclaimed, " How exhilarating is 
 the morning !" Engaged in conversation, we pass- 
 ed, without observing it, the end of the walk which 
 overlooks the Piazza del Popolo on the north-west ; 
 and unconsciously directed our steps to the other 
 side of the garden ^ whence there is a fine view of 
 the snow-clad Appenines in the extreme distance, 
 and of the Borghese grounds in the near front. 
 The latter are remarkable for their extensive 
 avenues of lofty pine and cedar trees ; and the 
 view derives no little interest from its including, 
 within its southern range, the mansion once inha- 
 bited by Raffael d'Urbino. 
 
 " I do not know," said my companion, as we 
 turned from the spot, " when I have felt more 
 jocund than at the present moment. As Shak- 
 speare so beautifully expresses it : 
 
THE MONK OF BEXEVEXTO. 25 
 
 " l My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne, 
 
 And all this morn', an unaccustomed spirit 
 
 Lifts me above the earth with cheerful thoughts. ' " 
 
 " And yet," said I, " there is an unusual 
 stillness in the morning, which, however in- 
 viting, has failed to draw hither the usual 
 complement of pretty English nurse-maids and 
 blooming children. Why, surely," I exclaimed 
 looking round, " there is not one — not a female 
 on the place." 
 
 " We are not alone, however," said my com- 
 panion ; " for, see, — on the verge of the hill near- 
 est the city, are several men, earnestly looking 
 upon something, which, it would seem, is con- 
 ducting in the square beneath." 
 
 At this moment the noise of falling boards and 
 hammers arrested our attention. " They are pro- 
 bably preparing for some fete," said my compa- 
 nion. We advanced forward, and had scarcely 
 reached the brink of the precipice which over- 
 hangs the Piazza del Popolo, when our sight re- 
 ceived an instantaneous shock from the appear- 
 ance of 
 
 A Guillotine ! 
 
 This sudden and unexpected encounter of our 
 hitherto cheerful senses, with an instrument so 
 
26 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 fraught with associations of terror, produced a 
 momentary effect almost paralytica!. To say the 
 least of it, our minds received a concussion, which 
 had left them unsettled for a considerable time, 
 supposing even that we had looked upon the scene 
 of a past tragedy, instead of a tragedy to come. 
 Though not, as I trust, wanting in courage, I had 
 never yet been able to muster sufficient nerve to 
 witness an execution, although several had already 
 taken place during my previous stay in Rome. 
 As to the assertion, that a curiosity in this parti- 
 cular is indicative, either of bloody-mindedness or 
 insensibility to pity, I am inclined totally to gain- 
 say it. There is a certain fascination in many 
 things which are abhorrent to our nature ; and the 
 compulsory feeling which influences many of those 
 who attend the execution of criminals, is of a simi- 
 lar nature to that impulse which prompts a giddy 
 man to throw himself from a precipice. I would 
 by no means regard any one who frequented such 
 exhibitions, as an individual of taste ; but, it is 
 very certain, that a man may even habituate him- 
 self to sights of blood and death, without in the 
 least impairing his humanity. Inability to en- 
 counter such spectacles is, perhaps, as great a 
 weakness as a desire to behold them. The former 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 27 
 
 may be the more amiable weakness, but they are 
 both equally in want of a corrective, and argue a 
 disposition of mind, in each case, similarly calcu- 
 lated to inconvenience an individual in his pro- 
 gress through life. It was, no doubt, under this 
 impression that Bacon penned the following sen- 
 tence : — u As for capital executions, and such 
 shews, men need not be put in mind of them ; yet 
 are they not to be neglected," 
 
 The Pincion Hill rises considerably above the 
 Piazza del Popolo, which forms the grand entrance 
 into the city from the north. It is here that all 
 capital executions take place ; during which, the 
 great gate of Rome (Porta del Popolo) is closed. 
 On one side of this gate is a small chapel, open 
 only on these melancholy occasions, and in which 
 the criminal and executioner together receive the 
 sacrament, immediately previous to their appear- 
 ance on the scaffold. The latter is erected near 
 the centre of the Piazza, which is occupied by a 
 large Egyptian obelisk — the silent witness of many 
 a murderer's fate ! In front of the scaffold are 
 two small churches, open to such as may be 
 prompted, by charity or pity, to offer up their 
 prayers for the soul about to depart, and on the 
 pillars of which a printed paper is exhibited, stating 
 
28 
 
 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 the particulars of that crime which the suspended 
 knife of the guillotine is on the point of avenging. 
 
 It was yet early in the morning. The scaffold 
 had only just then been wheeled out. Several men 
 were engaged in surrounding it with a rail, and in 
 fixing the steps of ascent. We gazed upon the 
 "mortal engine" for a few minutes in silence. 
 The crowd gradually increased around us, and the 
 Piazza was filling fast. My heart began to sicken ; 
 and I started at being accidentally touched by one 
 of my fellow spectators. My companion took hold 
 of my arm — a buzz was heard among the people 
 beneath— and a soldier made his appearance on 
 horseback, whom we fancied to be the presager of 
 the dreadful act on the eve of accomplishment. 
 He advanced toward the scaffold. My companion 
 pressed my arm ; and, in a scarcely audible tone, 
 whispered, " come away." 
 
 We turned to depart ; but our haste abated on 
 hearing an old friar say, that it would be full two 
 hours before the execution would take place. He 
 saw our inquiring look as we passed him, and 
 bowed, as if in readiness to answer any questions 
 we might be inclined to ask, concerning the con- 
 demned. Intimating our anxiety in this particu- 
 lar, he beckoned us to a seat in a secluded part of 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 29 
 
 the garden, and thus proceeded to relate the his- 
 tory of Pietro Barrini : — 
 
 The young man about to suffer death this day, 
 under a charge of fratricide, is the illegitimate child 
 of an Italian count, whose virtues (as well as name) 
 he had once the reputation of inheriting. The 
 father died about four years back, at the age of 
 thirty-eight. He was the son of a nobleman, at- 
 tached to the court of Rome, and more impressed 
 with lofty ideas concerning his dignity as a cour- 
 tier, than mindful of maintaining his real loftiness 
 as a man. Before his elevation to the rank of 
 nobility, his son, the elder Pietro, had contracted 
 a union with a young lady of moderate accom- 
 plishments, and unequal to him in birth, but irre- 
 proachable in her conduct, and most earnest in her 
 affection. Exalted on the scale of title, the father 
 forbad any further continuance of that engage- 
 ment which had hitherto existed between the young 
 people, and reserved to himself the right of choos- 
 ing a partner for his son. The latter was no less 
 assured of his father's obstinate adherence to this 
 resolve, than determined to indulge in his natural 
 affection for the chosen one of his heart. He 
 therefore calmly acquiesced in his father's wish, 
 without ever intending that it should supplant 
 
30 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO, 
 
 (however it might interfere with) his own. I 
 shall be brief on this point. He married her of 
 his father's choice, and loved another. Thus he 
 lived unsuspected for many years. His wife could 
 find no reason for complaint: but his mistress, 
 however she loved, was still unhappy. Though she 
 could palliate her conduct, even to the verge of 
 complete justification — though her Pietro's love 
 remained, after a lapse of fifteen years, unimpaired 
 — though she was the mother of a boy in whom his 
 father's graces shone, and upon whom his father 
 fondly doted — still she was melancholy ; for she 
 could not enjoy the happiness depending on a 
 secrecy which time must ultimately reveal, and 
 which accident might instantly destroy. 
 
 These reflections weighed more and more hea- 
 vily on the mind of poor Bianca ; nor could the 
 proportional increase of her lover's endearments, in 
 any degree allay her heart's increasing anguish. 
 Though she felt for her son all the ties of a 
 mother, she could not reap a mother's joy ; for, in 
 her dreams, she saw him wretched and persecuted, 
 and her waking thoughts could not dispel her 
 sleep-engendered fears. 
 
 The elder Pietro had pursued the later course 
 of his education under a very learned but half- 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 31 
 
 crazed monk of Benevento, who, though violent 
 in his temper, was of excellent heart, and capable 
 of warm and lasting attachments. He had long 
 quitted the monastery to which he originally be- 
 longed ; and, having some little property, he wore 
 the garb of his fraternity, but lived upon his own 
 means. 
 
 To his old tutor, Pietro introduced his Bianca 
 and child ; and the good monk, on first seeing the 
 boy, was so struck with the resemblance he bore 
 to one whom he had ever loved as a son and been 
 proud of as a pupil, that he clasped the young 
 Pietro in his arms, and gave way to an impulse of 
 extacy which was scarcely less indicative of mental 
 derangement than of heartfelt affection. He took 
 up his abode near the house of Bianca, and spent 
 the greater part of his time in the instruction of 
 his new charge. 
 
 It is fit I should here inform you that the legal 
 wife of Pietro had presented him with a son within 
 a month of the day which gave birth to the unfor- 
 tunate subject of my narrative. He was named 
 Luigi, after his grandfather, who died some years 
 back, leaving him in possession of all that court- 
 interest which his artful mother knew well how 
 to employ. Reports were spread touching her 
 
32 THK MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 intimacy with certain venerable cardinals ; and it 
 was wondered that no one should be more careless 
 to discover the truth, than Pietro, her husband. 
 His wife was nobly befriended, and his rightful 
 son most rich in expectation. Why, then, should 
 he trouble himself ? They were provided for in 
 every sense : his solicitude was demanded else- 
 where. Alas ! his solicitude became at length too 
 apparent ! 
 
 He was suddenly attacked by a violent disor- 
 der ; and, under the idea that his death was fast 
 approaching, he could no longer conceal the 
 anxiety he felt for the real partner of his heart 
 and child of his love. Fearful of revealment, he 
 still evinced by his manner and feelings that his 
 breast was labouring with some heavy and impor- 
 tant secret ; and his wife's suspicions being once 
 aroused, they took, as a matter of course, the turn 
 most unfavourable to herself. More artful, however, 
 than her husband, she contrived to throw the mask 
 of indifference over wrathful feelings and burning 
 thoughts. So well she played her part, that Bar- 
 rini was doubly deceived : he not only imagined 
 her free from suspicion, but gave her credit for 
 such charitable inclinations as, in the event of dis- 
 covery, might render her indulgent both to his 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 33 
 
 own irregularities and those of his Bianca. So 
 narrowly, however, did she watch every action of 
 her husband, that his endeavour to forward a 
 secret message to the Monk of Benevento, com- 
 pleted the mischief which he hoped to avoid. The 
 holy father daily visited the sick man, for the 
 ostensible purpose of religious conference ; but 
 the Countess Barrini well knew, that the object of 
 the measure was neither more nor less than a com- 
 munication between her husband and illegiti- 
 mate rival. In short, though she had never yet 
 seen either Bianca or Pietro, she was very shortly 
 in possession of all the facts connected with her 
 husband's amour. Bribes had been successfully 
 applied in several instances; but the discovery 
 was chiefly effected by a treacherous expedient of 
 the countess, who managed to secrete her son in 
 the chamber of Barrini during every interview 
 between the monk and himself. 
 
 The dissolution of Barrini was now hourly ex- 
 pected ; and his desire once more to behold the 
 monopolizers of his affection was no longer to be 
 restrained. A plan for the satisfaction of his 
 wish was therefore devised by the monk, who came 
 into his chamber when his wife and son Luigi 
 were sitting at his bed side. Fain would he have 
 
 VOL. II. D 
 
34i THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 sought a pretext for their temporary absence ; for 
 he even less dreaded the emotions which might be 
 mutually excited by the meeting of Barrini, his 
 mistress, and child, than the very strong resem- 
 blance which the latter bore to his father. He 
 had the precaution, however, to bring about this 
 interview in the dusk of the evening; and the 
 service of the Ave Maria was concluded through- 
 out the city, when Bianca and Pietro entered the 
 chamber of the dying count. 
 
 " Here," said the monk, " are two individuals 
 anxious to behold the form of Barrini, ere it may 
 chill in the embrace of death. Permit them, 
 Countess, to approach the bed of a long tried friend 
 and benefactor — to press his hand to their lips— and 
 whisper in his ear the heartfelt acknowledgment of 
 their gratitude. Long hath he assisted them in 
 secret. There be performers of charity who shun 
 renown, as there be followers of guilt, who avoid 
 the light. He hath been unto this youth as a 
 father : can a mother feel less than sorrow for the 
 loss of her child's protector ?" 
 
 The Countess was silent ; and the monk vainly 
 imagined that he had enabled her to hear, without 
 suspicion, the sobs of the wretched Bianca. As 
 for herself, she neither felt much grief, nor affected 
 
THE MOXK OF BENEVEXTO. 3o 
 
 it. Indeed, wherefore should she ? That her 
 husband's conduct had been through life uniformly 
 kind and exemplary, was not sufficient to make 
 her deeply feel his loss, now that she was convinced 
 of his never having truly loved her. At the same 
 time, as she had ever been incapable of true affec- 
 tion herself, she could not experience much regret 
 in the knowledge of his indifference towards her. 
 It was her pride, not her heart, which suffered at 
 present. She felt insulted by the presence of his 
 mistress at such a time. She was irritated at seeing 
 the latter wholly occupy his dying thoughts. He 
 pressed the hands of his legitimate partner and son ; 
 but he happily breathed his last in the arms of her 
 whom he so dearly loved ! 
 
 " Monk I" exclaimed the Countess, pointing to 
 the corpse of Barrini, "he is dead ; and I may now 
 tell thee how deceived thou art in the supposition 
 that thou hast deceived me. Fit, indeed, it is, 
 that they whom most Barrini loved, should mourn 
 him most. Let them, then, as they possessed his 
 affections when living, do him the necessary honours 
 of burial. Having had no hold upon his interest 
 hitherto, I feel no interest in his corse. To you, 
 Madam, and your son, I do bequeath it : and so, 
 good night to all." 
 
36 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 With this unfeeling speech, she left the room, 
 followed by her son Luigi. Bianca and Pietro 
 were so absorbed in grief as scarcely to mark her 
 words ; but no sooner was she gone, than they 
 lavished upon the insensible body of Barrini all 
 those caresses which the presence of the Countess 
 had compelled them previously to restrain. The 
 Monk in vain urged them to retire : nor did they 
 quit the chamber of death, nor partake of any 
 sustenance, during the twenty-four hours which 
 elapsed between the last moments of Barrini, and 
 the interment of his remains. 
 
 Bianca, a delicate and devoted female, did not 
 long survive the loss of him, who should have left 
 her his name, as well as the recollection of his 
 virtues. Pietro, it is said, felt even more sensibly 
 the death of his mother than he had done his pre- 
 vious loss ; and now that he was deprived of both 
 parents, he regarded with an affection scarcely less 
 than filial, his tutor the Monk of Benevento. I 
 have alluded to the latter as half crazed : he was 
 occasionally subject to an eccentricity of idea, and 
 a violence of temper, which bordered upon insanity. 
 Although nothing could be more opposed to the 
 wishes of his pupil, he would sometimes intrude 
 himself on the Countess Barrini, and indulge in 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 37 
 
 extravagant eulogiums upon the merits of Pietro, 
 which were not unfrequently coupled with com- 
 parisons extremely unfavourable to Luigi the legiti- 
 mate, and in every way odious to Luigi's mother. 
 He would speak of Pietro, as u the worthy son of 
 such a sire ;" and endeavoured more than once to 
 recommend him to the Countess'' favour, not only 
 in consideration of his superior parts, but in respect 
 to the strong likeness which he bore to his father. 
 The last feature of his portrait, was, in the eyes of 
 the Countess, little less than a crime : she was, 
 however, curious to see him, for she had no oppor- 
 tunity of observing his features on the night of 
 their first meeting, and had never beheld him since. 
 
 The meeting was immediately effected by the 
 monk, and I well remember his description of it : 
 
 " There," said he, " upon an elegant sofa, in 
 all the pomp of finery and fashion, sat an ill- 
 shaped, harsh-featured little woman, and, by her 
 side, a youth, as nearly her counterpart as son 
 could be to mother. Brother," exclaimed my ener- 
 getic informant, " I fancied I could see at a glance, 
 the triumph and the ruin of my pupil! The 
 Countess started at the resemblance he bore to 
 her deceased lord; and her son, shrinking into 
 himself, blushed under a sense of inferiority, and 
 bit his lips with an envy that seemed demoniacal. 
 
38 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 He looked, when confronted by his brother, as an 
 imperfect coin of the realm by the side of a massive 
 bar of virgin gold. He had the stamp of legiti- 
 macy ; but he lacked the dignity of nature. The 
 Countess just rose to accost him ; but Luigi retained 
 his seat; and when Pietro advanced frankly forward 
 and took him by the hand, he felt it warm and 
 trembling." 
 
 The seeds of hatred were already sown in 
 Luigi's heart; and every circumstance which 
 brought the brothers subsequently together, tended 
 to their mutual enmity. They occasionally 
 met by accident, and as often by the design of 
 Pietro's friends, who would propose mathematical 
 problems or a game at foils, for the purpose of 
 bringing their talents and dexterity into compe- 
 tition. 
 
 " Alas !" said the monk, on one occasion, to 
 Luigi, " thou art as much unable to foil thy 
 brother in his learning as in his strength." 
 
 a Insulting monk ! — be dumb !" exclaimed 
 Luigi ; " know who I am !" 
 
 " Nay, excuse the thoughtless partiality of an 
 infatuated friar," whispered Pietro ; " smile at it, 
 my brother." 
 
 a Call me not brother. Sir V* exclaimed Luigi. 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 39 
 
 " Nay," replied Pietro, calmly, " do not give 
 way to this unchristian-like choler, else thou wilt 
 never make a cardinal ; and I shall be as much 
 ashamed to own thee as my brother, as thou art 
 now to acknowledge me as thine. Yet, we are 
 brothers, or something like it ; differing princi- 
 pally in this particular, — that I inherit little but 
 our father's face, and thou nothing save his 
 lands." 
 
 The monk's peal of laughter, at the conclusion 
 of this rebuff, was Stentorian. Luigi's dagger 
 was drawn, and as quickly wrenched from his grasp, 
 by the hand of Pietro. 
 
 " I will keep this dagger," said the monk, " as 
 a memorandum of the favour thou didst intend 
 for me ; and for the intention of which, I am as 
 much thy debtor, as though the favour had been 
 conferred." — Luigi cast an affected look of con- 
 tempt upon the monk and Pietro, and took his 
 departure. 
 
 Here, Sirs, commenced the tragedy which is 
 shortly to be concluded on the scaffold ! Not, 
 however, that the unfortunate Pietro was doomed 
 instantly to suffer, though from that moment regis- 
 tered as the object of persecution, His poli- 
 tical views were known to be liberal, and his reli- 
 
40 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 gious ideas at variance with the strict injunctions 
 of Catholicism. These peculiarities of opinion 
 were, I have no doubt, hopefully considered by 
 certain individuals, as weak points, which, in some 
 unguarded moment, might serve their inimical 
 purposes ; and they were the more available, 
 owing to the frankness of his temper, and the 
 unrestrained liberty of his speech. He happened 
 also, to fall into the company of some wild young 
 Englishmen, whose habits and conversation were 
 not likely to act upon him as correctives. On the 
 contrary, I am ready to allow that he gained little 
 in their society but a reputation for frolic and an 
 addiction to wine and the gambling table. 
 
 The monk had left Rome on a visit to his 
 brethren of Benevento, when his pupil committed 
 the first of those numerous errors which he is now 
 about to expiate. He had been revelling with 
 his British companions, and was returning home- 
 wards with a party of them, when he recognized 
 his brother, crossing the Piazza Navona, in com- 
 pany with one of the pope's cardinals. Pietro, 
 like the rest of his party, was in a state of intoxi- 
 cation; and, either not perceiving the cardinal's 
 peculiar costume, or careless of offending his dig- 
 nity, he went half staggering up to his brother, 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 41 
 
 and, slapping him rudely on the shoulder, ex- 
 claimed, " How dost thou, Signior legitimate f" 
 The cardinal started back a few paces ; and at the 
 same moment, his servant, (who was following at a 
 short distance) rushed forward to interpose between 
 Pietro and his master. Pietro immediately col- 
 lared the servant ; and, in a few moments, the dis- 
 turbance in the square became general. Horrified 
 at this insult, committed against one of the digni- 
 taries of St. Peter's, several Italian gentlemen 
 proceeded to lay violent hands upon Pietro, who 
 found ready assistance in his English friends. A 
 scuffle ensued, in which the cardinal^ servant and 
 others of his party were slightly injured ; and the 
 affray ended in the apprehension of all the 
 offenders, who were that very evening lodged in 
 the Castle of St. Angelo. The English, after an 
 imprisonment of a few days, were liberated under 
 the injunction of quitting the papal dominions 
 before the expiration of forty-eight hours. Pietro, 
 however, was retained a prisoner. 
 
 Benevento lies between Rome and Florence ; and 
 the tutor of Pietro, being there at the time when 
 the banished Englishmen were on their way into 
 Tuscany, was informed by them of his pupil's fate. 
 Two hours after he had received this unwelcome 
 
42 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 intelligence, he was on his way to Rome for the li- 
 beration of his favourite. Pietro had committed a 
 fault, and his tutor pleaded for him with modera- 
 tion. He pleaded not in vain ; and his Holiness 
 permitted the insulted cardinal to liberate the of- 
 fender. 
 
 Pietro, however, was most unfortunate. He had 
 lost his parents, and his mentor was at times 
 little better than a maniac. The latter, indeed, 
 was becoming more and more subject to fits of ex- 
 travagance and mental aberration. Any excitement 
 of feeling, or exertion of his faculties, however he 
 might endure it at the time, left him either ex- 
 hausted or estranged. Though never more attached 
 to Pietro, he was much less in his company 
 now than heretofore. The latter, in fact, had ar- 
 rived at man's estate, and followed, as he had a 
 right to do, the bent of his own inclinations. He 
 visited his old tutor occasionally, from a feeling of 
 respect ; but the monk was now rarely away from 
 his books, and the pupil as rarely to be found r 
 either alone or in good company. 
 
 I forbear to mention several minor delinquencies, 
 which, becoming (I may not say by what means) 
 generally known, obtained for him a notoriety little 
 creditable, Intimately acquainted with no respec- 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 43 
 
 table families, he was ill spoken of by all who, un- 
 acquainted with the earlier pages of his history, 
 and ignorant of his present disadvantages, viewed 
 the superficial errors of an ungoverned mind, as if 
 originating in a heart radically bad. My sons, 
 there be as many who fall from having their virtues 
 neglected, as from having their vices discovered. 
 Poor Pietro had within him the essentials of good, 
 but the circumstances of his life have precluded its 
 dev elopement. He fell into the society of the politi- 
 cal demagogue and the irreligious scoffer, who, as 
 it were, sublimated his brain, and made it inde- 
 pendent of his heart. He has been anathematized 
 by the church, and twice accused of being confe- 
 derate with practisers against the state. Though 
 acquitted on the first charge of treason, it was too 
 evident that his arrest had not been without foun- 
 dation ; and you will be surprised to hear that his 
 liberation, in this instance, was attributed to the 
 charitable interference of his brother Luigi. Yet 
 understand me rightly ; it is now by many known 
 that the pleader for his acquittal had also been his 
 accuser. Thus the huntsman curtails the sport of 
 to-day, that the bloodier conclusion may be effected 
 to-morrow. 
 
 During the time of Pietro's struggle with his 
 
44 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 later and more serious difficulties, it was remarked 
 that all communication between the monk of Bene- 
 vento and himself appeared to have ceased. It was 
 supposed that the former, at length awakened to a 
 due sense of his pupil's worthlessness, had aban- 
 doned him to that destruction which his incorrigible 
 spirit seemed on the eve of bringing down upon 
 him. On the second apprehension of Pietro, for sus- 
 pected treason, the monk of Benevento disappeared 
 from Rome, and has never since been heard of. 
 
 The issue of Pietro' s second trial was condemna- 
 tion to the gallies for life, and his chief accuser no 
 other than Luigi, who expressed " deep regret at 
 being unavoidably instrumental to the conviction 
 of one in some degree allied to him." Luigi was, 
 however, but a poor actor ; and, while he uttered 
 the word " regret," he only belied a feeling of joy- 
 ful satisfaction. He talked of justice, but was ac- 
 tuated merely by revenge. He declared his wretch- 
 edness at the severity of the sentence which had 
 been passed upon his brother, though he evidently 
 grieved at its comparative lenity, expecting, as he 
 had done, that it would have fallen upon his life. 
 Pietro's crime, it is universally acknowledged, was 
 capital ; and it is likewise generally known, that 
 the devilish hypocrisy of his brother, becoming on 
 
THE MONK OF BEXEVENTO. 45 
 
 this occasion too palpable, disgusted the court, and 
 inclined them to season their justice with a more 
 than usual portion of mercy. The unfortunate 
 prisoner, before his removal to the gallies, was per- 
 mitted to remain one month in the castle of St. 
 Angelo, for the purpose of bidding adieu to such 
 of his Roman acquaintance as he should particu- 
 larly desire to see. " On this very day," said our 
 informant, " now that he is about to be numbered 
 with the dead, he was to have been first loaded 
 with the chains of slavery, and the badge of dis- 
 grace !" 
 
 It was on a beautiful evening (continued our 
 informant,) about a fortnight back, that Luigi 
 wandered alone among the ruins of the ancient 
 city, and entered the Coliseum, just as the moon, 
 hitherto dimmed by a thin veil of clouds, burst 
 in all her splendour upon the sanctified arena of 
 this stupendous pile. The Coliseum is, with me, 
 a favourite resort at all times, and never more 
 so, than on a night like the one to which I have 
 just alluded. I was standing in a recess near 
 the arch of entrance, at the moment of Luigi's 
 coming in, and the flash of the moon, suddenly 
 revealing me to his sight, appeared to startle him 
 considerably. O Sirs, his conscience, (if he had 
 one,) was ill at rest ! Yet, what induced him 
 
46 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 hither ? Was it to plan some new scheme of 
 villainy, or to repent him of what he had ac- 
 complished ? Did he seek here some conference 
 with his mercenary spies ? or did he come to kneel 
 at the foot of the cross, which occupies the centre 
 of the grass-grown arena ? I felt uneasy in his 
 presence, and left the spot. 
 
 On returning towards my abode in this neigh- 
 bourhood, I was much surprised, by intelligence 
 that the prisoner Pietro had escaped from the 
 Castle of St. Angelo ; and on further inquiry, I 
 heard with feelings not unmixed with satisfaction, 
 that the truth of the report was established. How 
 he effected his rescue, I know not. The keeper of 
 the prison, and one of his attendants, have been 
 dismissed, with a severe reproof for carelessness. 
 It does not appear, however, that they were 
 guilty of more than carelessness, though surmises 
 have been indulged in, touching their trustwor- 
 thiness. Pietrcfs boldness and ability, were ever 
 equally great, and where any thing was within 
 his power, he never remained ignorant of it. 
 
 The police was immediately on the alert, and 
 horsemen were sent off at speed to set watches at 
 the several distant gates, which lead from the 
 southern boundary of the ancient city. It was 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 47 
 
 reported, that an individual answering the pri- 
 soner's description, had been seen near the arch of 
 Janus. Thence he was traced to the ruins on the 
 Palatine-Hill, and again to the Baths of Cara- 
 calla. 
 
 I shall never forget my feelings during this 
 hunt after a fellow creature ! I was among the 
 hounds, yet not in the chase ; and, as I trembled 
 at every expectation of the wretched Pietro's 
 capture, I secretly rejoiced at every disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 It was now midnight : a party of the police 
 was distributed about the Coliseum, which, from 
 its numerous dark recesses and irregular passages, 
 is particularly adapted to personal concealment. 
 The gloomy corridors had all been searched, and 
 every hiding-place of almost unattainable access 
 had been examined, ere the pursuers once thought 
 of ascending the common wooden staircase, erected 
 for the convenience of the visitor, in passing from 
 the arena to the galleries above. This staircase, 
 then, was at length subject to their search ; and 
 if, on ascending, they found not the object of their 
 pursuit, they perhaps made a discovery of equal 
 benefit to the world, viz. the lifeless body of 
 Pietro's brother, Luigi had been murdered ! 
 
48 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 The corpse was scarcely cold ; but, from the 
 nature of the wounds, (evidently inflicted by a 
 stiletto,) life must have been extinguished almost 
 without an attendant groan. 
 
 Of course, this deed of blood was immediately 
 laid to the account of Pietro, the time of whose 
 escape so exactly coincided with that of his 
 brother's departure from his mansion in the 
 city. Thank Heaven, the scene of homicide was 
 quitted betimes ; I might have been otherwise 
 accused of that which my known aversion to the 
 murdered would have rendered the more pro- 
 bable. I was, however, a witness to the time of 
 his entering the Coliseum, which, considered with 
 reference to the hour when Pietro was observed 
 among the ruins on the Palatine hill close by, 
 is in itself, I regret to say, too strongly indica- 
 tive of the guilt of the latter. 
 
 It was a singular coincidence, that the dis- 
 covery of Luigfs body, and the recapture of 
 Pietro, should have been effected within the same 
 hour, though the latter was taken at a consider- 
 able distance from the scene of his most guilty 
 act. He had passed the city gate on the Neapo- 
 litan road, ere an officer could be placed on guard 
 there ; but was followed over a portion of the 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 49 
 
 Campagna, and arrested in an outhouse adjoining 
 the ancient little temple of Ridiculus. Being 
 taken by surprise, he was unable to carry into 
 effect the resolution he had formed of committing 
 suicide, as the alternative of capture. A stiletto 
 was found upon him, which he acknowledged to 
 have been intended for that purpose ; though he 
 refused to answer any questions relative to the 
 blood stains upon its hilt, and on the sleeve of his 
 vest. 
 
 Whatever pity the fate of Pietro might other- 
 wise have excited, he has forfeited by his last act 
 every hold upon the public sympathy. Political 
 crimes, however great, (and though they may be 
 in fact more to be dreaded,) will never raise that 
 feeling of abhorrence, with which we contem- 
 plate the sin of murder. This was at least the 
 one crime of which Pietro was deemed incapable 
 It is even thought that his sentence of committal 
 for life to the gallies, would have been after a time 
 transmuted to some milder punishment ; and, that 
 if he had well demeaned himself during the 
 morning of his captive life, its evening had been 
 one rather of ease than of sorrow. 
 
 There are some extraordinary circumstances 
 connected with the last part of this unfortunate's 
 
 VOL. II. e 
 
50 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 history. On being reconducted to prison, he was 
 placed in the lowest dungeon, and double chained. 
 " Wherefore this change ?" said he, apparently 
 ignorant that the murder of his brother was yet 
 known. " Yet, true," he added, " I have com- 
 mitted an additional crime in attempting my 
 escape. What will be my additional punish- 
 ment ? Heavens, what a thought ! — solitary 
 incarceration in this horrible dungeon ! O, that 
 I had done a deed to merit death !" 
 
 " Murder scarcely merits less" said the keeper. 
 
 " Murder !" ejaculated Pietro ; " nay, that 
 I could not do !" 
 
 " They'll try thee for that crime to-morrow, as 
 I learn," rejoined the keeper. 
 
 Pietro's affected surprise and indignation were 
 the more disgusting in being so well enacted. 
 Alas, for the once noble heart of this degraded 
 youth ! I have known the time when the crime 
 of falsehood was no less repulsive to his nature 
 than a deed of blood. Yet, the deformities of a 
 fallen mind, are oftentimes proportioned to that 
 altitude on the scale of excellence, which, under 
 circumstances more fortunate, it might have at- 
 tained. When I think on what he is, it is with 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 51 
 
 feelings of horror : — when he has expiated his sins 
 upon that scaffold, I will regard his memory with 
 feelings, at least of pity, if not of love. 
 
 Pietro's trial was appointed to take place im- 
 mediately. On the morning after his re-imprison- 
 ment, (as I have been told,) a venerable looking 
 monk appeared before the jailer, earnestly solicit- 
 ing an interview with the miserable captive. 
 After much difficulty the favor was obtained ; 
 and the monk, having submitted to a scrutinous 
 examination of his person, was conducted towards 
 the dungeon of Pietro, where he was permitted 
 to remain for a quarter of an hour, under the 
 injunction of withholding all conference, to which 
 the accompanying turnkey might not be a witness. 
 
 " May 1 not speak a word to him in secret?" 
 said the friar, as he followed the turnkey down 
 the last flight of steps leading to the dungeon. 
 
 " Not a syllable," replied the surly conductor. 
 
 " Then, my friend," loudly added the former, 
 pausing at the foot of the stairs, " do thou go 
 forward, and bid the fratricide be silent while 
 I speak. Thou shalt hear all I say : but let him 
 say nothing : unless he promise this, I enter not 
 his dungeon. Go, tell him on't." 
 
 " Nay," replied the other, " his dungeon is 
 e 2 
 
52 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 here— close at hand: and, if he be not deaf or 
 asleep, your own words, holy father, have reached 
 his ear." 
 
 " I hear him, jailer," muttered the prisoner 
 from his gloomy vault ; and in a moment after, 
 the friar stood before him. 
 
 u Thou art about to answer a charge of fratri- 
 cide," exclaimed the monk. 
 
 The prisoner seemed rapt in astonishment, and 
 in this instance, his surprise might have been 
 real ; for, if prepared to hear the accusation of 
 murder, he little expected to receive it from the 
 lips of the Monk of Benevento ! 
 
 " Thou art about to answer a charge of fratri- 
 cide, and I come to counsel thee, by the love I 
 bore thy father and Bianca's child, that thou 
 mayst answer it, (as thou hast promised to an- 
 swer me,) with silence. Acknowledge naught, 
 nor seek an exculpation. Put thy faith in Hea- 
 ven; and, if men wrongly condemn thee, be 
 sure the hour of thy deliverance is at hand. 
 Aye ! even though thou shalt ascend the scaffold 
 where the headsman awaits thee ; though the 
 prayer for thy soul be finished ; though thy neck 
 be bared and the knife be ready to descend upon 
 it ; yet, shall it not fall upon thee if thou be 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 53 
 
 innocent ! If the blood of Luigi be indeed upon 
 thy head, display that only virtue left to the 
 murderer— that of a calm submission to the stroke 
 of his executioner : if innocent, let not the in- 
 justice of a false condemnation deceive thee : 
 thou shalt not die, though brought to the very 
 brink of death P* 
 
 This speech was uttered with amazing energy, 
 and with all the authority of a prophet. As he 
 vehemently concluded the last sentence, he ad- 
 vanced towards the prisoner, and stretching forth 
 his huge bony arm, grasped the trembling hand 
 of Pietro : — 
 
 " This hand," added he in a more subdued 
 tone, " should not be the hand of a murderer. I 
 find not in its touch the evidence of guilt. Adieu, 
 Pietro ! remember my injunction !" 
 
 Saying this, the Monk of Benevento quitted 
 the dungeon; but the jailer, amazed at the ex- 
 traordinary scene he had just witnessed, either felt 
 or fancied some grounds for suspicion, and ma- 
 naged to detain this authoritative visitor in the 
 prison, till he had informed his superiors of what 
 had taken place. The governor, however, treated 
 the matter lightly ; for he knew something of 
 the monk, and had been always of opinion that lie 
 
54 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 was a crazed enthusiast. Besides, after all, he 
 had said nothing to excite apprehension, unless 
 indeed his speech might be regarded as containing 
 an insinuation, that the prisoner, though in fact 
 innocent of the murder, might be condemned as 
 guilty. As to his assurance, that in the event of 
 unjust condemnation, he would yet be preserved, 
 it was deemed too absurd to require a thought ; 
 and the monk was in consequence dismissed. 
 
 I shall not detain you by a detailed account of 
 the trial of Pietro Barrini. However the friar^s 
 counsel was despised generally, as emanating from 
 the agitated brain of a maniac, it was still most 
 religiously obeyed by Pietro, who remained al- 
 most as calm, during the progress of the inquiry, 
 as if it had no connexion with his own fate. He 
 refused to answer every question, and shook his 
 head in reply to the demand, whether he had any 
 reasons for alleging that death might not be 
 awarded him. The circumstantial evidence was 
 such as to leave no doubts upon the minds of 
 his judges in respect to his guilt. He was, there- 
 fore, condemned, in due form, as the murderer of 
 his half-brother, Luigi, and sentenced to die. 
 
 On his return to prison, he was immediately 
 visited by a priest, who in vain urged him to con- 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 55 
 
 fess the crime of which he was so indisputably 
 guilty. " I am ready to die," said the youth, 
 " give me your prayers, but question me no more. 
 I have but one request to make, viz., that I may 
 be permitted, ere the morning of my doom arrives, 
 to bid farewell to my old tutor, the Monk of 
 Benevento." 
 
 The monk was accordingly sought for ; and, as 
 it was evident he had great influence on the mind 
 of the prisoner, he was solicited to urge the ab- 
 solute sin of withholding confession, now that his 
 crime was established, and his doom fixed. It 
 could no longer avail him any thing, with respect 
 to this life, while it more than endangered the 
 future safety of his soul. 
 
 " How I" said the monk, ( * did I not myself 
 forewarn him neither to confess nor deny ? As, in 
 the judicial court, he scorned to exculpate himself, 
 wherefore should he now confess ? wherefore 
 should he, after sentence acknowledge what be- 
 fore he never denied ?" 
 
 " O, Franciscan," rejoined the confessor, " un- 
 worthy of thy brotherhood ; wherefore wouldst 
 thou enjoin a stubborn wickedness in this thy once 
 loved pupil ? Thou wouldst have him leave the 
 world without that only hope which originates 
 
56 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 in confession, and which is enlivened by the par- 
 taking of that sacrament, the virtues of which 
 alone can be felt by those who acknowledge their 
 sins !" 
 
 " Holy St. Francis !" exclaimed the monk, 
 " dost thou tutor me f 
 
 " Aye, father," replied the confessor, " in the 
 first rules of Christianity." 
 
 " Wilt thou believe him if he do confess ?" re- 
 joined the monk with increasing emphasis. 
 
 " Aye, — if he speak the truth," answered the 
 former. 
 
 u Pietro," said the monk, " hitherto thou hast 
 well obeyed me, and may obey me now. Speak 
 then the free and fearful truth ! — Speak, as though 
 Satan thirsted for a soul blackened with false- 
 hood ! — Speak, under the impress that a lie shall 
 damn thee — nay, under the hope that it may ! 
 — Speak but a word : — Art thou guilty of Luigfs 
 murder ?" 
 
 " No !" exclaimed the perjured wretch. 
 
 The confessor and his attendants shrunk back 
 with horror. " Franciscan !" said the former, 
 " thou art thyself a murderer — thou hast killed 
 his soul !" 
 
 " Pietro," said the monk, heedless of the dis- 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 5*j 
 
 may he had occasioned, " be silent now as here- 
 tofore. I'll meet thee on the scaffold !" saying 
 this, he left the prison. 
 
 The execution was to have taken place two 
 days ago ; but, under the hope that this unfortu- 
 nate young man might be brought to a sense of 
 his most sinful state, the course of the law has 
 been protracted till to-day. No impression had 
 been made upon him till a late hour last night ; 
 and it is feared he will leave the world without a 
 hope of mercy ! O, horrible ! (exclaimed the nar- 
 rator under an impulse of great agitation) horrible 
 instance of impiety ! 
 
 You may imagine (continued our informant, 
 after a pause) that the hour of this wretch's doom 
 is looked forward to with more than common inte- 
 rest. His history, such as you now have it, is 
 very generally known ; and I have no doubt but 
 the crowd of spectators, this morning, will far ex- 
 ceed the usual number assembled on such occa- 
 sions ; for the Italian, though capable, like the 
 rest of the world, of committing a deed of blood, 
 is not by any means forward to witness the retri- 
 butive sacrifice required by justice. 
 
 It is yet conceived by many, that the sight of 
 yon fatal instrument, (when the impossibility of 
 
58 THE MONK OF BENEVEXTO, 
 
 evading its horrible purpose is made as evident to 
 the mind of the murderer as to those of his accu- 
 sers,) will urge him to an acknowledgment of his 
 guilt. It may be, indeed, that he has, ere this, 
 been prevailed upon. O, that it were so : I would 
 have him die — but not eternally ! 
 
 Having been thus far instructed upon the sub- 
 ject of Barrings history, it only remained for us 
 to decide, whether or not we should witness the 
 catastrophe of this melancholy drama. The sud- 
 den shock we experienced, on first so unexpectedly 
 beholding the guillotine, had, in a measure, ino- 
 culated us with the very essence of dread ; and the 
 story we had just heard, while it contributed to 
 settle our nerves, imbued us with a curiosity, 
 which, after a hard contest with our apprehensions, 
 compelled us to retrace our steps to that part of 
 the hill whence we had first observed the dreadful 
 preparations in the Piazza del Popolo. 
 
 The place was now almost filled with spectators, 
 among whom the English were numerous and pro- 
 minent. I could distinguish many of them, skulk- 
 ing about from one place to another, as if fright- 
 ened at their neighbours and ashamed of them- 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 59 
 
 selves. Others were conspicuously mounted on 
 carts, or on the several heaps of stone and timber 
 which were in the Piazza, it being at that time 
 undergoing enlargement and repair. The more 
 elevated were English, almost without exception ; 
 and these were generally in parties of from three 
 to six. Here and there might be seen one of our 
 countrymen standing alone on the top of a low 
 wall, which rises four or five feet at the bottom of 
 the hill ; and he would be constantly taking hur- 
 ried glances around and about him, as though he 
 feared some one was going to push him from the 
 parapet. One old gentleman, whom I remember- 
 ed to have frequently seen on the top of the Green- 
 wich coach, had evidently suffered his curiosity to 
 effect a prodigious inroad upon his comfort. It 
 was not a time to smile, and yet, the appearance of 
 this silly old fellow, might be quoted as an especial 
 cause for a momentary excitement of the risible 
 muscles. He had been rambling about the Piazza 
 for a full hour ; now regarding with stupid won- 
 der the paraphernalia of death, and anon starting 
 off towards some one of the many, who had long 
 shunned his society as irksome from its common- 
 place insipidity, and who now, more than ever, 
 carefully avoided him. Anxious to see the dread- 
 
CO THE MONK OF JSENEVENTO. 
 
 ful conclusion about to occur, he was scarcely less 
 so to associate himself with a supporter on the try- 
 ing occasion ; and, after numerous vain attempts 
 elsewhere, he at last espied me on the brow of the 
 Pincion Mount. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. — Mr. — whafs your name," said he, 
 inwardly trembling from head to foot, and affect- 
 ing a sort of ghastly smile, which had no more to 
 do with risibility than with reason. " What, so 
 youVe — you're come, eh— youVe come back— just 
 in time — in time to see — to see — this — fellow*^ — 
 nob taken off, eh ?" 
 
 It is most true (said the painter) there is so near 
 a connexion between the sublime and the ridicu- 
 lous ; or rather, the approximation is so close, 
 that, however intense the interest with which w T e 
 may be regarding the former, we are still liable to 
 an instant transition of feeling. Wound up al- 
 most to a state of perfect abstraction by the ener- 
 getic exertions of an impassioned tragedian, we see 
 him unintentionally pull his wig a little on one 
 side, and the spell is destroyed. Trembling with 
 the anticipation of some expected horror, we are 
 perhaps the more susceptible of being tickled into 
 laughter by some accidental trifle, which might 
 otherwise have scarcely affected us. A striking 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. Gl 
 
 instance of this occurred on the sad occasion of 
 which I am now speaking. 
 
 The stated hour for the execution of the crimi- 
 nal had arrived, and a subdued buzz of expecta- 
 tion pervaded the multitude. A sudden accession 
 to the crowd, from the opening of the street through 
 which the procession of death was to enter the 
 Piazza, seemed to announce that the awful mo- 
 ment was at hand. A horse soldier came forward 
 to communicate with the officer commanding the 
 body of soldiers which surrounded the scaffold ; 
 and the latter, on the roll of a muffled drum, was 
 arranged into a double file, one line facing the 
 guillotine, and the other fronting the people. 
 
 It was an awful moment ! All eyes were direct- 
 ed towards the street-opening as before described. 
 The crowd beneath was seen slowly to concentrate 
 itself in that direction ; and the spectators on the 
 hill pressed forward towards the brink. Our silly 
 companion, just alluded to, was standing close by 
 us, on the very edge of a small turfy projection ; 
 but he was too much rapt in expectancy to re- 
 gard the situation he had unconsciously chosen. 
 All was now silent, for the foremost of the pro- 
 cession had made his appearance ; and, immedi- 
 ately after, a black banner appeared slowly mov- 
 
62 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 ing above the heads of the multitude. Every 
 breath was suspended. Our companion leaned so 
 forward, as to intercept our sight. — Suddenly the 
 drum rolled again !— and we were as suddenly 
 bereft of our acquaintance, who, starting at the 
 sound, lost his footing, and with the brief but im- 
 pressive exclamation of " O lud !" he rolled down 
 the hill from the top to the bottom. 
 
 However indecorous at such a time, many 
 failed to restrain their laughter, though they 
 sufficiently subdued it, to prevent its being heard 
 at any distance. It was with the utmost diffi- 
 culty that my friend got the better of an inclina- 
 tion to hysterics : he was obliged to retire from 
 the front ; and we removed together to another 
 part of the eminence. The accident, it must be 
 confessed, was most ludicrous : nevertheless, there 
 was a distressing feeling of self-censure, in sub- 
 mitting to the impulse of laughter, however 
 natural and irrepressible. In the silence which 
 followed, we fancied the reproof of offended hu- 
 manity. We had, as it were, revelled on the 
 grave, and broken the solemnity of the sepul- 
 chre ! 
 
 Soon after the black banner had appeared, the 
 murmuring of the priests was indistinctly heard ; 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 63 
 
 and, as their voices grew more audible, a large 
 crucifix, covered with black cloth, was seen to 
 move forward. The priests were for a minute 
 silent ; and the low rumbling of wheels now fell 
 upon the ears of the multitude. " Ecco lo ! 
 Ecco lo ! Vieni ! Vieni !" " Here he is ! Here 
 he is ! He comes ! He comes !" were the subdued 
 exclamations heard on every side; and, just as 
 the priests resumed their prayer, the culprit — the 
 fratricide — Pietro Barrini, was seen, sitting erect 
 near the front of a cart, with his back to the 
 horse. On either side him was a masked con- 
 fessor in the attitude of a supplicant — not to 
 Heaven, but to the prisoner : " Ah, no !" ex- 
 claimed several voices near us, " he has not con- 
 fessed — he rejects salvation !" At the end of the 
 cart, opposite the wretched Barrini, sat the indi- 
 vidual who was no less an object of curiosity 
 than the culprit himself. You need not be in- 
 formed it was the Monk of Benevento. He was 
 received with marks of disapprobation by some ; 
 while others seemed to regard him with a favour 
 not unmixed with hope; and many only pitied 
 him as a madman. The procession had now 
 arrived opposite the door of the chapel, before 
 mentioned as the intermediate step between the 
 
64 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 dungeon and the scaffold, where the guilty, who 
 have confessed, receive the sacrament. The soli- 
 citations of the two attendant priests were here 
 renewed with redoubled energy, but with no 
 effect. Cries were now heard to issue from the 
 crowd : " Confess, mistaken youth !" and " Per- 
 sist, Confessor ; he may still be moved." Others, 
 less convinced of the justice of his sentence, ex- 
 claimed, " Pietro ! art thou innocent ? Speak, 
 monk — do thou speak for him !" The monk rose 
 from his seat, and broke the silence which his 
 rising had occasioned, with the words, " He hath 
 declared his innocence !" 
 
 A feeling was evidently rising in his favour. 
 His peculiar bearing : his unintimidated aspect as 
 he gazed at the guillotine : his respectful, yet 
 determined, manner of rejecting the solicitations 
 of the confessors ; and the complacency with 
 which he occasionally raised his eyes to Heaven, 
 as if confident that there, at least, he should 
 obtain mercy ; all these made a very visible and 
 increasing impression in his favour. The military 
 received intimation to be on the alert ; and the 
 police were observed to act with more than their 
 usual vigilance. 
 
 A circumstance, however, now occurred, the 
 strangeness of which must not affect its credibi-- 
 
THE MONK OF BEN EVEN TO 65 
 
 affect its credibility ; and. though a philosophi- 
 cal mind may refuse to give it weight in a 
 case of serious import, it will still be acknow- 
 ledged as wearing a serious aspect. The prisoner 
 having peremptorily refused to enter the confes- 
 sional of the chapel, the horse which had drawn 
 him thither, as obstinately refused to proceed 
 with him to the scaffold!* The good Catholics 
 were prompt to ascribe this conduct on the part 
 of the animal to the immediate interference of 
 Heaven ; but the difficulty was, to divine the true 
 purpose of this interference : for, while one party 
 contended that it was to prevent the execution of 
 an innocent man, the other maintained that it was 
 only to bring the guilty to a sense of the virtue 
 of confession. The prisoner, however, still re- 
 mained unmoved, and the horse immoveable. 
 Many conceived, that it was intended as a sign 
 the prisoner should be pardoned, whether guilty 
 or not ; and this, indeed, seemed the gene- 
 ral feeling. K Spare him ! Spare him !" was 
 reiterated on all sides, while the driver endea- 
 voured in vain to make the animal go for- 
 ward. 
 
 * Thau is. in its essentials, a fact which really happened, in the 
 year 1825, at Rome. 
 
 VOL. II. E 
 
66 
 
 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 If the intentions of the horse were not very 
 clear to the surrounding spectators, his firmness 
 of purpose (whatever it might be) seemed to 
 inspire Pietro with even additional fortitude. 
 The monk and himself, regarding each other with 
 fixed, but calmly expressive eyes, seemed to hold 
 a tacit communion. They remained perfectly 
 still, and the horse seemed little inclined to dis- 
 turb their mutual cogitations. The confessors 
 once more renewed their requests, and Pietro for 
 the last time refused them. 
 
 Being unable to act under the supposed agency 
 of Heaven, the conductors of the procession at 
 length thought of examining whether Heaven had 
 any immediate connexion with the matter. To 
 this end they unharnessed the horse, who quitted 
 the shafts readily enough, and moved off with all 
 the apparent happiness of one, whose conscience 
 tells him that he has accomplished a worthy deed. 
 Anxiety was now at the highest pitch to see how 
 a second horse would perform in the last scene of 
 this sad tragedy. The animal was no sooner 
 harnessed and attached to the cart, than he moved 
 off towards the scaffold with the most unfeeling 
 promptitude. " Alas !" exclaimed a voice from 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO, 67 
 
 the crowd, " he is a guilty man, and should have 
 confessed his sins !" 
 
 When the cart drew up to the platform, the 
 pressure of the crowd was so great, and the feeling 
 of the mob so strongly evinced in favour of the 
 prisoner, that the soldiers were obliged to exert 
 considerable violence in the prevention of a general 
 tumult. The culprit, rising from his seat, was 
 about to proceed immediately to the scaffold, when 
 the monk arrested his step, took him in his arms, 
 kissed him affectionately, and bade him resume 
 his seat. Of course, this trifling with the progress 
 of justice was not to be borne by the officers in 
 authority, who threatened the monk with an 
 instant arrest in the event of his further inter- 
 ference. 
 
 " Fools !" he loudly vociferated, as in a parox- 
 ysm of passion, " I am under arrest !— under the 
 arrest of Heaven ! condemned," said he, pointing 
 upwards, " condemned by yon unerring court, as 
 the true murderer of him, whose blood ye have 
 most falsely laid to this poor youth, the good, the 
 innocent Barrini !" 
 
 Exclamations of astonishment (not, perhaps, 
 unprompted by a feeling of gratification, or, at 
 least, alleviated anxiety,) burst simultaneously 
 f 2 
 
68 THE MON£ OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 from the populace. Pietro Barrini was, for a few 
 moments, as one petrified ; but he suddenly re- 
 covered himself from a state of surprise, to exhibit 
 a sense of wretchedness which had never appeared 
 to agitate him hitherto. Falling on his knees to 
 the monk, he implored him no longer to impede 
 the fulfilment of the sentence awarded by the court 
 of Rome. " Thou knowest not, worthy father," 
 he exclaimed, " thou knowest not what thou art 
 about to do ! Wouldst thou save me the stroke 
 of death, too momentary to be felt, to plunge me 
 into the misery of a prolonged and degrading cap- 
 tivity ? What, by living, can I hope to gain ; 
 and what, in dying, can I have to fear ? Retire, 
 beloved tutor of my youth — retire, and let me die. 
 My death were merited, though not for murder. 
 Suffer, then, in mercy, a traitor to die, rather than 
 to drag out the remainder of a life, each day of 
 which would be pregnant with a thousand times 
 the wretchedness of this moment !" 
 
 " Son," replied the monk of Benevento, " I 
 would not be merciful — but just. If thou be a 
 traitor, go, pay the penance of thy guilt, and 
 when thou prayest to heaven, put up a prayer for 
 me, albeit I slew thy brother. Confessors !" ex- 
 claimed he, loudly raising his voice, " hear me, 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 69 
 
 mistaken men ! — Behold ! here is the dagger which 
 searched Luigfs heart : his blood is yet upon it ! 
 Learn, too, how he I slew, once aimed this fated 
 weapon at my breast. Yon boy (pointing to 
 Pietro) protected me : yon boy, my wronged and 
 persecuted pupil ! He wrenched this dagger from 
 the villain"^ hand, and I from his received it. 
 Take it, confessor, it hath done its work : Pietro's 
 injuries I have avenged, and am ready now to 
 
 die r 
 
 The officers of justice were staggered by what 
 they had just heard, and confused by the cries of 
 the populace around them. The soldiers in the 
 outer rank, whose part it was to face the people, 
 seemed to forget their duty, and were mostly seen 
 with their faces half turned towards the cart. 
 There was, in fact, no wanton thirst for blood 
 among the basest of Barrinfs prosecutors. The 
 executioner, inured to his horrible duty, was so 
 impressed with an inward conviction of the young 
 prisoner's innocence, and so struck with admiration 
 at the conduct of the monk, that he leaned his 
 head, as if under a temporary failure of his ener- 
 gies, against one of the upright beams of the 
 guillotine. Whether by accident or design, it is 
 not known ; but he placed his hand, with appa- 
 
70 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 rent unconsciousness, upon the cord by which the 
 discharging lever of the instrument is put into 
 action ; and a moment after, the knife, intended 
 for Pietro's decapitation, made a bloodless descent 
 upon the block beneath. 
 
 The singular conduct of the executioner having 
 for a moment drawn the eyes of the people to- 
 wards the guillotine, the falling of the knife was 
 at once generally observed. Had the accident 
 occurred under other circumstances, it might have 
 comparatively escaped observation. As it was, a 
 simultaneous cry of exultation burst from the ma- 
 jority of the crowd, of which, not a few persons 
 were still convinced, that the obstinacy of the 
 horse was no obstinacy at all ; but, on the con- 
 trary, a most Christian-like obedience to the 
 divine will, which it was believed had been again 
 made manifest in the falling of the knife. The 
 executioner, if he designed its fall, was too charit- 
 able gratuitously to state the fact ; and his fellow 
 actors, in the cause of justice, were also too charit- 
 able to question that supernatural agency, which 
 the spectators were so universally prompt to ac- 
 knowledge. 
 
 The scene was no less affecting than extraor- 
 dinary. The monk and his pupil, overcome by 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. Jl 
 
 the sympathy of the multitude, were now locked 
 in each other's arms, mingling their tears, and 
 throbbing heart to heart. " Spare them — O, 
 spare them, for the love of God P " Spare them 
 for the sake of pity ! — Spare them for each other's 
 sake !" Such were the earnest entreaties mourn- 
 fully uttered by the heart-struck spectators 
 around, whose pity for the moment excluded all 
 notions of legislative policy, and who forgot that 
 the executive was not the power to appeal to. 
 
 Yet, a murderer and a traitor were before them ! 
 Justice averted her face to conceal her tears ; but 
 still she held within her grasp the sword and 
 balance. Pity and Hope were pleading anxiously 
 before her ; and though she turned them not away, 
 she listened to them in silence ! 
 
 The higher authorities, having been now in- 
 formed of the strange occurrence which had taken 
 place, a fit messenger was despatched to effect a 
 temporary suspension of Barrinfs sentence, and to 
 arrest the monk. The prisoners, officers, &c. were 
 addressed in legal form ; and, finally, the populace 
 were harangued papally, politically, and pathe- 
 tically. They were edified at length on the sub- 
 jects of Christian lenity, the influence of prece- 
 dents, and the amiable weakness of feeling even 
 
72 THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 for the sufferings of the guilty. The prisoners 
 were removed from the condemned cart into a 
 comfortable carriage ; and the good people who had 
 been praying for a departing spirit, departed home, 
 followed by two or three thousand spectators, who 
 went away marvellously satisfied at not having 
 seen what they so anxiously sought to behold. 
 Next to the culprits, the executioner was the most 
 popular man of the day— the horse being no man. 
 The black banner and crucifix were thrown into 
 the cart, which bore off the executioner amid the 
 plaudits of the people ; and in the course of a 
 short time, the guillotine, with all the paraphernalia 
 of death, had disappeared. 
 
 " So, that you see^ Sir," continued the painter, 
 " I was left to make the best of my disappoint- 
 ment. After all my exertions in the muster of 
 nerve and manliness ; after having ' bent up each 
 corporal agent to this terrible feat/ I obtained 
 nothing for my pains, but a mistrust in circum- 
 stantial evidence, and some little experience in the 
 delights of mercy.'" 
 
 The ultimate fate of the monk and his pupil 
 was not very severe. The known character of the 
 former, and the youth of the latter, considered 
 jointly with what had transpired in the provoca- 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. ^]3 
 
 tion, treacheries, and seductive contrivances of the 
 deceased Luigi, were admitted as palliations of 
 weight ; and the prisoners, after being separately- 
 kept in close confinement for one year, were 
 doomed to a further imprisonment for two years, 
 during which, however, they were to have an 
 additional allowance of air, aliment, and daylight, 
 together with such comfort as they might find in 
 each other's company. 
 
 It appeared j that the Monk of Benevento, while a 
 supposed absentee, was in fact at Rome, a secret 
 inspector of Luigfs wicked ways, which were 
 more numerous than I know of. The monk, how- 
 ever, was a bungler at underhand contrivances — a 
 strange, inconsistent being, rather prone to detect 
 than expose, to revenge than to remedy. He 
 might have done the state a service, and saved his 
 dear Pietro much suffering; but, in his most 
 violent moods, he was whimsical, devoted to 
 mystery, a despiser of ordinary measures, and 
 having an especial antipathy to common sense, for 
 this simple reason — he was mad. Do not ask me, 
 how he managed to meet Luigi in the Coliseum — 
 nor where he hid himself afterwards — nor how 
 Pietro got out of prison — nor how he came to be 
 in possession of a knife when he was found in the 
 
7^ THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. 
 
 Temple of Ridiculus— nor how his coat-sleeve 
 came to be blooded. That these matters were 
 satisfactorily explained, you may not, of course, 
 doubt; inasmuch as they who sat in judgment 
 upon the prisoners were content to consider the 
 explanations as all-sufficient. Besides, after the 
 catastrophe of a narrative, such minutiae come in 
 with lame effect. They hobble in, as it were, 
 like the tag-rag-and-bob-tail of a military pro- 
 cession, which no one cares to see, although it may 
 enrol among its lagging ranks the immediate pro- 
 genitors of many of the most worthy heroes who 
 have passed among the foremost lines. I am a 
 painter, you know, Sir ; and, as such, do not hesi- 
 tate occasionally to dispense with a little truth for 
 the sake of effect. One unfortunate little circum- 
 stance among the minor matters connected with 
 this narrative, I ought not probably to omit. 
 Our poor old friend, who, it may be remembered, 
 on the rolling of the drum, rolled himself down 
 the steep bank of the Pincion Hill, was more 
 injured by his fall than we had been aware. His 
 terror, for the time, superseding the pain of his 
 strains and bruises, enabled him to make his way out 
 of the Piazza with tolerable alacrity ; and we had 
 supposed him more frightened than hurt. On calling 
 
THE MONK OF BENEVENTO. *J5 
 
 to inquire after him in the course of the succeeding 
 afternoon, we found him lying upon a couch, with 
 his arm in a sling, and his head tied up with a blood- 
 stained handkerchief. His, in truth, was the 
 only blood shed upon this eventful day. There 
 had been no " nob taken off;" but a neck had 
 been nearly broken. 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 " I was the elder of the three ; 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest, 
 I ought to do — and did my best." 
 
 Prisoner of Chillon, 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 I tell of three brothers — neither the Horatii, 
 Curatii, nor the unfortunate trio of Chillon — but 
 of a small town in the west of England, in which 
 an honest apothecary, after a very indifferent 
 practice of twenty years, suddenly died, leaving 
 his children, (the fraternity aforesaid) little else 
 but the opportunity of providing for themselves. 
 The eldest son Tom, had luckily just concluded 
 his apprenticeship when his father died ; and, 
 having got the reputation of industry, and of 
 being (at all events,) clever at his business, he 
 managed to retain the small connexion which his 
 
80 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 father had possessed. Various were the opinions 
 concerning the indifferent success which the latter 
 had met with. His relations maintained, that he 
 had been too indulgent to his creditors, and too 
 nicely conscientious in his dealings, — that people 
 saw he was a good easy man, and did not hesitate 
 to impose upon an amiability which they regarded 
 as a weakness. On the other hand, it was inti- 
 mated that he was too negligent with his patients 
 in some respects, and too busy with them in 
 others ; or, which is the same thing in effect — he 
 was prone to be too gratuitous in prescriptions for 
 the health of the soul, and was therefore regarded 
 with some feelings of mistrust as a prescriber for 
 the ailings of the body. He was, moreover, some- 
 thing of a poet, his muse being of the religious 
 order ; and it is not improbable, that, if his nume- 
 rous evangelical effusions were collected and pub- 
 lished, the poetical works of Dr. Isaac Watts 
 would be superseded. He was, of course, physi- 
 cian extraordinary to the methodists of the town ; 
 and if, after a long course of medicine, any of 
 them died, he would accompany his bill of charges 
 with a poetical epitaph on the deceased. His 
 professional fame, however, kept no pace with his 
 religious repute ; nor was the appearance of his 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 81 
 
 name at the end of his numerous contributions to 
 the Evangelical Magazine, at all conducive to his 
 success as a medical practitioner. 
 
 Sometimes he was to be seen, with a bundle of 
 tracts under his arm, posting through the town as 
 if on his road to an accouchement ; and often, when 
 wanted at home, he was either figuring on the table 
 of a bible society, religiously passing sentence of 
 damnation upon all Turks, Jews, heretics, and in- 
 fidels ; or else meekly occupying a seat in the me- 
 thodist chapel, and pitiably groaning under the con- 
 demnatory lashes of some fire-and-brimstone-minded 
 parson. In truth, our poor doctor, (as he was a sin- 
 cere man,) must have found himself in a very melan- 
 choly condition ; for he certainly enjoyed but little 
 success in this world ; and, according to his pastor's 
 account of his pretensions, could have but few 
 hopes of being happy in the next. It is but fair 
 to state, that if his religious zeal prevented him 
 from paying sufficient attention to the bodily dis- 
 eases of others, it also rendered him indifferent to 
 his own. He was one of the many who fall into 
 the error of supposing, that true religion consists 
 in the perpetual offering of prayer ; in the un- 
 ceasing observance of positive rites ; in carefully 
 abstaining from all cheerful amusement ; in pros- 
 
 VOL, II. G 
 
82 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 trating their mental dignity ; and who act under 
 the idea that humility and intolerance are not in- 
 compatible. He could not perceive that a devoted 
 attention to our calling, when practised with scru- 
 pulous honesty, is not only a guiltless but a reli- 
 gious act ; that a truly good man is rather careful 
 never to offend, than rigid in the performance of 
 established church or other customary rites ; that 
 the latter are necessary as a means of promoting 
 unity ; but, that they are rather conducive to than 
 essentially forming a part o/true religion : neither 
 could he see that there was any good in a play or 
 a ball, because there was some harm in it ; nor 
 distinguish between the sickly, moping, whining 
 conduct of a man, whose religion teaches him to 
 look on every pleasure as seductive, and the cheer- 
 ful piety of him who can use without abuse. These 
 melancholy patterns of propriety would do well to 
 consider, that a man who dares not encounter the 
 evils to be found in a theatre or assembly room, is 
 like one who refrains from bathing in the fear of 
 being drowned. What he dreads as dangerous, ano- 
 ther occasionally adopts as wholesome. It is not 
 that either are exempt from danger, but that the one 
 has no confidence in himself, the other no fears in 
 anticipation. The former puts no trust in his swim- 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 83 
 
 ming corks, and renounces all pleasure rather than 
 incur any risk : the other can swim without corks, 
 and makes no bugbear of the cramp. As there 
 is no probable, he fears no possible danger — takes 
 a flounder in the tide of pleasure, and rises from it 
 refreshed. But surely, the virtue which depends 
 on a rigid abstinence from all pleasures which in- 
 clude a temptation to evil, is but a poor sickly 
 offering to the Author of " all good things." Nature 
 cannot possible delight in any thing foreign to her 
 feelings. Is it not as though we should present 
 to Pomona a basket of forced hot-house fruits, in- 
 stead of the healthy blooming apple of the orchard, 
 which, ere it ripen in the autumn sun, must with- 
 stand the perils of many a boisterous gale? 
 
 But, as I was saying, — our worthy doctor was 
 no less careless of his own bodily diseases, than of 
 his duty in regard to the maladies of his neigh- 
 bours. He fell sick ; and his religion being 
 rather of an intimidating than of a consoling quality, 
 he also fell into a sadness. Galen was put by for 
 Grotius, and he might have reaped much comfort 
 as well as advantage from scriptural perusal, if 
 his friend, the methodist parson, had not deemed 
 it his duty to suppress all ideas of his having 
 ever done any one solitary act worthy the ap- 
 es^ 2 
 
84 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 proval of Heaven. At length, having been fully 
 convinced that he richly merited eternal punish- 
 ment, he put his trust in the mercy of a just 
 Maker, and died ! 
 
 Besides his three sons, he left " a disconsolate 
 widow," and a mother-in-law. The former, who 
 had nearly plagued her good husband out of his 
 life by her addiction to the gay follies of the 
 world, now flew to the opposite extreme. It is 
 said, that she was naturally a very sober and re- 
 ligious woman. Indeed, the husband had become 
 originally enamoured by her constant attendance 
 at church. She married him without knowing 
 his domestic habits, and was some time before 
 she discovered that he had a bias towards me- 
 thodism. While the dissenting spirit was fast grow- 
 ing in the doctor, his wife still remained a constant 
 member of the established church. The gentleman 
 at length began to grow violent on the subject 
 of his wife's " vanities ;" and the lady, irritated 
 by her husband's severity, and disgusted with his 
 extravagant notions of godliness, only became the 
 more " vain." As she had been before sober 
 from principle, she was now frolicsome from pique ; 
 and, while her husband would be running about to 
 the houses of the godly with twopenny tracts, she 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 85 
 
 was to be seen either pacing along the promenade 
 of fashion, or trafficking in the empty courtesies 
 of compliments, cards, and polite inquiries. 
 
 No sooner, however, was her husband gone, 
 than her " occupation" went likewise. Her wi- 
 dow's weeds faded, but not her griefs ; and, as she 
 could not resume her wonted gaiety of heart, she 
 abjured for ever her satins., silks, and rich 
 brocade, ceased to visit her old acquaintance, and 
 to pet her son Tom, and became one of the elect. 
 
 Ephraim, the second son, was now the mother's 
 darling, as he had been before the favourite of her 
 husband. He had fully imbibed all his father's 
 notions upon religion, but possessed not his poet- 
 ical ability. Tom, in short, had monopolised all 
 the energies of his parent, though he gave them 
 a different direction ; Collin, the youngest, was 
 inheritor of the muse's favour ; but, he also, like 
 his brother Tom, either converted or perverted 
 the father's legacy. He applied not his poetical 
 powers to the cause of the righteous, but on the 
 contrary, professed himself the amanuensis of 
 Cupid. 
 
 At the time of the doctor's death, when all the 
 anxieties attending the commencement of business 
 were pressing upon the indefatigable Tom, his 
 
86 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 brothers had just returned from completing their 
 education at school ; and being for a length of 
 time too much occupied with the affairs of the 
 surgery, he was not enabled to act towards his 
 brothers with that paternal policy, which he had 
 otherwise, from his superior age and situation, 
 been authorised to do. The young gentlemen, 
 therefore, were suffered to follow their own incli- 
 nations till their fraternal guardian found it diffi- 
 cult to controul them; and then, despairing 
 of counteracting his mother's ascendancy over 
 Ephraim, and his grandmother's influence upon 
 Collin, (whom she deemed a veritable genius,) he 
 suffered the one to read tracts, and the other to 
 write sonnets, in peace. 
 
 Among the most annoying things of this life is the 
 beholding an excellent hearted and talented man, 
 whose good-nature and industry, (being merely 
 honourable to himself,) are of substantial service 
 only to some worthless dependent — an ignorant 
 bigot, for instance, like brother Ephraim, or an 
 indolent, self-imagined genius, like brother Col- 
 lin. Sterne says, the cant of criticism is more 
 tormenting than the cant of hypocrisy ; but it is, 
 surely, not less abominable that the cant of cer- 
 tain pretenders to superior talents, who confound 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 87 
 
 memory with imagination, and mental weakness 
 with poetical susceptibility ; whose chief merit 
 consists, in their being ignorant of the plagiarisms 
 they commit, and who principally err, in mistak- 
 ing an aversion to the honest employments of 
 ordinary life for the possession of a lofty genius. 
 They cannot condescend to the common-place 
 routine of a counting-house, though rarely scru- 
 pulous in self appropriating the fruit of other s^ 
 humble industry. u Let the base mind," say 
 they, 6i revel in the slough of utility ; while we 
 effect a purpose more dignified, in giving to airy 
 nothing a local habitation and a name f" Such 
 is the climax of these worthies, who scorn to make 
 use of any thing tangible, and deem even the 
 philosopher's stone far inferior to the goose-quill 
 of the bard. Such was the opinion of brother 
 Collin, who, being infected with the " madness of 
 poetry," was fain to credit his grandmother who 
 believed it " inspiration." There would he sit, 
 (while Tom was cheerily humming " away with 
 melancholy," to the accompaniment of pestle 
 and mortar,) writing pathetic verses on the 
 ingratitude of man, or on the cruel insen- 
 sibility of an imagined lady-love. He was also 
 marvellously worked upon by the perusal of 
 some sixpenny plays, which, notwithstanding the 
 
88 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 anathemas of his mother and Ephraim against 
 such " unholy things," he managed to smuggle 
 into the house. Thalia was now his muse, and 
 poor Tom could never take up a piece of loose 
 paper for a note or direction, without finding it 
 scrawled over with dramatic fragments, such as : 
 — " e Hence traitor ! to thy death.' ( The guards 
 "bear him off.) Act 2, Scene 1. (Thunder 
 u and lightning — Enter the Empress Bilburina, 
 "followed by the bleeding nun and a train of 
 66 virgins.) ' Blow — blast ! ye mountains sink ! 
 " ye seas arise ! Let grim destruction wax more 
 " furious still ; for I'm so scorched with grief, 
 " the lightnings cannot scare me V (Asterina.) 
 u ' Your majesty is mad with wrath.' (Queen.) 
 " 4 'Sdeath, girl ! I'm calm to what I could be ; ye 
 6i but hear me now ; but, were my tone propor- 
 " tioned to my griefs, these sturdy oaks should 
 " vibrate with the sound, and shake to the earth 
 " their very greenest leaves f" 
 
 Sometimes he would monodise, as thus : — 
 
 " The world has in*t no sympathy for me. 
 
 I am among its denizens — yet take 
 
 No pleasure in its pastimes nor its pomps. 
 
 Rethinks I should belong unto some other planet 
 
 "Where brothers are not foes, nor friends at variance." 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 89 
 
 " I wish," Tom would say, with a good-natured 
 laugh — " I wish, Collin, when you are inclined to 
 abuse the world, and your friends, and your bro- 
 thers, that you would not always make use of my 
 note paper. Here's eighteen-pence for you to buy 
 a quire of foolscap."" 
 
 Such was the easy way in which our poor, hard- 
 working Tom would put up with the fooleries of 
 his lazy relative, whose only manly attainment 
 was the ripening age of twenty-one. Nor was his 
 brother's conduct towards him merely that of for- 
 bearance : on the contrary, Tom grew impatient 
 when his friends would sometimes remonstrate with 
 him on the subject of his too indulgent spirit, and 
 professed himself inclined to support his brothers 
 in a harmless extravagance, which he doubted not 
 would wear itself out in time, and which, while it 
 should last, would be only amusing to him. 
 
 The best hearts are not capable of the best 
 policy m— advancing the interests of their con- 
 nexions. Too rarely is a noble nature decisive in 
 its conduct to others, or provident in respect to 
 itself ; and too frequently is it given to purchase 
 its own comfort by the free allowance of imposi- 
 tion. We will not go so far as to assert that 
 either Ephraim or Collin had imposed upon any 
 
90 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 body except themselves; but it is certain they 
 were on that account no less a tax to their brother, 
 who, having almost entirely to support the whole 
 family, soon began to find that his income and ex- 
 penditure were likely to prove sadly at variance. 
 Still he trusted that his professional practice 
 would increase, and that his brothers would, ere 
 long, think of providing for themselves. It was, 
 however, so long ere they began to consider of it, 
 that the thing appeared almost impracticable. 
 
 The fact was, Tom's nature induced him rather 
 to laugh at the follies of the world than to abuse 
 them. He was not easily disgusted ; and nothing 
 was more amusing to him than the solemnity of a 
 silly mind, or the importance of a little one. 
 While people fancied that he was involuntarily 
 saddled with a houseful of dependents, he regarded 
 himself as supporting, for his amusement, a bevy 
 of fools. It was high sport for him, after the 
 toils of the day, to hear the wranglings of Ephraim 
 and his mother on the side of ' godliness/ and of 
 Collin and his grandmother on that of 4 genius." 
 He would sit for an hour together silently enjoy- 
 ing the inconsistencies of their mutual obstinacy 
 and inflated notions ; observing how they could 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 91 
 
 blunder against each other's meaning like whirring 
 beetles in the dark. 
 
 It cannot be said, therefore, that Tom got nothing 
 by his brothers ; and it may be further remarked, 
 that, in addition to the amusement they afforded 
 him, he received from the one much mental polish, 
 and from the other much moral instruction. In- 
 deed, he would confess himself to be a very 
 fortunate man, in thus including in his establish- 
 ment two such efficient representatives of the 
 devout and intellectual character of his family. 
 Sometimes, it is true, his worthy brothers would 
 be for compelling him to ride their particular 
 hobbies ; but Tom was resolute in this case, con- 
 ceiving that a man who supplies a horse with 
 corn and stabling, is not of necessity obliged to 
 exercise him. " No, my dear fellows," he would 
 say, " since I am to do all the work, I must leave to 
 you, Ephraim, the entire care of my soul ; and to 
 you, Collin, the exclusive task of doing honour to 
 your family, by shewing in your poetical effusions, 
 what your kinsmen might have done, had they 
 cultivated that dignified art in which you (as our 
 grandmother declares) are so sure to excel." 
 
 Of all impudent fellows^ he may be truly account- 
 ed the most impudent, who, having nothing, denies 
 
92 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 himself in nothing; who will neither formally 
 receive a loan, nor gratefully acknowledge a fa- 
 vour ; who takes what you give him as a thing 
 which you are to suppose he intends, of course, to 
 repay ; and whose original intention is, of course, 
 subsequently forgotten. Such was the fashion 
 with brothers Ephraim and Collin : they would 
 sometimes talk largely of their aversion to be a 
 burthen to their brother ; but, as it appeared, they 
 allowed the self-affliction of the necessity to cancel 
 the debt. Great was the evil of troubling Tom ; 
 but, as I opine, the evil of troubling themselves 
 was greater still. 
 
 There was, however, more to be said in favour 
 of Ephraim than could be adduced in support of 
 bis brother Collin. In the first place, the extrava- 
 gance of the former was on the better side : se- 
 condly, he was the less talented of the two : 
 thirdly, his peculiarities of mind had been succes- 
 sively cultivated by both his parents ; and lastly, 
 he was in some respects a conscientious youth. As 
 for master Collin — he was a genius. 
 
 An old friend of mine, the father of a tolerably 
 large family, used earnestly to thank Heaven that 
 there was not a genius among its members ; and, 
 on taking up a slip of paper one day, on which 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 93 
 
 his eldest son had been attempting to string a 
 couplet, he feelingly took him by the hand, and 
 exclaimed, " Take care, my dear fellow, what you 
 do : pray be wary ; if you do not mind, you may 
 become a poet !" I need scarcely say that my old 
 friend was but an old simpleton in respect to his 
 great abhorrence for the muse of poesy ; though 
 it is but fair to state that there was a cause for 
 his feeling on this subject, however it may be 
 deemed inefficient. The wife of his brother, a 
 woman of great virtue and feeling, had died 
 broken-hearted, owing to the extreme ill-conduct 
 of a son, whose long list of undutiful acts com- 
 menced with a newspaper lampoon upon his father. 
 He had published, contrary to the wish of the 
 latter, an epic poem on the subject of the Prodigal 
 Son, which, being damned by the critics, and its 
 condemnation being rejoiced at by his parent, he 
 became the enemy of his family, the votary of 
 low company, and subsequently the victim of a 
 debauch. However, he was a genius. 
 
 The three brothers, differing in all things else, 
 were alike susceptible (who is not ?) to the charms 
 of the sex. It was reported that Tom had at- 
 tended farmer Grainmore's family with another 
 view than that of feeling pulses. At all events, 
 
94 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 there would have been nothing very extraordinary 
 in his becoming enamoured ot little Fanny Grain- 
 more; and, therefore, the good gossips of the 
 town, with their usual readiness to magnify pro- 
 bability into fact, settled that Tom and Fanny 
 would ere long have but one surname between 
 them. O, these doctors ! what opportunities have 
 they of exercising with advantage their warmest and 
 most generous feelings. Introduced into the cham- 
 ber of sick loveliness by their skill, they may kill 
 and cure by the same means — poisoning the peace 
 of a heart while they remedy the pains of a 
 head, and making a sick love love-sick. Talk of 
 young music masters ! O, beware of young bache- 
 lor doctors ! As it is more easy to increase wealth 
 than to obtain a moderate sufficiency, so doctors, 
 having already (by nature of their profession) a hold 
 on the confidence of women, may elicit a sigh of 
 acknowledgment ere another man is favoured with 
 the encouragement of a smile. And, by the way, 
 let maidens be wary how they put themselves 
 under the care even of married doctors who are 
 young and agreeable : for, besides pecuniary 
 charges, which may be paid in full, there are 
 certain gratuitous debts which may not. I have 
 seen a lady^s gratitude, for instance, quite trouble- 
 some to her — feeding upon her comfort like an 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS, 95 
 
 unsaleable horse upon a poor man's means. Pills 
 and pitch-plasters are excellent remedies ; but 
 platonic attachments it is excellent to avoid. 
 
 But (as I was saying) 6 Tom and Fanny,' was 
 the title of the new romance. The hero had been 
 unceasing in his professional attendance upon the 
 family of the heroine ; and, however fictitious may 
 have been the rest of the story, it was known that 
 Farmer Grainmore was particularly pleased with 
 Tom's very moderate charges. After the latter be- 
 came intimate with the family, he would occasion- 
 ally call there with his brothers ; and, while he 
 accompanied old Grainmore round the farm, and 
 good-naturedly heard all the latter had to say on 
 the subject of irrigation, second crops, drill hus- 
 bandry, and other matters to him equally unin- 
 telligible, Fanny would successively hear Collin 
 dilate upon the merits of Lord Byron as a poet, 
 and Ephraim, " amplify to overrunning" on the 
 subject of the preacher, Irving. 
 
 It was soon observed that Collin became more 
 careful of his poetry than usual ; less addicted to 
 read it aloud, even to his grandmother ; and, that 
 he was altogether more lost in his meditations, and 
 more reserved in his manners. He used at first to 
 joke Tom about Miss Grainmore ; but that was a 
 theme upon which he never touched, after his 
 
96 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 brother's " candid acknowledgement, that she was 
 a prodigiously nice girl !" Something was evi- 
 dently working in his mind, but Tom refrained 
 from pressing him upon a subject which he seemed 
 very desirous of concealing, and left the discovery 
 of it to Ephraim, whose curiosity was proportion- 
 ate to his brother's closeness. Ephraim had long 
 looked in vain for some clue to the origin of Col- 
 lin's abstraction, and at length found, beneath his 
 writing table, a piece of paper scrawled over with 
 the rough sketch of a sonnet to " Sacharissa." 
 Whether any feeling beyond that of mere curiosity 
 had prompted his diligent search, we may not 
 say. Sacharissa was a young lady whom he 
 never remembered to have seen ; and he contented 
 himself, therefore, with devoutly hoping, that his 
 brother meant nothing dishonourable, though he 
 had great doubts that a poetical love could be 
 any thing but profane. In his anxiety for Collin's 
 virtue, he took the sonnet to Tom, bidding him 
 correct his brother's " vanities," and see " that he 
 turned not into the paths of folly." 
 
 Tom, whose only feeling of displeasure was 
 caused by Ephraim's meddling disposition, was no 
 less pleased than surprised, at one day finding an 
 envelope, bearing on its outer side a direction to 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 97 
 
 his moral relative, and, on the inner page, the 
 following : — 
 
 " Miss Grainmore, with her best compliments 
 " to the respected writer of the enclosed, hopes 
 H that its return will be regarded as originating 
 " in no sense of self-merit. She feels honoured by 
 " the writers partiality ; but begs him to remem- 
 64 ber, that those things which might be most to 
 M our interests are not always coincident with our 
 u feelings. Miss Grainmore cannot but be sure that 
 u a more intimate acquaintance would have con- 
 " vinced Mr. Ephraim, that he had very far over- 
 " rated the virtues which he now adduces as the 
 " cause of his flattering offer. At all events, cir- 
 u cumstances compel her decidedly to decline it. 
 " Miss G. will ever be honoured in Mr. Ephraim's 
 u friendship, and earnestly desires his uninter- 
 u rupted happiness." 
 
 This was delightful to Tom, who, of course, 
 enjoyed it the more, in consideration of what had 
 previously transpired concerning Collin's sonnet. 
 It only now remained to discover who was the 
 poet's Sacharissa. Tom had some suspicions, and 
 the truth of them was very shortly confirmed. 
 
 VOL. II. H 
 
9tf THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 A message was brought to the young doctor 
 one morning, requesting his attendance on Farmer 
 Grainmore, so soon as he should be at leisure. 
 
 " My dear Sir," said Grainmore, leading him 
 into a little back parlour, which he termed his 
 " snuggery " — * My dear Sir," you will excuse 
 me — I'm sure you will, — for what I am going to 
 say in reference to a little affair, (of which you are 
 probably ignorant) between my Fanny — and — and 
 —-your very worthy, (for I have no doubt he 
 is a very excellent young man,) your very worthy 
 brother, Mr. Collin. Do you know any thing 
 of it?" 
 
 " Nothing, Sir," said Tom, smiling ; " pro- 
 ceed." 
 
 " Well, Sir, my daughter — my Fanny — she is 
 a girl, Sir, who has, I believe, as great an aver- 
 sion to trouble any one, as to find that any people 
 should trouble themselves about her. Mr. Collin, 
 I believe, has been sending her a great deal more 
 love poetry lately > than she seems willing to re- 
 ceive. Now, Sir, I'm the last man in the world 
 to put any restraint upon my daughter's honour- 
 able inclinations : I should as soon think of cut- 
 ting off the last year's shoots in my fir plantation. 
 But, Sir, the poor girl (if you can pity her bad 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 99 
 
 taste) thinks none the better of an admirer, be- 
 cause he is above writing his love-letters in prose ; 
 neither is she inclined to look the more favourably 
 upon a man, because, in spite of her oft-repeated 
 declaration that his solicitations will be of no avail, 
 he still persists in them : — why, Sir, I might as 
 well attempt to grow carrots in the granite field 
 at the top of my farm. She told him, on the 
 receipt of his first communication, that it would 
 not do. She told him so a second, and a third 
 time ; and, at length, Sir, finding it of no avail, 
 she came and told me. I am desirous of conclud- 
 ing the affair as quietly as possible ; and shall be 
 much obliged, if you will use your — your pater- 
 nal influence, (for now you are, as it were, the 
 father of your family,) in dissuading your brother 
 from further importunity. Besides, Sir," con- 
 tinued he, " what means has your brother of sup- 
 porting a wife P 
 
 u O," said Tom, smiling, " he's a genius. He's 
 to publish a book soon, and ride in his carriage 
 shortly after." 
 
 " Oh !" replied Grainmore, shaking his head, 
 " a genius, indeed ! Fve got a horse called 
 ' Genius, 5 but, d— — n him, he won't work." 
 
 It now appeared, that Fanny had kept 
 h 2 
 
100 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 Ephraim's affair a profound secret. " Amiable 
 little darling !" thought Tom, " I shall try for 
 thee now myself." 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Grainmore," said he, " as I like to 
 do things in a direct and open manner, may I be 
 allowed to ask whether brother Tom might stand 
 a better chance of being successful than brother 
 Collin ?> 
 
 The father looked at him for a moment with 
 surprise ; but with an expression the very reverse 
 of anger. " Why," said he, " for the matter o 1 
 that, Mr. Doctor, you ought to stand a better 
 chance ; though 111 not pretend to say that you 
 would" 
 
 " I shall have your support, at all events," said 
 the former, in a somewhat determined tone. 
 
 " Why, you are not in earnest ?" said Grain- 
 more. 
 
 " I will be as you wish me," replied Tom. 
 
 " Shall you be content to be as she wishes 
 you?" 
 
 " Content," said Tom. 
 
 " Then all I can say," said the father, " is this : 
 I would not wish a better son-in-law !" 
 
 My fair readers are not to suppose that Fanny 
 seized upon Tom's office like a hungry perch upon 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 101 
 
 a bait. Let them rather conceive that the already 
 mentioned report of ' a something' existing between 
 the young couple, had not been entirely without 
 foundation. There was, no doubt, originally, as 
 much shyness on the part of the lady, as the wariest 
 carp in her father's fish-pond had ever evinced 
 towards a desired but doubted bait. On the 
 evening, however, of the described conference 
 between Grainmore and Tom, the silver fish was 
 taken ; and the happy angler, of course, went 
 home, the better qualified to judge of his brother 
 fishermen's chance. The slyness of their conduct 
 in this affair, was admitted by Tom as a fair pre- 
 text for a little mischief on his part ; and he was, 
 moreover, the less scrupulous of hurting their 
 feelings, having just heard, by some means, that, 
 in ignorance of each other's rivalry, they alone 
 suspected their brother's, and had endeavoured to 
 do him prejudice in the opinion of the lady. 
 Ephraim had represented him as " a worthy 
 young man in many respects, but — he grieved to 
 say it — lax in his morals :" while Collin allowed 
 that he was " an honest creature, skilful in his 
 profession, but nothing out of it — a common-place 
 matter-o'fact fellow, with moderate intellect, and 
 no mental polish." 
 
102 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 Matters being as just stated, Tom sent two notes, 
 written in a feigned hand, the one to Ephraim, of 
 religious tone, the other to Collin, of poetical cha- 
 racter. According to Tom's intention, they were 
 received as from some agent of the young lady, 
 commissioned to intimate that her refusal had rather 
 been prompted by duty and circumstances, than 
 by her free unbiassed feelings ; that a communica- 
 tion would be acceptable ; and that, at a certain 
 Hour, there would be a little girl at a certain place, 
 to whom any letter might be entrusted. Of course, 
 different times were mentioned, in the notes, for de- 
 livering their letters to the girl. Every thing went 
 on just as Tom could desire ; he was shortly in pos- 
 session of the two precious epistles intended for 
 Fanny ; and the unconscious rivals were now to be 
 seen on more than ordinary good terms, not only 
 with themselves, but with one another. 
 
 Additional reasons for self-satisfaction were yet 
 in store for them ; and the reader will judge of the 
 pleasure and surprise which they evinced, when 
 Tom, in apparent confidence, successively shewed 
 to each his brother's letter, as if returned by Fanny, 
 telling him that he had accidentally found it in- 
 closed in the lady's envelop. 
 
 " Collin, my boy,'" said the mischievous Tom, 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 103 
 
 " IVe found you out — I've found you out, you 
 happy dog ! read this, (giving him Ephraim's let- 
 ter), and afterwards this, (giving him the envelop, 
 which he had himself inscribed with a counterfeit 
 reply from Fanny) ; read them, my boy, and con- 
 gratulate yourself." 
 
 Ephraim's billet ran as follows: — 
 
 " Dear Miss Fanny, 
 " Even with such pure love as the holy volume 
 doth allow and recommend, do I greet thee, fairest 
 of thy sex ; who art, nevertheless, of clay, and liable 
 unto sin. Even such affection as JBoaz entertained 
 for Ruth, will I entertain towards thee, shouldst 
 thou be content to enjoy with me such blessedness 
 as they only can enjoy who are united in the spirit, 
 and, ere they embrace one another, have embraced 
 the lovely form of holiness. c I am poor and needy ,' 
 yet fear not but the Lord will soon relieve me, if, 
 in the meantime, thou canst bring unto our aid such 
 means as, in this our mortal and debased state, are 
 necessary to existence. 
 
 " I am, 
 
 " Dear Miss Fanny, 
 
 " Ephraim." 
 
104 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 " A monstrous impudent fellow, is he not?" 
 said Tom ; " for do but mark, Collin, the consis- 
 tency of comparing himself to Boaz, and, in the 
 next paragraph, asking his Ruth for the means of 
 subsistence ?" This remark, by the way, was not 
 the most pleasing to Collin^ whose pecuniary disa- 
 bilities were somewhat greater than his brother's. 
 It was never forgotten, however, that he was a 
 genius. 
 
 The counterfeit reply was inscribed to this 
 effect : — 
 
 " With grateful acknowledgments to Mr. 
 Ephraim for his very flattering partiality, Miss 
 Grainmore cannot but regret that an ignorance of 
 certain circumstances should have allowed him to 
 indulge in it. Mr. E. is no doubt unaware, that 
 Miss G.'s affections are already engaged ; and the 
 latter has only to hope, that, although she cannot 
 become his wife, she will be acceptable as a sister- 
 in-law." 
 
 Collin was of course delighted, though not a 
 little perplexed to conceive how Ephraim should 
 have been informed of Fanny's real sentiments be- 
 fore they were made known to himself. " But, 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 105 
 
 poor girl," thought he, " she has probably been 
 long enamoured of me : my poetry soon proved too 
 much for her, and her heart was self-engaged to 
 me ere I engaged her hand." As he was thus 
 musing, a note was delivered to him by his brother's 
 shop-boy, saying he had received it from some little 
 girl, who particularly requested that it should be 
 delivered in secret. 
 
 " A communication from the dear little Sacha- 
 rissa ! v he exclaimed, exultingly, as he broke the 
 seal, and perused, as he imagined, an invitation to 
 meet his beloved in a certain shrubbery, at a cer- 
 tain time. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Tom practised upon Ephraim 
 the same deceit which he had imposed upon Col- 
 lin ; and the former was overjoyed to find, that 
 his more sober addresses had been preferred to 
 such poetical ' trumpery/ (to use his own word) 
 as the following : — 
 
 " Sun of my life : 
 
 " Those hopes, which I feared were about to 
 " be withered by the blast of disappointment, 
 " have suddenly revived under the mere probabi- 
 " lity that the heavenly beams of thy favor are 
 " about to shine upon them ! 
 
106 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 " Pray name but a time and place— no matter 
 " where the latter be, so the former be imme- 
 " diate — O, but name them, that I may fly to 
 " thee for comfort. Yes, my Sacharissa, we 
 " will, as the poet says, c live, and love, and 
 u part no more V and prove such unmeasurable 
 " bliss, as certain melancholy and matter-o'fact 
 " people whom we Jcnow, are incapable of enjoy- 
 « ing ! 
 
 " I am;' &c. 
 
 « COLLIN." 
 
 An envelop, similarly worded to that which 
 had been shewn to Collin, was now perused by 
 Ephraim, who received also a note of assignation 
 similar to that which had been forwarded to his 
 brother, except in relation to the particular path 
 by which the shrubbery was to be approached ; 
 for it was necessary to prevent any encounter be* 
 tween the lovers, previously to their meeting at the 
 appointed place. 
 
 Punctual to the stated hour, the two brothers 
 (revelling in the idea of the bliss which awaited 
 them) advanced by opposite paths towards their 
 imagined bower of love. As the reader may an- 
 ticipate it, I shall tell him at once that Tom was 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. lOJ 
 
 already there, concealed among the bushes, It 
 was with the utmost difficulty he could restrain 
 his laughter at seeing his booby brothers moving 
 slowly forward on tip-toe ; pausing every now 
 and then as they indistinctly heard each other's 
 step, which they fancied, from its gentleness, could 
 be no other than c the light foot fall' of their 
 mistress. 
 
 " Miss Fanny !° whispered Ephraim. 
 
 " My Fanny !" sighed the other : and, their 
 voices deceiving them now, as their footsteps had 
 before, they bounded forward towards their ima- 
 gined fair one, and confronted each other ! — 
 
 * The devil l v exclaimed the poet. 
 
 " Hush, brother ! Invoke him not," said 
 Ephraim. 
 
 a What brings you here?'* 5 asked the former? 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Nay,*' replied the more cautious brother? 
 " have I not a right to take an evening* s walk P w 
 
 u You came here by design," said Collin. 
 
 " Surely you did ; or you would not be thus 
 discomposed at unexpectedly meeting with me." 
 
 " Well, Sir, I did" said the poet proudly : 
 u I came here, (as you by some accidental means 
 may be aware) to enjoy that happiness, which 
 
108 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 you, as you well know, have solicited in vain. 
 I know something more of your affairs than you 
 suppose ; and I suspect you are merely come here 
 to interrupt the happiness which you cannot 
 enjoy." 
 
 " Brother Collin, you act under a pitiable mis- 
 take : for, indeed, it is pitiable, inasmuch as the 
 wishes which you may not indulge, are honorable. 
 I have here," said he, shewing his note of assig- 
 nation, " what will justify my present appearance 
 in this place ; and I can refer to another commu- 
 nication, penned by the same hand. Ah, brother, 
 you may well be surprised." 
 
 " Damme, Sir !" exclaimed the exasperated 
 Collin, whose vociferous wrath was proportionate 
 to the canting mildness of the other. 
 
 "Hush! — pray hush, brother: recollect our 
 disappointments are decreed by Heaven ; and we 
 should therefore bear them with christian resig- 
 nation. 
 
 " By Jupiter ! I " 
 
 " Nay, swear not even by a pagan idol — remem- 
 ber the scriptural injunction, c swear not at all.' 
 —-Hear me a moment, brother. Had you been 
 the successful suitor of Miss Fanny, I would 
 have suffered the joy of seeing you happy, to 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 109 
 
 dispel that grief which disappointment had other- 
 wise occasioned : and, believe me, fortunate as I 
 am, I shall never he happy till your sorrowing is 
 assuaged." 
 
 " Assuage the devil !" exclaimed the now in- 
 furiated poet ; " look here, Sir : read this note— ■ 
 this note, Sir, from the delectable Fanny herself ; 
 and learn, moreover, that my brother Tom — my 
 brother Tom, Sir, shewed me your canting 
 epistle, Sir, which was sent back to you, toge- 
 ther with a civil refusal of your offer, and an 
 intimation that you might look to the honor of 
 having her for a sister-in-law !" 
 
 " Weil," said Ephraim, with the most provok- 
 ing calmness, " will you be content to abide by 
 such a decision as our brother Tom shall give ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly," answered Collin. 
 
 " Then," said Tom, advancing from his hiding- 
 place, " I am here in readiness to settle the mat- 
 ter." The surprise of the brothers having in 
 some degree subsided, he questioned them as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " Shall you be happy, Collin, to find, that your 
 brother is mistaken in supposing himself beloved 
 by Miss Grainmore ? And shall you be content, 
 Ephraim, to learn that Collin is in error ?" 
 
110 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 The questions seemed rather absurd ; neverthe- 
 less, they answered with a decided affirmative. 
 
 " Then make yourselves comfortable, my very 
 worthy brothers, for you are both deceived, and 
 may rejoice in each other's disappointment. Your 
 sly behaviour to one another, and the way in which 
 I find you have spoken of a brother, by whose ex- 
 ertions you have been hitherto enabled to live in 
 indolence, have been the warrants on which I acted 
 in thus making you my sport. Your first commu- 
 nications to Miss Grainmore were determinately re- 
 jected, (you see, I know every thing,) and as 
 neither poetry nor godliness could make any im- 
 pression upon her heart, I tried her with a cheerful 
 profession in plain prose ; and the simple issue of 
 the business is, that you may shortly look to greet 
 her as your sister-in-law. In the interim, I shall 
 esteem it as neither evincing an unchristianlike 
 nor unpoetical feeling on your parts, to think im- 
 mediately of providing for yourselves. As you 
 have been, both of you, about to contract a mar- 
 riage, I am, of course, left to infer that you are 
 not deficient in the means of maintaining a family. 
 This is pleasant to me, inasmuch as I might other- 
 wise have felt some compunction in telling you, 
 that my marriage cannot take place while my 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS 111 
 
 brothers continue to occupy my house. In respect 
 to the hoax I have just played upon you, in forging 
 the notes, which you imagined were penned by the 
 lady of our wishes, I can only beg your pardons ; 
 and I request to accompany the solicitation with 
 the hope that you will now make way for the con- 
 summation of my happiness, and immediately put 
 in practice your means of independence." 
 
 And here let my tale be interrupted in its pro- 
 gress, and leap to a conclusion. 
 
 That state of happy peace and harmony, which 
 Tom had otherwise enjoyed in the society of his 
 wife and family , was not without such alloy 
 as might have been expected from the subsequent 
 conduct of his brothers. He had, with considerable 
 difficulty, obtained for each a situation in a respect- 
 able merchants counting-house. Collin, however, 
 soon discovered, that his employment was degrad- 
 ing to his talents ; while Ephraim complained that 
 his companions in office were of immoral character. 
 A second time did their generous brother vainly 
 endeavour to settle them : they" only afforded addi- 
 tional proof that they were not to be settled. Still 
 would Tom put up with the impertinent airs of 
 the man of mind, and the canting indolence of the 
 man of morals. At length, his wife interfered ; 
 
112 THE THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 and; while her husband urged the feelings of a 
 brother, she reasonably reminded him of his duty 
 as a father. Not till he was impoverished by their 
 constant draughts upon his limited means, did he 
 see in a true light their indolence, their selfishness, 
 and ingratitude ; nor, till then, did he put any 
 restraint upon his own generosity. Compelled, at 
 length, to withdraw all further support, he lived 
 in a state of continual uneasiness. Unable to see 
 that his early forbearance was, more probably, the 
 true cause of his brothers 1 ultimate disreputable 
 conduct, he could but attribute it wholly to his 
 late determination of withholding his assistance ; 
 and when, at length, they came to a premature 
 and melancholy end, poor Tom's breast became 
 the seat of such remorseful feelings, as for ever 
 after embittered, if they did not shorten his days. 
 Collin, after having discovered by various un- 
 successful literary efforts, that, either he was want- 
 ing in genius, or the world in judgment, married 
 a low woman connected with a company of strollers, 
 into which he introduced himself at a fair. O, 
 what a falling off was here ! The aspirant to the 
 laureateship, dramatist in ordinary to a set of 
 < holiday show-folk P Collin's wife, however, 
 having some beauty, made it of service in the pro- 
 
THE THREE BROTHERS. 113 
 
 motion of her husband : in other words, she 
 granted certain favours to the thunder and light- 
 ning man of Drury Lane Theatre, on condition 
 that her husband might be recommended as very- 
 suitable to play the Devil in a pantomime. Alas ! 
 the pantomime played the devil with him. He 
 was flying over the Styx one night, when the cord 
 of suspension broke, and he — broke his neck. 
 Ephraim died, a self-imagined prophet, in the 
 county Lunatic Asylum ! 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
THE 
 
 P EVOLUTIONS OF A VILLAGE. 
 
 u What Heaven made free ? ambitious men confine 
 In regular degrees." 
 
 Chamberlayne. 
 
 I 2 
 
THE 
 
 REVOLUTIONS OF A VILLAGE. 
 
 [Found among the papers of the Odd Gentleman.] 
 
 In the south of England, about sixty miles from 
 the metropolis, is the fashionable and flourishing 
 village of Marryton, which in the time of my great- 
 grandfather was a secondary hamlet in a con- 
 siderable parish, but is now far superior, both in 
 extent, and character to the mother town. My 
 great grandfather used to quote it as among the 
 happiest spots of our happy island ; and he had, 
 in truth, good reason for regarding it with feelings 
 of pleasure ; for it was on the village green, one 
 May-day, that he first beheld the rosy damsel of 
 his love. She was the niece of one of the villagers, 
 
118 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 and was now visiting Marryton for the first time. 
 Partly out of compliment to her appearance as a 
 visitor, and partly in respect to her beauty as a 
 woman, she was elected Queen of May. Many 
 were the offerings she received in the double kind 
 of side-long looks and blooming posies : but, as it 
 appeared, my great grandfather was either the 
 most deserving of her favours, or the most daring 
 in his endeavours to obtain them ; for it is cer- 
 tainly a matter of doubt, whether merit or mag- 
 nanimity stood my great ancestors best friend upon 
 this occasion. How strangely do the most weighty 
 affairs of this world come about ! But for the fall 
 of an apple, Newton might have been compara- 
 tively uncelebrated : but for the erection of a May 
 Pole, I, the important historian of Marryton, had 
 perhaps never been born. 
 
 It is recorded, that my great grandmother's 
 deportment, during the sway of her rustic sove- 
 reignty, was a pattern of grace and affability. The 
 fact is, she had once visited London, — could talk 
 of St. Paul's and the Monument, the Lord Mayor 
 and the Tower Lions, — and had it, therefore, in her 
 power to be gracious and condescending. With 
 the metropolitan stamp upon her pretensions, it 
 would have been deemed traitor-like not to receive 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 119 
 
 them as current, and scarcely less irreverent to 
 suppose, that the man of her choice should not 
 immediately become a sharer in her claims to 
 particular respect. My great grandfather, there- 
 fore, on his union with the May Queen, obtained 
 an equal accession of happiness and dignity. In 
 consideration of his acquired importance, he was 
 now the great one of the village ; the political 
 oracle ; the domestic censor ; and the leader of the 
 procession to church on the Sabbath. It was, as 
 I understand, a charming sight to behold the vil- 
 lagers on a fine Sunday morning, dressed in their 
 holiday suits, gradually assembling round the 
 May Pole on the green, and (with all due patience 
 and humility) awaiting the coming of their leader, 
 my great grandfather, redoubted as the honoured 
 husband of a wife who had ascended the Monu- 
 ment and crossed the Tower Ditch ! Fully sen- 
 sible of his vast importance, he never appeared 
 among his fellows on the green, till the latter were 
 all assembled ; in this respect, aping the wisdom 
 of a fashionable gentleman, who deems it the 
 extreme of ill breeding to be the first comer at 
 an evening party ; thereby compelling some in- 
 dividuals to be vulgar in spite of themselves ; or 
 
120 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 else asserting, in contradiction to Euclid, that a 
 line of limited length need have no beginning. 
 
 Thus it was with my great ancestor, who, when 
 the village green exhibited its full compliment, 
 would sally from the portal of his cot, accompanied 
 by the partner of his rustic supremacy, and strut 
 forward towards the assembled party with all the 
 self-satisfaction of a dramatic hero when he first 
 appears before a theatre of admirers. Then would 
 the villagers fall into couples two and two, and 
 arrange themselves — my great grandfather cared 
 not how, so they completed the arrangement in 
 the rear of his wife and self. The parish church 
 was at least two miles distant from Marryton ; so 
 that my great grandfather had some excuse for 
 being rather late at church, and it was usually 
 during the clergyman's address to his " dearly 
 beloved," that his red waistcoat exhibited its re- 
 fulgent amplitude, as he paced up the middle 
 aisle like a comet, to the tail of which might be 
 assimilated the double line of shining faces which 
 followed him. 
 
 For a time, things went on in this manner 
 well enough. My great grandfather, though the 
 first in the village, was still hand and glove 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 121 
 
 with his neighbours ; and the latter were a long 
 while ere they perceived any thing in his con- 
 duct which might induce them to suspect the 
 decay of his old friendships. 
 
 At length, however, on one inauspicious Sabbath, 
 the vicar honoured my great grandfather by 
 shaking hands with him ; and, in consequence of 
 this distinguishing favour, (which, of course he 
 attributed to his own merits, and not to the con- 
 descension of his reverend pastor) he became less 
 prodigal of manual greetings with his neighbours. 
 Pride having thus far effected a breach in his 
 integrity, it was scarcely a matter for wonder that 
 he should be disabled to resist its further progress, 
 when the vicar one Sunday evening invited him to 
 tea. Whether this invitation originated in a feeling 
 of courtesy, or whether its object was some trifling 
 matter of business, never actually appeared : certain 
 it is, however, that my worthy ancestor, on the 
 morning after his entertainment at the reverend 
 gentleman*^ tea table, sent off three loads of hay 
 to the vicarage ; and it is also recorded, that he 
 subsequently, at various times, supplied the horses 
 of the vicar with provender, and the vicar himself 
 with pork. 
 
122 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 He was, however, in a somewhat pitiable con- 
 dition : disdaining all terms of familiarity with his 
 old friends ; and yet enjoying but few honorary 
 advantages in his connexion with the vicar's party. 
 He was nevertheless considerably elevated on the 
 scale of self-importance ; and, while his wife talked 
 about the Lord Mayor, and the Tower Lions, he 
 was not less expatiatory upon the subject of " his 
 friend, the vicar/' There was also another point 
 on which he founded an additional reason for pride : 
 his son was, during his younger days, a school- 
 fellow of the vicars child ; and his infant daughter 
 (having, by her beauty and engaging simplicity 
 of manners, excited the interest of the vicar's 
 wife) was frequently detained at his house as the 
 playmate of little Miss. When the latter returned 
 home from finishing her education in France, my 
 great grandfather's daughter became again an 
 inmate of the vicarage, where she was engaged as 
 an attendant companion upon the vicar's daughter. 
 Such was the excellence of her conduct that her 
 young mistress became deeply attached to her ; and 
 succeeded in obtaining from the vicar a promise, 
 that, when her service and companionship might no 
 longer be required, he would reward her past 
 integrity with a small annuity. 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 123 
 
 My great grandfather now admitted his son to a 
 participation of the farming business ; and, while 
 the latter took upon himself the active management 
 of three hundred acres of productive land, the 
 former enjoyed his comfort and dignity in a cottage 
 which he built in a detached part of the village. 
 The situation and character of his new dwelling 
 were indicative of his recently acquired importance. 
 It occupied a site considerably above the level of 
 the village ; and while its front gleamed in all the 
 sunny cheerfulness of an extensive southern aspect, 
 a little square back window was all that opened 
 upon the view of the parent mansion in the dell 
 below. 
 
 I shall now leave my great grandfather in the 
 quiet possession of his new abode, and adopt his 
 son as the more considerable vehicle of our family 
 history ; merely remarking, that the former, before 
 he died, came to a proper sense of his real pre- 
 tensions as an actor in the theatre of life, and 
 resigned to his son a character which he found 
 either too profitless or too troublesome to sustain. 
 The vanity of his wife, however, seemed to increase 
 with her years. It became every day more and 
 more apparent to her, that she had married her 
 inferior in mental dignity ; and she only wondered 
 
124 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 that such a man should be the father of such a son 
 as my grandfather Tom. This, however, must be 
 said for the old gentleman : though rational, pru- 
 dent, and humble, in respect to his own conduct in 
 the autumn of life, he was by no means insensible 
 to Tom's merits as a fine gentleman ; on the con- 
 trary, so convinced was he of his son's ability to 
 make the most of every advantage, that he libe- 
 rally supplied him with the means of a journey to 
 London ; whence, (after a three weeks' education) 
 he returned, sufficiently informed upon metropo- 
 litan subjects to ridicule his mother's comparatively 
 limited knowledge, and only to endure his father, 
 as the means whereby so important a personage as 
 himself had been introduced into the world — as a 
 sort of waiting gentleman who had opened to him 
 the door of the presence-chamber of ' real life,' as 
 he termed it. Tom's reception at the vicarage, 
 whither he repaired with no moderate ideas of his 
 augmented consequence, was not, it appears, very 
 flattering. The vicar, in lieu of admiration, gave 
 him some " good advice ;" and his sister, as we 
 learn, was rash enough to differ with her parents 
 in respect to the improvement ofher brothe r. 
 
 Soon after Tom's return from London, the vicar's 
 son came home from the completion of his college 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 125 
 
 studies — a fine, open, ingenuous youth, who pro- 
 fessed to uphold the dignity of human nature, 
 though his father regretted his too great aptitude 
 to form friendships without a due regard to the 
 very essential qualifications of wealth, high blood, 
 and breeding. Being a clergyman, he was of 
 course the more urgent in these particulars, since 
 he considered humility and prudence as among the 
 most worthy features of a truly religious mind. 
 " Our virtue," said he, " is genuine, in proportion 
 to the temptations which we resist : ergo, the most 
 efficacious humility is that of a man who is still 
 distinguished by his high rank in society ; and the 
 most genuine prudence is such as exists in spite of 
 that inducement to extravagance — wealth. The 
 young collegian, however, seemed to be less the 
 vicar^s son than a child of nature. He conceived 
 (as young, thoughtless, and romantic people are 
 apt to do,) that, as he had been no way instru- 
 mental to his own birth, or in the produce of his 
 father's wealth, he had no just right to contemn 
 the low parentage or limited means of others. He 
 had also strange Utopian ideas in regard to the 
 term " respectability ," of which he professed 
 not to know the meaning, since it had evidently 
 
126 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 nothing to do with moral conduct. The world had 
 yet to teach him the truth of the poet's remark : 
 
 " Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, 
 Shall never mark the marble with his name." 
 
 He could not see how any profession or particular 
 situation in life, could, in itself, either confer re- 
 spectability upon an individual, or make him (as an 
 individual) less respectable. He conceived that a 
 player might be worthy, and that a lawyer might be 
 worthless ; and was slow to imagine, how one man 
 whose profession depends on our love for poetry, 
 should be less deserving of regard than another, 
 whose avocation chiefly exists on our liability to mis- 
 represent the words, or misappropriate the property 
 of our neighbours. He considered, that professions 
 were important according to their moral necessity ; 
 and that professors were respectable according to 
 their moral conduct. He allowed that there must 
 be a variety of grades in society ; but was of opinion 
 that we should be no less mindful of our inferiors'' 
 deserts than of our own dignity ; and, that there is 
 a difference between elevating the meritorious and 
 degrading ourselves. In choosing his companions, 
 he was actuated by his taste for integrity and good 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 127 
 
 grammar ; the first being indispensable, and the 
 second recommendatory. As to equality of rank, 
 he held it far less essential than sympathy of mind. 
 He thought nothing more truly admirable than 
 talent, nothing so respectable as honesty, and 
 nothing truly despicable but vice. Such was the 
 character of the vicar's son. 
 
 These liberal notions were rather alarming to 
 his father, who was the more annoyed at seeing him 
 practically illustrate in society this impolitic theory 
 of moral conduct. His mother, in particular, was 
 grievously provoked at his obstinate insensibility to 
 the " kind attentions" of ladies of fashion and 
 squires of fame. " Of course, she could never 
 suppose him capable of being on familiar terms 
 with a tradesman or a farmer ;" and she was only 
 sorry that he could not be content with a conde- 
 scending "how d'ye do?" instead of always stopping 
 to shake hands with people who were obliged to 
 labour for the means of paying their tithes. He 
 would often make his mother and sister blush in a 
 fashionable party, by breaking in upon the subject 
 of " my old college friend, Lord so and so," with 
 some idle narrative, connected with "his old school- 
 fellow and playmate, the farmer at Marryton." In 
 short, he was looked upon by the grandees of the 
 
128 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 parish as a sort of Radical, who wanted to over- 
 throw the monarchy of fashion, and establish the 
 republic of candour and sense. It was, however, 
 remarked, that those to whom he did attach himself, 
 were extremely partial to him; and if they regretted 
 his too great spirit of rebellion against the laws of 
 high society, they were yet the more gratified by 
 the friendship of so independent a mind. 
 
 Having said thus much of the vicar's son, I shall 
 beg the reader to call to memory what has been 
 before said in respect to the character of my grand- 
 fathers daughter, who had hitherto conducted 
 herself greatly to the satisfaction of her young 
 mistress, as well as to that of the vicar and his 
 wife. 
 
 " She is really a sensible girl," said the vicar's 
 wife. 
 
 " Aye, and a very worthy girl, too," said the 
 husband. 
 
 " And a very pretty girl, also," said his daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 The son was silent. 
 
 " Her manners are exceedingly good," said the 
 vicar. 
 
 " Why— yes," said the wife, " she naturally im- 
 bibed them from our daughter." 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 129 
 
 " Yet," added the latter, " she has a very pro- 
 per sense of her situation — " 
 
 " Which," continued the son, (taking up his 
 sister's words with a readiness which somewhat 
 surprised his hearers,) — " which is a sense, in my 
 mind, elevating her above it." 
 
 " Heyday !" exclaimed the vicar's wife, " the 
 young lady appears to be in no want of advocates." 
 
 " It is indeed delightful," said her son, blushing 
 slightly, " to find one instance, at least, in which 
 genuine merit is likely to meet with its reward." 
 
 " Bless me !" said Mamma. 
 
 " I shall soon have a sister-in-law," said Miss. 
 
 " Fiddle !" exclaimed the vicar. 
 
 The son's eye was fixed upon a print of Pale- 
 mon and Lavinia, over his father's mantel-piece ; 
 a slight tremor was observable — his cheek and 
 heaving breast testified the workings of his imagi- 
 nation, and a gentle sigh betrayed the secret of 
 his heart. The characters of the young couple have 
 been described. Is it surprising they should love ? 
 
 As I live, I hate that inflation of the feelings which 
 is, in just ridicule, denominated " sentiment !"— 
 I had sooner hear " a brazen candlestick turned, 
 or a dry wheel grate on its axle-tree," than the ful- 
 some outpourings of a sickly soul — not less subver- 
 
 VOL. II, s 
 
130 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 sive of the morals than offensive to common sense. 
 As I am writing prose, I will qualify the poetry of 
 Burns, nor talk of only " one cordial" in life's 
 " melancholy vale ;" but we may surely, without 
 an affectation of feeling, pronounce the concomi- 
 tant sensations of a first and disinterested love, as 
 originating in the most perfect union of purity and 
 ardour. That its consummation always perpetuates 
 happiness, I will by no means avouch. On the 
 contrary, it is fraught with hazard. First loves 
 are generally loves at first sight ; and there is no 
 more certainty in the union of untried hearts, than 
 in the durability of unproved steel. Nevertheless, 
 the inspiration is heavenly. It is to the heart what 
 a splendid sunrise is to the eye ; as, by the solar 
 beams of morning, the mists of the valley are dis- 
 persed and the face of nature is awakened, so, un- 
 der the influence of early love, the chill of selfish- 
 ness is removed, and the most generous sympathies 
 aroused. Our mid-day of life may be clouded, and 
 the evening of our existence may conclude in a 
 storm ; but the delicious sensations of first and 
 innocent love shall remain in our memories till the 
 last. 
 
 It must be here remarked, that nothing had hi- 
 therto transpired to elicit the growing attachment 
 
OF A VILLAGE. , 131 
 
 of the vicar's son for my great aunt, except what 
 appeared in the conduct and conversation of the 
 young gentleman. The poor girl went through 
 her duties with more humility than usual, and 
 shewed herself no more sensible of her lovers me- 
 rits than of her own. In short, she was not aware 
 of his feelings, neither could she divine the 
 meaning of the unkind alteration now apparent 
 in the conduct of the vicar and his wife. The 
 latter, with all the usual discrimination of a 
 prudent mother, no sooner suspected the bent of 
 her son's love, than she marked out its innocent 
 and unsuspecting object, as the butt of her spleen 
 and cavilling ; in consequence of which very feel- 
 ing and sapient measure, the son's indignation en- 
 listed itself on the side of his affections, and, as 
 he had before desired the girl out of pure love, he 
 now determined to wed her out of sheer spite, 
 He refrained, however, from opening his heart 
 for a length of time ; and had probably still de- 
 sisted, had not the wanton reproof and ill-natured 
 sarcasm of his mother on one occasion, aroused his 
 noble anger, and compelled him, in the same breath 
 with which he denounced the injustice of such 
 treatment, to avow the subjugation of his heart. 
 Of course, this was decisive. My great aunt 
 k2 
 
132 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 was quickly transported to the cottage of her 
 father ; and the vicar's soon took his departure 
 for the seat of a favourite uncle in the North of 
 England. Whether, during his continued ab- 
 sence, he corresponded with any individuals 
 except those of his own family, does not exactly 
 appear. It is however known, that he was cheer- 
 ful in his banishment, and that his quondam lady- 
 love remained the happy inmate of her father's 
 house, and the ornament of her native village. 
 The honour of her family was again augmented 
 by the marriage of her brother with a buxom 
 widow, witless and wealthy, who had interred her 
 first ' dear man ' seven months before, in the burial 
 ground of Pentonville. They took up their abode 
 in a newly erected mansion, not far from the 
 cottage of my great grandfather, and in the usual 
 course of time, a supply of baby linen was required 
 for the infant sire of my humble self. 
 
 A building mania now seized the active minds 
 of my worthy ancestors, and in every eligible 
 part of the village, little villas rapidly arose, 
 distinguished by the classic character of their 
 slate roofs, sash windows, and brass knockers. 
 Though the means for erecting these courtly resi- 
 dences elevated my grandsire and his family 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 133 
 
 above the level of the native villagers in general, 
 it also induced the coming of foreign tenants, 
 who were as much superior to the self-impor- 
 tant landlords ; and a nice discrimination of the 
 various grades of society was now the fashion. 
 The mass of the villagers, unable to keep pace 
 with the worthies of our family, began to institute 
 different degrees of subordinacy. Some, who 
 could not afford to occupy the newly erected 
 mansions of my grandfather, could yet very 
 considerably improve their own; and the lower 
 visiting classes were shortly individualized by 
 the aboriginal style of some cottages, the sash 
 windows of others, and the brass knockers which 
 gleamed on the green portals of the remainder. 
 To complete the history of our village revolution, 
 I have only left to say, that the May Pole was 
 subsequently taken down, and a chapel of ease 
 erected in the centre of the green. 
 
 And thus was the original happiness of the 
 place made subservient to forms of courtesy, and 
 ideas of respectability. The curate held, as it 
 were, the lord-lieutenancy of the hamlet, receiving 
 grace from his vicar and the county families. 
 The chapel was his hall of general levee, being 
 furnished with a variety of pews, the importance 
 
134 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 of whose occupants was signified by the green 
 baize, and by the quantity of brass nails with 
 which they were fitted up. After service, he held 
 his weekly drawing-room, to the which all were 
 admitted who enjoyed the honours of the brass- 
 knocker, None, however were guests of the 
 dinner table, except the curate's limited party ; 
 my grandfather occasionally joined them at tea ; 
 and the simple brass knockers were sometimes 
 asked to take lunch. Such were the permissible 
 favours of etiquette. 
 
 It may be inquired, what part my great aunt 
 (the interesting little Lucy) took in the weighty 
 affairs of the village ? Probably as much as 
 Sir Isaac Newton might have taken ; and, as I 
 opine, she was not less interested in the attraction 
 of hearts, than was the great philosopher in that 
 of gravitation. She smiled as usual upon all her 
 poorer friends, and received the smiles of her 
 superiors in rank, equally unconscious that she 
 was condescending in the one instance, or 
 honoured in the other. There is a sort of dis- 
 position, which, without compromising its own sin- 
 cerity, adapts itself to all parties but the vicious, 
 and almost universally recommends its possessor. 
 Such a disposition was Lucy's ; she was, however, 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 135 
 
 deemed a curiosity ; for, with all her affability, 
 there was a kind of reserve about her, equally im- 
 pervious to the high and the low. She was never 
 detected setting her cap at any of the young gen- 
 tlemen of the curate's party ; and yet she refused 
 (however gently) the addresses of her equals. As 
 to the vicar's son, he was gone to fetch home a 
 wife from Yorkshire : that was a settled thing ; 
 she was a young heiress of family and fortune, 
 descended in a right line from Sir J. Somebody, 
 who received the honours of knighthood in the 
 reign of Henry the Seventh, and was collaterally 
 united with the so and so's, whose grandsire was 
 this, and whose grandmother was the other, &c, 
 &c, &c, &c. My aunt Lucy, therefore, could 
 have no longer any hopes in that quarter ; and, lest 
 she should occasionally dream of things which 
 might have been, if the vicar's ideas of respecta- 
 bility had not prevented it, she was constantly 
 receiving fresh intelligence on the subject just 
 alluded to. This strange girl, however, still re- 
 mained provokingly cheerful ; leaving people to 
 suppose, that she did not regret to lose what she 
 had never presumed to covet. 
 
 The vicar's son had been in Yorkshire nearly 
 eighteen months, when his family also removed 
 
136 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 thither, in consequence of the sudden death of the 
 uncle before mentioned. The old gentleman hav- 
 ing been solemnly interred, his will was eagerly 
 sought for ; and, without entering into particu- 
 lars, I shall merely state, that, in consequence, the 
 vicar was subsequently induced to take up his per- 
 petual residence where he had thought of merely 
 sojourning for a few months. His old living, there- 
 fore, was shortly announced for sale ; but, though 
 it speedily met with a bidder, it was long ere any 
 purchase was effected ; for the vicar was determi- 
 nate in adhering to a price, which the other party 
 — likewise a reverend pastor — thought rather ex- 
 travagant. The former, who was an earnest Chris- 
 tian, perceived, with feelings of regret, the bar- 
 gain-hunting spirit of the latter, and was therefore 
 the more resolved on having the extremest value 
 of his living. Besides^ he was not in want of mo- 
 ney, and could well afford not to give a purchaser 
 any advantages ; since it is only your poor, des- 
 titute people, who condescend to sell their goods 
 at half their value. The vicar was rich enough 
 to retain, rather than sell at a loss : the other was 
 too poor to purchase without assurance of advan- 
 tage. The former enjoyed an income of full one 
 thousand a year, while the latter was possessed of 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 137 
 
 only one thousand a year. During the negotia- 
 tion between these reverend worthies, the eternal 
 interests of the parishioners were not neglected. 
 A curate was appointed — if not so eloquent as St. 
 Paul, certainly as poor. The vicar most pro- 
 bably conceived, that, as a church dignitary could 
 not be truly humble without the means of being 
 otherwise ; so the sincerity of a poor curate was 
 esteemed proportionate to the smallness of the sti- 
 pend which satisfied him. Neither do we hear 
 that the poor fellow ever complained. He was 
 doubtless more truly rewarded than the subscrip- 
 tion-minister of the chapel of ease, in having so 
 many more opportunities of exerting himself in the 
 services of religion. It is true, the chaplain had 
 a good two hundred a year, and many opportuni- 
 ties of visiting the " house of feasting :"" but, to ba- 
 lance this, had not the poor curate all the advan- 
 tages of visiting the " house of mourning ?"-— of 
 administering hopes to the sick ? — of burying all 
 the dead, and of preaching consolation to the me- 
 lancholy survivors ? Had he not, moreover, the 
 cheerful duties of baptizing the innocent, and of 
 marrying the happy ? — As to the leanness of his 
 body, compared with the " fair roundness" of the 
 easy chaplain, why, doubtless, his flesh had only 
 
138 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 gone to the feeding of his soul, in which case the 
 latter must have been in " most blessed condi- 
 tion." 
 
 By this time, the affairs of the parish had 
 undergone a vast change. The daughter-village 
 was daily increasing in fashionable repute, and our 
 family began proudly to consider themselves as 
 the founders of a new settlement. I am inclined 
 to believe, however, that they had less to do in 
 this respect than a certain cunning little apothe- 
 cary, who, digging one day in his poppy field, 
 discovered a spring of remarkably fine water. 
 Now, as water was not wanting, this said spring 
 had done the state little service, had he not made 
 the further discovery that its waters were chaly- 
 beate ! Glorious chance ! The poppy field was 
 immediately dismantled of its gay flowery robe, 
 and laid out in imitation of the gardens of the 
 Tuilleries. The spring was encircled with brick, 
 and covered in with rustic wood- work, and a roof 
 of thatch. At the top of the field a row of little 
 lodging houses was erected ; and circulars were 
 issued, inviting all that were sick to drink and be 
 made whole, and all who were melancholy to take 
 up their abode in Spa Place, and be made merry. 
 
 Alas, for the mother-village ! Its better houses 
 were now let in severalties to the paupers. The 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 139 
 
 poor curate occupied but one wing of the vicarage. 
 On the closed shutters of the principal shops was 
 chalked up, " Removed to Marryton ;" and the 
 whole place too truly resembled a parent waxing 
 grievous at the ingratitude of her child. Its 
 population, however, was on the increase ; for 
 its fallen rents acted as an inducement to many ; 
 and for the well conditioned individuals who emi- 
 grated to the new settlement, there was a more 
 than proportionate return of paupers to the old 
 one. 
 
 In the parish was an old manorial mansion^ built 
 in the time of Elizabeth, the unhaunted portion 
 of which had been inhabited for several years by 
 a poor farmer. It was situated in a beautiful, 
 though neglected, park, and attached to an estate 
 of considerable extent. Oftentimes had Lucy, 
 my great aunt, accompanied her young mistress, 
 the vicar's daughter, in her rambles through the 
 grounds ; and not unfrequently did the vicar's 
 son meet them, as it were by accident, and escort 
 them along the winding paths, and under the high, 
 umbrageous avenues of Billingham Park. Offer- 
 ing his arm to his sister, he would occasionally 
 converse with his sister's attendant, condescending 
 to ask her " how she liked the scenery ?" She ap= 
 
140 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 peared no less delighted with it than himself, and 
 modestly intimated opinions upon its character and 
 influence, which, " he would candidly acknow- 
 ledge, were in perfect unison with his own." 
 
 It had been often remarked, that it was truly 
 a pity to see so beautiful a place neglected ; and 
 the parishioners were the more rejoiced at hearing 
 that it was about to be purchased by some young 
 baronet from the north of England. The report 
 proved true. The old manor-house was shortly 
 in a progressive state of repair ; and a vast number 
 of workmen were employed in new fencing the 
 park, and in cleansing the avenues. The grandees 
 of Marryton were of course most anxious con- 
 cerning the name and condition of the new pro- 
 prietor, who proved to be Sir John Dash well : 
 he was reported handsome ; and the young 
 belles of the place were much flurried at hear- 
 ing that he was unmarried. Billingham was 
 at length put in order, a new entrance-lodge 
 built, and a quantity of old furniture sent to the 
 mansion. A handsome pew was also erected in 
 the chapel ; and, all being now in readiness, 
 nothing remained but for Sir John Dashwell to 
 make his appearance. 
 
 Never had there been such a stir in Marryton 
 as that occasioned by the intelligence of his arrival, 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 141 
 
 one Saturday evening, and of his intention to be 
 at the chapel on the morning following. Not a 
 best bonnet but was displayed upon this occasion : 
 not a smile nor a ribbon but was summoned to do 
 its best. As the young ladies had been all reading 
 romances, they all, of course, fancied themselves 
 heroines ; and it was only for Sir John to see them, 
 ere he solicited their participation of his wealth, 
 and conferred upon them at the altar the title of 
 " my lady." Each was first to dazzle by her 
 charms of person, and afterwards to win by her 
 retiring modesty and consciousness of self demerit. 
 
 The important hour at length arrived ; and as 
 the bell ceased to toll, the grandees of the village 
 entered the chapel, under the idea that Sir John 
 would, of course, so far consult good breeding, as 
 not to make his appearance till the service had 
 commenced ; and they only hoped that he would 
 enter during some part of the prayers which 
 required them to be standing. 
 
 They were rather disappointed, however, at 
 finding Sir John's pew already occupied. A 
 powdered head, and the collar of a black coat were 
 just discoverable above the back of the seat ; and 
 the ladies were rather alarmed at seeing the crown 
 of a fashionable black bonnet on the opposite side 
 
142 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 of the pew. The female, however, on rising, 
 shewed herself not to be feared : she was advanced 
 in age, and of matronly appearance. The gen- 
 tleman, provokingly remained with his back to 
 the congregation the whole time. Many were the 
 glances directed towards him, in the hope of 
 obtaining some idea of his features. The ladies 
 were, however, left to comment on his heroic 
 altitude and well-formed shoulders. They could 
 discover, even in these particulars, sufficient evi- 
 dence of his high blood and polished breeding ; 
 and, when, at the conclusion of the service, he 
 looked around the chapel for a few seconds, they 
 were at once struck by the dignity of his counte- 
 nance, and convinced of the impossibility of mis- 
 taking true-born greatness. — He was " every inch" 
 a baronet ! 
 
 Yet, baronet as he was, wherefore should he be 
 too proud to mingle with the rest of the congre- 
 gation on leaving the church ? Instead of waiting 
 till the low-born had quitted, he was among the 
 first to leave his seat ; and occasioned no less 
 astonishment than mortification, by making his 
 exit at a small back door, near the curate's robing- 
 room, when it was fully expected by the congre- 
 gation, and demanded by propriety, that he should 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 143 
 
 have paced the middle aisle leading to the principal 
 door, at the west end of the chapel. 
 
 A general buzz pervaded the building. It was 
 universally allowed that Sir John was " a prodi- 
 giously fine man." His face, figure, and carriage 
 were indeed perfect ; but his conduct excited 
 general surprise ; and, though not directly avowed, 
 there was little doubt, but that the pride of the 
 grandees had been marvellously hurt. It was 
 indeed tiresome that all their pains at the toilet 
 should have proved thus unavailable ; but, how- 
 ever they failed in respect to the object of their 
 morning visit, they were not to be discouraged ; 
 and in the afternoon the chapel was again nearly 
 filled. 
 
 The service had commenced, and Sir John's 
 pew remained still unoccupied, when a carriage was 
 heard to drive up to the western door, and in a 
 few minutes a young man entered the chapel, fol- 
 lowed by the Sir John of the morning. Judge of 
 the surprise of several of the congregation, when 
 they recognised in the person of the former the son 
 of their late vicar ! On passing my great aunt 
 Lucy's pew, he bowed, and she blushed. 
 
 " Bless us !" said more than one of the congre- 
 gation inwardly > " he does not appear to have 
 
144 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 forgotten his old flame ! What will the proud 
 Sir John say to him when he makes the disco- 
 very ? — No doubt he is on a visit to the Baronet 
 of Billingham." 
 
 To the increased astonishment of the congrega- 
 tion, however, the hero of the morning was observed 
 to open the pew-door to the vicar's son, and, after 
 closing it, to retire to a small adjoining pew, which 
 had been put up for the accommodation of Sir 
 John's servants ! To be brief ; the vicar's son was 
 the veritable Sir John Dashwell, and the supposed 
 baronet no other than his servant out of livery ; the 
 female who attended in the morning was the house- 
 keeper ; and, should it be asked why they occu- 
 pied their master's pew instead of their own, I can 
 answer nothing, but that Sir John was partial to a 
 little mischief, and, for aught I know, designed 
 that matters should fall out just as they did. 
 
 At the conclusion of the service, the young ba- 
 ronet carefully noticed all his old acquaintance, 
 young and aged, rich and poor. He did not, how- 
 ever, give general satisfaction ; for, though the ple- 
 beian party found him extremely condescending, 
 he was very coldly polite to the grandees. The 
 peculiarity of his conduct to my aunt Lucy did not 
 escape notice. She did not presume to mingle with 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 145 
 
 her betters, as they stood for a few minutes con- 
 versing with Sir John in the chapel porch, but 
 merely made him such a salutation, on passing, as 
 might have been expected from a waiting-maid, to 
 the brother of her mistress. The obeisance was 
 returned, with a courtesy — evidently heartfelt. 
 The young baronet's eye followed her for several 
 seconds ; and a remark by Miss Fireflounce, the 
 leading belle of the place, fell unnoticed upon 
 his ear. 
 
 The great ones of the village, who had promised 
 themselves such an accession of haut ton in the ar- 
 rival of the baronet, were indeed sorely disappoint- 
 ed. In what visions had they indulged ! Under his 
 patronage, Marryton was to have become the centre 
 of fashion. My great uncle had formed the plan 
 of erecting an hotel, to be called " The Dashwell 
 Arms," and to include an assembly and billiard- 
 rooms. Sir John, however, soon made it evident 
 that high life was not his hobby. He alluded, 
 with feelings of regret, to the changes which had 
 taken place in the poppy-field ; and talked of the 
 happier times when the May Pole exhibited its 
 sunny garlands, and brass-knockers were unknown 
 in the village. The mortified grandees, in short, 
 were much in the same situation with iEsop's frogs, 
 
 VOL. IT. L 
 
146 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 who, desiring a lively ruler, at length obtained one 
 that gobbled them all up. Sir John did not exactly 
 gobble up the grandees of Marryton ; but, which 
 was much the same thing, he speedily dismantled 
 them of their grandeu*, by making it his aim to 
 suppress all false pretension, and to promote the 
 unsophisticated happiness of his fellow parishioners, 
 from the lowest upward. 
 
 It is fit the reader should be now informed of 
 the circumstances under which the vicar's son came 
 to his fortune and title. He inherited them both 
 from his maternal uncle, whose undivided affection 
 he had possessed from the day of his early child- 
 hood, and whose opinions and feelings he had tho- 
 roughly imbibed. The name of Dashwell he had 
 adopted, in conformity with the wish of his deceased 
 relative, whose estate, however, he sold, for the 
 purpose of buying the long coveted domain of Bil- 
 lingham, which, it may be remembered, had also 
 elicited the unqualified approval of a certain little 
 maiden, lowly in birth, and Lucy by name. 
 
 Poor little Lucy, by the way, became now the 
 talk of the village ; and though some ill-natured 
 people might be inclined to assert that envy was 
 the pervading spirit, I shall be content to record, 
 that the professed feeling was pure commiseration; 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 147 
 
 " for in truth," Mamma would say, " it is a shame- 
 ful thing to excite lofty ideas in low-born minds ;" 
 and, shortly afterwards, on meeting with the un- 
 fortunate object of her pity, she would exclaim, 
 u Ah ! good day to lady Lucy ! I suppose your 
 ladyship will now scarcely condescend to notice us 
 humble folks." In short, scandal was thriving 
 daily. It was buzzed about that " there were such 
 things as dishonourable purposes," and that, " if 
 some people could induce some people to marry 
 them, why, all well and good ; but that some 
 people should beware how some people can make 
 an empty promise, and mar a woman's fame." 
 
 The fashionables were now beginning to look 
 upon Sir John as a very dubious character — 
 
 " ( Daughters, be cautious and steady/ 
 Mammies would cry out for fear. 5 ' 
 
 And, in truth, the watchfulness of Mamma seemed 
 fully to answer : for there is not an instance on re- 
 cord of any suspicious civility having been shewn 
 by the young baronet to any individual except my 
 aunt Lucy. On the other hand, there was no pos- 
 sibility of charging him with uncourteous neglect, 
 though the curate's party doubtless felt themselves 
 rather scandalized at never being invited to Bil- 
 l 2 
 
148 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 lingham, without having to choose between non- 
 acceptance, and the society of two or three of my 
 aunt Lucy's family or class. In other respects, 
 they acknowledged that Sir John's conduct as a host 
 was unimpeachable ; for, if he did not sufficiently 
 consider Mrs. so and so's dignity, in giving her 
 farmer Turnstile for a partner at whist, he at least 
 regarded her welfare, in appointing, as her coadju- 
 tor, the best card-player in the room. 
 
 It was one evening after the departure of my 
 aunt Lucy, farmer Turnstile, and one or two more 
 of the same class, who had been included in a large 
 party (otherwise fashionable) at Billingham, that 
 a lady ventured, on the score of her own rank and 
 gentility, to rate the too great condescension of the 
 baronet, in being on such very intimate terms with 
 people so much inferior to himself in the scale of 
 society. 
 
 " Rather, my dear Madam," said Sir John, 
 "rate my unfitness to perform with eclat the 
 character which Fortune (the manager of life's 
 drama) has imposed upon me. But, wherefore, 
 I pray you, are these good people so much my 
 inferiors ?" 
 
 " Why, in the first place," said the lady, " are 
 they not your inferiors in edication ? and, besides, 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 149 
 
 my daughter and me have often remarked, how 
 uneasy they are in genteel society ; and we was 
 three or four times, particularly struck with their 
 vulgar mode of expressing theirselves. Really, 
 they hardly ever utter a dozen words of good 
 English in one sentence. Miss Lucy is, to be sure, 
 a charming young 'oman ; and, perhaps, when 
 girls are lady-like theirselves, it doesn't sinnify 
 who their parents may be." 
 
 "Pray, my dear Madam," said the baronet, 
 mildly, " do not suppose but that I am, equally 
 with yourself, an admirer of fair pronunciation and 
 grammatical concord ; but," continued he, smiling, 
 " there are other concords, which, I confess, I 
 value still more, and, among them, is the social 
 concord. But, pray," said he, addressing the 
 daughter of the lady who had last spoken, 
 " what are your opinions concerning the import- 
 ant question of good grammar ?" 
 
 " Sir," answered she, still continuing to blush 
 as she had done during the whole of her accom- 
 plished mother's speech, "I do not agree with 
 Mamma in thinking it so very essential." 
 
 Mamma, however, informed the baronet that 
 good grammar was not all in all. 
 
 " I am glad of it, Madam," rejoined the latter. 
 
150 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 u else, I fear that you must have been severe upon 
 me, for I am but a poor English scholar, though 
 I have a smattering of Greek and Latin, and ap- 
 prehend that I occasionally make use of expres- 
 sions, which you might deem inelegant." 
 
 The lady remained ignorant of the irony, al- 
 though it is probable, that, if she had observed 
 the countenances of her companions, she had ac- 
 quired thereby a lesson which would most effec- 
 tually have prevented her from ever touching 
 again upon the subject of good grammar. " O 
 Sir," said she, " I am not going to put myself 
 into competition with you as a grammarian ; but 
 surely you will allow, that birth and breeding should 
 be considered in the classification of society ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said the baronet, " they ought to 
 be considered, but not enforced. However, as 
 I said before, I am not fitted to play the great 
 man, and I am inclined to think," continued he, 
 looking keenly at the surrounding company, " I 
 am inclined to think, nay, I have every reason to 
 believe, that my butler — that my butler" said he, 
 repeating the word with emphasis, " is more gifted 
 with the essentials of greatness than myself!" 
 (This was not to be misunderstood, and I leave 
 my reader to judge of the feelings, which now 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 151 
 
 pervaded the company.) " I am persuaded," he 
 continued, " that the wrong man has been ap- 
 pointed to the baronetcy ; and can only say, that 
 if any one of the leading ladies in this parish, 
 having money sufficient to purchase this estate, 
 shall be inclined to receive the addresses of my 
 butler* I will resign to him for ever my honours 
 and my name !" 
 
 This, as may be imagined, was not very pala- 
 table to the company, who shortly wished their 
 host a cold " good night," put on their cloaks and 
 clogs, and, as they walked through the baronet's 
 park, made its avenues resound with well seasoned 
 scandal. 
 
 u The idea" said one of the ladies, " of those 
 queer what d'ye calPems, being fetched away from 
 Sir John's in a cart — in a cart H 
 
 " Ha ! — ha ! — ha ! — lia !" exclaimed another, 
 u was ever such vulgarity heard of?" 
 
 u Oh— O !— O !— Oh !" shrieked the former, 
 " help me, my dear Sir ! I'm sinking over my 
 ancles in the mud !" 
 
 Several accidents of a similar description oc- 
 curred to the party ere they reached home ; but 
 it does not appear that they much benefitted by 
 the lesson, nor, indeed, may we ever hope to con- 
 
152 THE REVOLUTIONS 
 
 vince such pinks of refinement, that comfort in a 
 cart is no less respectable than dignity in the dirt, 
 But it is time my tale should have an end. 
 
 The first day of the " merry, merry month of 
 May," was now fast approaching. The carpenter 
 received orders to prepare a towering May Pole, 
 and the villagers were apprized of Sir John Dash- 
 welFs intention to give a rustic fete of unusual 
 gaiety upon the occasion. Tables, benches, and 
 tents were ranged around the green. Mine host 
 of the Black Bull was advised to prepare a suffi- 
 cient stock of provisions for the repast ; and the 
 humble village girls — never so truly happy — w r ere 
 requested to attire themselves in their best, and 
 to be in readiness, at a certain hour, to receive the 
 Queen of May. 
 
 The morning at length arrived, clear, sunny, 
 and beautiful, as poet or lover could desire. The 
 May Pole, gleaming in all the varieties of red, 
 blue, yellow, and white, exhibited on its summit 
 a green coronet of no ordinary dimensions, studded 
 with such natural gems as Flora could yield in 
 the present season. At the foot of the May Pole 
 was a rustic throne for the queen ; and it was 
 only now to be seen who should occupy the 
 important seat. Surmises were not wanting as 
 
OF A VILLAGE. 153 
 
 to the individual upon whom the honours of the 
 morning would be conferred; but all were per- 
 fectly ignorant, that their sovereign was to be 
 presented with a wedding ring at the altar of 
 Hymen, ere she received the garland of instalment 
 on the throne of May. 
 
 The villagers had scarcely assembled on the 
 green, when, to their astonishment, Sir John 
 Dashweirs carriage drove up to within a few 
 paces of the May Pole, and the baronet descended 
 amid the most exulting shouts of the villagers. 
 u My friends !" said he, waving his hand to 
 obtain a hearing, " my friends, make room for 
 your queen ; and, so long as she lives in her native 
 parish, (an honour to her humbler friends, and an 
 ornament to the rest), let this, her wedding-day, 
 be celebrated among you ! Make way !" said he, 
 handing my aunt Lucy from the carriage, "make 
 way for your queen, the Lady Dashwell !" 
 
 Poor Lucy was so overcome by her exalted 
 situation, and the joyful acclamations of her 
 admiring friends, that it was with difficulty she 
 reached the seat prepared for her, and was for 
 some time unable to fulfil her part in the revel. 
 At length, having been crowned with a garland of 
 May flowers, and encircled with a festoon of the 
 
L54 THE REVOLUTIONS OF A VILLAGE. 
 
 same, she was led to the dance by her husband, 
 and thus, at least, gave her old male admirers one 
 more opportunity of taking her by the hand. 
 After reaching the bottom of the dance, she was 
 again conducted to the throne; where, having 
 reposed awhile, she pledged her merry subjects 
 in a small silver tankard ; and assured them, that, 
 although elevated far above her deserts, she would 
 never forget her old friends. She then presented 
 the tankard to a young woman, whom she knew 
 to be a general favourite ; and, appointing her as 
 vice-reine, she accompanied her husband back to 
 the carriage, and left the merry villagers to pro- 
 ceed with the revels of the day. Sir John and 
 his lady were driven off amidst a renewal of the 
 most deafening exultations, and not a place in his 
 majesty 's dominions was on that day so truly 
 happy as Marryton green — except, indeed, 
 " The one small consecrated spot where Lucy was." 
 
 What the cidevant grandees of the place 
 thought of all this, nobody knew and nobody 
 cared. They were of that insipid class, which is 
 well gotten rid of; and which, if true worth were 
 better appreciated, and real respectability better 
 understood, would be as low in the worlds esti- 
 mation as its members are lofty in their own. 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 u Of whom then speak ye ? 
 
 Sir, we speak of one, 
 Who, had he sworn eternal fealty 
 Unto the king of mirth, could scarce have been 
 More true : — a man of quips and oddities." 
 
 Condemned Comedy. 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 I was induced, no matter under what circum- 
 stances, to take up my residence one autumn at 
 Pierpont Boarding-House, in that most fashion- 
 able of fashionable places, the city of Bath, It is 
 the custom in many houses of this kind for the 
 latest comer to fill the chair immediately it be- 
 comes vacant by a departure ; and it so happened, 
 that, on the morning of the very day on which I 
 arrived, the said important seat had been re- 
 signed. 
 
 This custom, by the way, of elevating the 
 younger member into the president's chair, (though 
 at seeming variance with propriety, and certainly 
 
158 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 in opposition to the usual mode of things,) is not 
 exactly impolitic ; for it leaves the individual in a 
 salutary state of doubt, as to whether he occupies a 
 throne of dignity or a seat of drudgery. He 
 scarcely knows whether to boast of his " high 
 estate" as a prerogative, or to receive it with pa- 
 tient submission as a matter of compulsion. If he 
 be a good carver, his vanity will preclude every 
 sense of inferiority, and he will probably regard 
 himself as one who has had " greatness thrust up- 
 on him." If (like myself) he be a sorry hand at 
 inducing the limbs of a fowl to separate in peace ; 
 unhappily prone to give the liver- wing a volatility 
 which in the farm-yard it never possessed ; capa- 
 ble of marring a merry-thought, or of treating 
 with too little ceremony a parson's nose ; he will, 
 in such case, acknowledge, that the only legitimate 
 mode of becoming truly important, is to " achieve 
 greatness." He will begin to smile at the idea of 
 hereditary wisdom, either in an elder or a younger 
 son ; and, for aught I know (as great events often 
 spring from trivial causes), he will, from that 
 moment, be severe upon royalty, and inclined to 
 republicanism. 
 
 On taking my seat at the table, I made my best 
 bow to a company numerous and mixed, old and 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 159 
 
 young, formal and fashionable, pale and conva- 
 lescent. Sad to relate, however, all were dull : — 
 all but one, whose character the reader shall have 
 at once. The card of this important personage 
 bore the following address : — " Captain Careless, 
 R. N." 
 
 Had he ever been a saving character, " his 
 youthful hose'' had shewn the effects of time upon 
 his shrunken leg ; as his weather-beaten face and 
 lost arm bore testimony to the length and severity 
 of his service on the seas. There was nothing 
 otherwise remarkable in his person, which was tall 
 and thin. He stooped considerably; was very 
 short-sighted ; and, whether walking or talking, 
 had a singular habit of looking downwards. The 
 hurried glances which he would occasionally take 
 at persons and things about him, were scarcely 
 perceptible ; so that he appeared to know his 
 friends by their shoe-ties, and to recognise streets 
 by their pavements. 
 
 He had been in his time a bon vivant and gal- 
 lant; and could still talk about the virtues of 
 " wine and women, mirth and laughter." His 
 mirth, however, was now of the quietest order. 
 Partly from age, and partly from asthma, he not 
 only spoke, but laughed deliberately. His " he ! 
 
160 
 
 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 >— he ! — he !" would be often scarcely audible ; 
 and sometimes he might be seen shewing his teeth 
 and shaking his shoulders in perfect silence. 
 
 As the old captain^s mirth was never violent, so 
 his melancholy was not at present apparent. He 
 had been long subject to the caprice of Fortune 
 and the winds, and had acquired a weathercock 
 capability of self-adaptation to every circumstance. 
 Excepting himself, however, all were dull. A 
 settled sadness seemed to overhang them. They 
 were coldly polite to each other, and either careless 
 or dissatisfied with respect to their dinner. The 
 roasted hare — wearing at all times an expression of 
 the most piteous resignation — looked on this day 
 more deplorable than usual, and bore but too faith- 
 ful a resemblance to the faces of the company. It 
 was the very sun of wretchedness, surrounded by 
 planets of melancholy. The carving knife was 
 blunt ; the gravy turned cold ; and nothing was 
 wanting to render the system complete, but that the 
 currant jelly should turn sour. Even the servants 
 were affected by this pervading gloom. Whence 
 could it originate ? — The day was certainly dull : 
 one of those damp and dreary ones, when umbrel- 
 las are of no avail, and garters sometimes leave the 
 knee to encircle the neck. 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 16J 
 
 Though naturally inclined to mirth, I found 
 myself unable to raise a smile ; and, in truth, my 
 situation was most pitiable. In the first place, as 
 a new comer, I had reason to look for some cour- 
 tesy ; and again, as chairman, some homage was 
 my due. Disappointed in these expectations, I 
 remained incapable of throwing off that feeling of 
 heaviness, which the fatigue of my journey from 
 London, and the gloom of the day had occasioned. 
 
 " He ! — he ! — - ■ he !" exclaimed the captain, 
 after a long silence, u Egad, we seem — we 
 seem," he continued, repeating these words three 
 or four times, as he was busily employed upon a 
 leg of the hare — " we seem," said he, making a 
 very long pause ere he finished the sentence — u all 
 becalmed ! Come, Mr. President, let you and I 
 have a glass of wine together. Any thing to get 
 up a breeze." 
 
 " Suppose," said I, " that the motion be made 
 general ?" 
 
 " Bravo, Mr. Chairman," said one of the com- 
 pany. " We are, as you see, Sir, rather dull up- 
 on the present occasion — dull as the day, which, 
 however, is not the cause of our sadness, though 
 little calculated to dispel it. Our dulness, I think, 
 originates more particularly in a circumstance, 
 
 VOL. II. M 
 
162 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 to which, unfortunately, I cannot allude, without 
 in some degree seeming to pay you a very indif- 
 ferent compliment. That we shall very shortly 
 regain our hilarity under your good presidency, 
 I am most ready to believe; but you must allow 
 us (for mere decency's sake) to mourn awhile the 
 loss of our late chairman, your predecessor. Now," 
 said he, looking round the table, " have I not 
 rightly spoken ?" 
 
 It was evident he had, though few admitted 
 the truth without some polite qualification. Two 
 or three denied it altogether ; and one of the com- 
 pany, (to all appearance a real Simon Pure,) ex- 
 pressed himself as " rather gladdened than grieved 
 by the change which had taken place." 
 
 " Nay," said the former, " you speak incon- 
 siderately — what do you perceive in the coun- 
 tenance of our new chairman, which indicates that 
 the change of individuals will bring with it a 
 change in the happiness of our party ?" 
 
 u Happiness !" exclaimed the other, M frivolity, 
 rather. Besides, Sir, our present chairman is 
 young, and may be allowed a greater latitude 
 than is due to an elder." 
 
 The majority of the company looked at each 
 other in a manner, which implied a concurrent 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 163 
 
 desire to eject him from their society, as they had 
 already banished him their love. The servants 
 even testified their displeasure by waiting on this 
 sombre one with as much reluctance as their duty 
 could afford. No one, in short, seemed inclined 
 to coincide in his opinion of the late chairman, 
 except a prim looking woman by his side, who 
 acceded in part to the sentiments of her neighbour. 
 " I have never," said she, " seen any thing deci- 
 dedly culpable in his conduct. — He was certainly 
 agreeable in some respects — but, — " here she 
 paused. 
 
 u He — he — he ! she's ashore," said the captain. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" echoed the company, and the 
 lady 5 as may be imagined, looked somewhat 
 abashed. 
 
 " Ah — you may laugh, good friends,'' said 
 Simon, in that whining tone, which, together with 
 the saintly insignia of flattened hair and dirty 
 nails, distinguishes his kind, " you may laugh. 
 The lady is perfectly right : she has seen nothing 
 in the conduct of your late lamented chairman 
 which merits severe deprecation ; but only certain 
 improprieties which have aroused her suspicion." 
 
 "lam sorry, Sir," said a young man at table, 
 m 2 
 
164 THE BOARDING HOUSE, 
 
 " that my sister's cause is so unpopular, as to leave 
 her without any supporter but yourself." 
 
 " Come, gentlemen," said the vice-president, 
 " a truce to this. Our new chairman will think 
 himself little to be congratulated on his elevation, 
 if the installing feast be rendered so unpleasant by 
 contention." 
 
 " Nay, I say nothing," said Simon, " only, 
 that it looks well in a young man to be thus 
 forward in checking his elders." 
 
 " You mean, Sir," said the other, " it looks ill. 
 But, Sir, it looks worse in you, my senior, and a 
 professer of piety to boot, to be throwing out 
 insinuations which are only hurtful in not being 
 explained. Were you to give us an account of all 
 that you have seen, it is possible we should grant 
 your very vivid imagination no further license 
 than might extend to a sly kiss behind the pantry 
 door. We all know, Sir, that a pretty face was 
 not among the aversions of him whose morality you 
 seem to question. We know, likewise, that he 
 was fond of a play and a ball, and that his religion 
 served rather to cheer, than to depress his spirit." 
 
 " Bravo !" exclaimed the captain, " that's a 
 broadsider !" 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 165 
 
 u I think," said I, " alluding to the puritan, 
 " that the gentleman at the lower end of the table 
 has adopted the least popular opinion." 
 
 " Egad," said the captain, nodding over his 
 plate, " I think so. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — I think so." 
 
 The old gentleman rarely spoke without exciting 
 a smile, or laughed without being answered with 
 an echo. Like Liston's acting, whatever he did 
 seemed to take, as the phrase is ; and the manner 
 in which he uttered the word " think," in his reply 
 to my observation, gave it a point, peculiarly 
 grateful to the company in general, and, in the 
 same degree, discomfiting to Mr. Simon and his 
 female neighbour. Behind the vice -president's 
 chair stood Betsy, the waiting maid, a pretty look- 
 ing young woman, though with scarcely a good 
 feature in her face. She seemed, together with her 
 helpmate, John, mightily pleased at any remark 
 in favour of my predecessor ; and I now began, 
 for the first time, to feel some curiosity concerning 
 him. " Who and what was he ?" 
 
 " Why," said the captain, " I can tell you 
 something about him, and Betsy — he — he — he !— 
 Betsy can tell you the rest." 
 
 Betsy modestly intimated, that she could say 
 no more than her fellow servants, and that none of 
 
166 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 her companions could do less than pay him their 
 tribute of respect and gratitude. " Respect" said 
 the man of morals with a sneer, " I have always 
 heard that familiarity produces dis-respect." 
 
 " I have seen," said his young opponent, with 
 equal irony, " that religion may sometimes destroy 
 charity." 
 
 " Another broadsider," said the captain. 
 
 " No, Captain Careless," replied Mr. Simon, 
 very gravely, " it is no ' broadsider,' as you term 
 it, at least in its effect upon me." 
 
 " He — he — he ! That was the boast of the 
 Algerine pirates, when they escaped by means of 
 boats from their schooner, before she foundered 
 under the effects of our shot. John," continued 
 the captain, " get me a little currant jelly to this 
 
 d d drumstick ; it's as tough and as salt as a 
 
 bowsprit. I resemble our late chairman in some 
 particulars, being very fond of sweets — he !— he ! 
 — he ! — though, egad, his traffic in that commo- 
 dity was much more extensive than mine. Was 
 it not, eh, Betsy ?" 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. Simon, " Betsy will not com- 
 plain of him, 111 warrant her ; none of the young 
 and pretty girls complain of him." 
 
 " My sister, Sir," said the young man of whom 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 167 
 
 we have before spoken, " my sister, Sir, will ap- 
 preciate the point of your remark." 
 
 " The lady, Sir," replied the other, perceiving 
 his meaning, " has no reason to lament the decline 
 of her youth ; having, as I am convinced, many 
 more essential qualities than beauty." 
 
 The old captain was here seen to shake his 
 shoulders in silence. Thought he to himself, 
 "the lady will not thank you for the compli- 
 ment." 
 
 Poor woman ! she looked still more abashed 
 than her pious companion, who was beginning to 
 stammer out an explanation, (such as would, no 
 doubt, have rendered matters still worse,) when 
 she suddenly burst into tears and rose from her 
 seat. " Really, brother," said she, " you are 
 always making the company uncomfortable by 
 your altercations and quarrels." 
 
 " Allow me, Madam," said Mr. Simon, in a 
 tone of pity, even more sugared than usual, " allow 
 me, as you seem unwell, to conduct you into the 
 drawing-room ?" 
 
 The lady^s reply was, on the contrary, much 
 less sugared than usual ; " No, Sir," said she, 
 refusing his proffered arm : and she hastily quitted 
 
168 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 the room, in a manner not so indicative of sorrow 
 as of anger. 
 
 Mr. Simon was about to follow her : — 
 *' Excuse me," said the brother, intercepting 
 him, '• I may have suspicions as well as you. 
 I have seen nothing ; but I think the more." So 
 saying, he left the room. 
 
 All this was extremely unpleasant to the com- 
 pany in general, and particularly to myself. The 
 old sea captain, however, remained as unconcerned 
 amidst this wrangling, as a first-rate lying at an- 
 chor in a breeze off Greenwich Hospital. " Well/' 
 said he, breaking the silence which continued 
 for some minutes after the lady's exit, "many 
 a deck has been swabbed with less labour than I 
 have experienced in the scouring of this bone ; 
 and so, Mr. Chairman, as a reward for my per- 
 severance, do me the honour of pledging me in a 
 glass of my sherry. This bottle, Sir, is one of a 
 broken dozen, left me by our late president ; and 
 I can only assure you that the wine is like the 
 giver, in body, tone, and spirit. To be sure," 
 continued he, " I do not know quite so much about 
 him as the methodist gentleman there at the 
 bottom of the table, and that is, perhaps, one rea- 
 son for my liking him so much better. It's my 
 
THE BOARJDING HOUSE, 160 
 
 opinion, he ought to have been a sailor ; one of 
 that jovial crew who alone can sing, 
 
 " c In every clime we find a port. 
 In every port a home, Sir.' " 
 
 u Why, there, captain," said one of the com- 
 pany, " I think you are wrong, although your 
 error is a compliment to the individual ; for I 
 know, that when you recommend a man as fitted 
 for the seas, you in the same breath acknowledge 
 him as deserving of the highest honours. But, 
 you must recollect, that our late chairman, with 
 all his energy of mind and lightness of heart, has 
 a disposition which would be ill satisfied with the 
 company (however excellent) of a ship-of-war; 
 for though a bachelor, and a happy one, he is 
 extremely fond of domestic life, and will never 
 be found — I would venture to swear it — -without 
 the pale of female society. No, Sir, take my word 
 for it, he is essentially a landsman. His romance 
 includes no desire for martial glory ; it is on the 
 contrary, of a peace-making nature. Battle and 
 bombardments are quite out of his line. His 
 enmity is not to the French people, but to French 
 manners. He is willing to entrust others with the 
 protection of the British flag, though certainly 
 
170 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 possessed of every honourable feeling which ought 
 to aetuate an Englishman. His services, were 
 they required, would be promptly afforded ; but 
 while the navy and army are in no want of as- 
 sistance, he will remain at home, the cheerful 
 advocate of good will and the good old times of 
 merry England. He will never sleep in a ham- 
 mock, while there is a chamber-maid to make his 
 bed at home ; and till the Union Jack is in dan- 
 ger, he will remain the earnest defender of the 
 May Pole and Mistletoe." 
 
 "He! — he ! — he!" said the captain, perfectly 
 satisfied as to the truth of what had been just 
 advanced, although it was in direct opposition to 
 the opinion which he had previously expressed. 
 " E'en let it be as it will," he appeared to think ; 
 and changed about from his original position, 
 with all the ease and quiet of a ship veering round 
 her anchor at the turn of tide. " No matter," 
 said he, "a man may be good company, though 
 he be neither soldier, sailor, nor saint." 
 
 During the eulogium which had been passed 
 upon the character of my predecessor, a full con- 
 currence in its justice was manifested by all, ex- 
 cept our puritan aforesaid, who, fixing his eyes 
 upon the ceiling " with distressful stare," seemed 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. J^l 
 
 to be lamenting the error of his companions, in 
 having thus bestowed their good opinion upon 
 " one of the wicked." The others, and, in parti- 
 cular, the young ladies, had evidently much to 
 lament in his loss. One of them, indeed, candidly 
 acknowledged, that he had been for several weeks 
 the very life of the company. 
 
 " Aye, aye, young ladies," said the captain, 
 " no more romping, eh ! — no more blindman's 
 buff and hot cockles ! Egad, Sir, there used to be 
 sometimes such a rumpus here — such giggling and 
 squeaking, that I used to apprehend the inter- 
 ference of the civil authorities. O lud ! O lud ! 
 what a thing it is to have the vigour of boyhood 
 and the privileges of age !" 
 
 " And pray," said I, " what may have been 
 his age ?" 
 
 " Sixty," muttered Simon, as though he should 
 say, " Men of sixty ought to be sedate." 
 
 " Not more than fifty-five," rejoined the vice- 
 president. 
 
 " Fifty,"" exclaimed one of the elder females. 
 
 u Not so much," said a younger lady. 
 
 " He did not look more," added a third, u and 
 he had the spirits of thirty." 
 
 " He ! he ! he !— Egad," said the captain, "set 
 
172 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 the girls a-going upon that subject, and there's no 
 stopping them." 
 
 " He was a good looking man.''' 
 
 Every lady agreed to that. 
 
 " He had a remarkably good leg." 
 
 No lady denied it. 
 
 " Was he not rather mischievous ?" said I. 
 
 " Mischievous ! — umph — why, no — not exactly 
 mischievous" 
 
 « Sly ?" 
 
 " O yes, very," said a young romping Miss at 
 the corner of the table. 
 
 " Sly and dry," said the captain. 
 
 € ' With an eye" — continued the vice-president, 
 whose words were immediately cut short by a gene- 
 ral burst of laughter ; even the servant , as she took 
 away the Stilton from before me, could not sup- 
 press her risibility. 
 
 « Why, Betsy," said I, " my predecessor must 
 have been a very engaging and singular being !" 
 
 " He was indeed, Sir," exclaimed the girl, " a 
 very odd gentleman." 
 
 " A very odd gentleman /" muttered I to myself. 
 
 Among the most agreeable things of this life, is 
 a casual meeting with some old acquaintance whom 
 we have never forgotten, nor ever expected again 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 173 
 
 to see. If we are not sufficiently fortunate to en- 
 counter him in person, it is at least most desirable 
 to meet with him in report ; and though, after long 
 absence, uncertainty may render us comparatively 
 indifferent to his memory, the slightest authentic 
 intelligence concerning him will recal all our former 
 feelings. He becomes immediately prominent 
 among the liveliest subjects of our reminiscence, 
 and we are more anxious than ever to renew his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 I know not whether my reader has come to a 
 proper conclusion, on learning thus much of what 
 passed at the Pierpont dinner-table. If he have 
 read the introductory paper to the tale of " Christ- 
 mas Night," * we may probably have a mutual 
 understanding ; otherwise, it is impossible that he 
 should know anything concerning the individual 
 whose departure was so much regretted by the 
 boarders of Pierpont House. I had heard enough 
 to arouse more than a suspicion that he was an old 
 acquaintance ; and, as it subsequently appeared, 
 the supposition was correct. 
 
 My old travelling companion, Mr. Zachary Anti- 
 moan (for the name was no less " odd" than the 
 gentleman) had resided nearly two months at Bath, 
 
 * Vol. I. page 77- 
 
174 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 during which time he had thoroughly ingratiated 
 himself into the favour of all the inmates of the 
 boarding-house, save two, viz. the puritanical Mr. 
 Simon, and the scarcely less pure Miss Single. 
 The former he first startled by asking a young 
 lady to play him a piece of Mozart 1 s music on 
 Sunday ; and he subsequently lost himself beyond 
 all hope of redemption, by the defence with which 
 he attempted to prove, that an allegro movement by 
 the author just mentioned, was quite as innocuous 
 in its effects as the most solemn air which Handel 
 ever composed. 
 
 The lady he sorely offended by declining to play 
 with her at cards ; intimating, that he was not yet 
 old enough for a whist table, which he regarded, 
 when not applied to the pernicious purposes of the 
 gambler, as a mere resort for the idle and unima- 
 ginative, and allowable only in cases of superan- 
 nuation. It was, in fact, an amusement partaking 
 too much the nature of worldly business to please 
 the mind of an ingenuous man, who preferred a 
 game of romps in a nursery to a profitless argument 
 upon suits of red and black; and who liked, at least, 
 to have his better feelings aroused, when engaged 
 in any pursuit, the object of which might be amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 The company, as may be supposed, were much 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 1^5 
 
 surprised at hearing, that I was acquainted with 
 their late chairman ; and were no less pleased by 
 the relation of my adventures with him in the 
 stage coach. This circumstance, in fact, recom- 
 mended me more strongly to the good graces of 
 my companions, than any more positive claims to 
 their indulgence would have effected. With little 
 to say for myself, I had a subject of never failing 
 interest in my old acquaintance Zachary, who, 
 as it appeared, wherever he went, was equally 
 sure of giving offence to the puritanical, and of 
 gaining the affections of all who had a spark of 
 kindliness in their nature. He had no enemies 
 but hypocrisy and moroseness, and sought nothing 
 from this world but its love. Perhaps he was not 
 of a kind which we would desire to see universal ; 
 but rather a spice in society — an aromatic ingredient, 
 which, in excess, might prove unwholesome, though 
 we may now justly lament its comparative scarcity. 
 A few more such spirits are desirable to give a win- 
 ning flavour to religion and virtue, and to act as 
 an antidote to misanthropy and cant. We lack ex- 
 amples of men, who can be correct without being 
 cold ; who can think of Heaven without disregard- 
 ing, or affecting to despise, the world ; whose 
 feeling has no connexion with a morbid sen si- 
 
176 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 bility ; who can be philosophical without being 
 severe ; and whose frivolity is free from vice. 
 
 For want of this amalgamating spirit, we are 
 too much in extremes ; and the sure consequence 
 of extravagance is inconsistency. Propriety and 
 Pleasure, like the two great political parties, 
 Whig and Tory, have among their votaries a vast 
 majority of worthy people, who suffer themselves 
 to be led — not by the most thinking and conci- 
 liating — but by the most bigoted and extravagant 
 of their sect. With the puritanical, " virtuous 
 conduct" is the professed cause; while the oppo- 
 site party bring forward the claims of gaiety and 
 pleasure ; alleging, that these proscribed mem- 
 bers of humanity would be not only innocuous in 
 their junction with virtue, but that they are in 
 every way consistent with it. Concession, how- 
 ever, being refused by the more rigid party, the 
 liberals only feel the more inclined to play the 
 devil. The one attacks its enemy with pitiless 
 accusations of viciousness ; while the other de- 
 nounces the odiousness of hypocrisy. And now, 
 tremendous is the hubbub of false imputations ! 
 The interests of the two parties become the more 
 divided ; and, for want of an intervening and 
 accommodating third, actuated by reason and 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 177 
 
 charity, and guided by a few choice spirits like 
 my friend Zachary, they fly at each other ' like 
 mad or drunk," 
 
 " Each claiming Truth; and Truth disclaiming both." 
 
 The fact is, they meet in the field of argument 
 under the banners of reason or religion, with 
 which, however, they have as little to do, as the 
 champions of a prize ring have with true honour 
 or fame. Without any real motive for quarrel, 
 they only strike at each other because they are 
 brought face to face, goaded by irritability alone, 
 and bringing their passions into action, while 
 reason remains in the back ground, an inactive 
 and forgotten reserve. Unable to make an im- 
 pression upon one another, they turn upon them- 
 selves. Propriety becomes gloomy, and Pleasure 
 vicious out of sheer spite. The one loses all her 
 amiability : the other finds it no longer worth 
 while to maintain her innocence. The one asserts 
 that " cakes and ale"*' are inconsistent with virtue; 
 unmindful of the still greater inconsistency appa- 
 rent in her want of charity. The other swears, 
 that she will not only have " cakes and ale," but 
 that " ginger shall be hot P the mouth too." The 
 latter is, in short, likely to emulate the bearing 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
17^ THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 of an abandoned female, who, getting no credit 
 for virtue, is too frequently induced to deserve 
 her evil reputation. 
 
 Surely, surely, if the children of pleasure be so 
 very bad — so bigoted in their adherence to the 
 beauty of vice — it is in a great degree owing to 
 the gloomy looks of the sanctified ; to the winnings 
 and wailings of those, whose humility is very 
 pride; and to the depressing tone of a certain 
 class of ministers and moralists, who preach 
 under the influence of a distempered imagination, 
 and administer religion as a medicine, instead of 
 regarding it as a cheer-inspiring and salutary 
 food.* The more politic measure were to dress 
 
 * Dr. Johnson and the poet Cowper are singular instances of 
 men whose works, having the same object, prove materially differ- 
 ent in effect. Both authors, equally moral as authors, devoted their 
 pens to the cause of religion ; but the works of Johnson, however 
 they may delight the already moral, are, from their gloomy tone, 
 scarcely calculated to convert a delinquent ; while the writings of 
 Cowper, including that one golden line, " True piety is cheerful as 
 the day," are much more influential upon our morals, because their 
 tone is less dissonant to the chords of our mind, and more agreeable 
 to the buoyancy of our nature. They first win our affections, and a 
 reverence for the poet's principal object follows of course. 
 
 It is most extraordinary that the writings of these celebrated 
 authors should be marked by a character so different from what 
 their conduct and feelings in ordinary life might have led us to ex- 
 pect. Cowper, ever desponding, more timid than the hare which 
 
THE BOARDING Iiorvy.. IJ9 
 
 out propriety to more advantage ; to emancipate 
 the party of pleasure from the stigma of vice ; 
 and to shew them, that virtue is not less to be 
 loved than revered. 
 
 But, alas for Virtue, as exhibited by some of 
 her votaries ! She is a poor, sickly, and lack-a- 
 daisical creature, full of apprehensions and dis- 
 gusts, and never venturing into society without 
 evangelical antidotes and moral smelling bottles. 
 Certainly, our very minds, like our bodies, are 
 becoming more and more liable to disease. As in 
 the one case we may not encounter the night air ; 
 so in the other, w^e must no longer account our- 
 selves proof against the seductiveness of a play- 
 house or assembly-room. 
 
 Instead of being a bold and cheerful personage, 
 confident in her own strength, and taking some 
 pride in her personal appearance, Virtue now^ goes 
 shrinking and skulking about in a dowdy dress, 
 fearful for that chastity w r hich her ill-favoured 
 aspect will sufficiently protect. But, alas ! she 
 
 he protected, and the prey of a morbid sensibility, wrote in a tone 
 of cheerfulness, and with the most manly vigour. Johnson, on the 
 other hand, fearless among his cotemporaries, and the stern censor 
 of human actions, wrote upon the subject of religion with trembling 
 and dread, 
 
 N 2 
 
180 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 forgets that the same disfigurements which she 
 assumes to secure her from the dishonourable as- 
 sailant, may also prevent the advances of others, 
 who might be inclined to woo her on honourable 
 terms. If a woman be deficient in certain features 
 of mind and person, she must not look for a 
 husband, however unsullied her virtues — however 
 brilliant her talents. Let the gloomy moralist 
 say what he will, the case is analogous. The 
 Creator, when he designed that woman should be 
 loved, had a charitable consideration for our 
 nature in making her lovely ! — 
 
 u Let priests, then, be earnest but cheerful ; 
 
 Let maidens be virtuous but free ; 
 Then shall man be the happier and better. 
 
 And husbands a plenty shall be." 
 
 Such was the burthen of a favourite old ditty, 
 by the singing of which my old friend Zachary the 
 Odd, forfeited his last hold upon the good graces 
 of Miss Single and Master Simon. The old sea 
 captain paid it so high a compliment, as to allow 
 of its superseding the famed and cherished song 
 of < Tom Bowling.' 
 
 "Well," said he, growing rather drowsy, 
 " cheer up, if Zachary be gone, he has left us 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 181 
 
 something to talk about, and much to reckon on 
 in the hope of seeing him again. For my part, 
 I'm so used to long separations and unexpected 
 meetings, that, egad, if I had suffered myself 
 to be fretted by these things, I should have been 
 € a sheer hulk ? before now. If a sailor do not 
 acquire a— a comparative indifference to such 
 matters, I know not who will, Fve been voyaging," 
 said he, closing his eyes, and nodding under the 
 growing influence of an after dinner doze ; " Fve 
 been voyaging from port to port all my life, 
 and Pm now — I'm now fitting out—for a voyage 
 — for a — voyage — to — to — " 
 
 Sleep cut short the last word, or, at least, rendered 
 it so indistinct, that it was impossible to divine, 
 whether it were the Cape of Good Hope, Gravesend, 
 the Isle of Providence, or whether, indeed, any word 
 had been mentioned at all. I could not but reflect 
 upon what the old sailor had said, in allusion to 
 the indifference with which he could part even 
 from those who had some share in his heart : for 
 the expression of such a sentiment, in the ears of 
 many, would have sounded like an acknowledg- 
 ment of unfeelingness. Yet, it may be questioned, 
 whether a man who evinces no particular attach- 
 ment to individuals, is therefore deficient in 
 
182 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 feelings of sympathy and affection for his fellow 
 creatures. May there not be an economy of the 
 heart, as well as of the purse ? And is not the 
 comparative ease with which one man may part 
 from another, as likely to originate in a more libe- 
 ral disposition towards mankind generally, than in 
 a less degree of positive feeling ? Are we not 
 rather prone to indulge in the sadness of partings, 
 or the melancholy of retrospects, unmindful that 
 it is a sort of luxury in which the more suscep- 
 tible mind delights to revel; while it were no 
 less amiable, and more wholesome, to be chary of 
 such indulgence ? Strong attachments to indi- 
 viduals ? to our country, and to the spots of our 
 birth, are feelings which we would not be without, 
 but which are weaknesses nevertheless. We hear 
 of a man grudging the removal of an old post : 
 but it is doubtful whether such a person would ever 
 become a philanthropist. The denizen of a city 
 may be a most excellent man ; but a citizen of the 
 world is the greater of the two. Certain it is, 
 that we may give way too much to our most 
 amiable susceptibilities, overlooking the more 
 dignified duties of humanity. We form for our- 
 selves a pleasing but melancholy system of life ; 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 183 
 
 uncertainty being the centre — welcomes, regrets, 
 anticipations and reminiscences, the satellites. 
 
 Our party (including Miss Single) had re- 
 assembled at the tea table, ere the captain had 
 finished his nap. " There are a kind of men that 
 in their sleeps will mutter their affairs :" one of 
 this kind was old Careless : though, indeed, his 
 mutterings were not always confined to things con- 
 cerning himself alone, as we shall shortly see. He 
 had been, as I understood, unusually talkative 
 this evening. Sometimes he might be seen to 
 smile in his sleep ; and, on more than one occasion, 
 he evinced by broken words, and a kind of half 
 subdued laughter, that something was passing in 
 his mind, connected with our odd friend Zachary, 
 the maiden Betsey, and a pantry door. This, 
 however it might be insufficient to excite in us any 
 very evil opinion of the late chairman, was still 
 confirmatory of those suspicions which Mr. Simon 
 and Miss Single had expressed concerning his 
 familiarity in a certain quarter. " He ! — he ! — 
 he ! —sly dog,'' said he, evidently harping upon 
 the same subject, while the company remained as 
 silent as possible, in the hope of further elucida- 
 
184 THE BOA&DING HOUSE. 
 
 tion : "but, who'd a'thought of on his knees 
 
 to Miss— — V 
 
 (" Heyday !" said Mr. Vice, " we shall have 
 it all out— Hush !") 
 
 CG He ! — he ! — he ! — on his to Miss — — 
 
 Single !" 
 
 Judge of the confusion which followed ! Miss 
 Single uttered a faint scream : poor Simon looked, 
 as if that were more than even he could have anti- 
 cipated ; and the rest of the company unanimously 
 burst into a fit of laughter, which awoke the cap- 
 tain somewhat before his time. " What's the 
 joke ?" said he, gaping, and gradually opening his 
 eyes : " is my friend Zachary come back to make 
 us merry ?" 
 
 "Why, no, Sir/' said Miss Single, trembling 
 with agitation, " but you seem inclined to bring 
 him back to our memories in a very unpleasant 
 manner." 
 
 " What the d — l's the matter now ?" said the 
 captain ; " I've been asleep for this half hour ; 
 and if a man can't keep out of mischief when he's 
 asleep, why — all I can say is, that he's very much 
 to be pitied." 
 
 " You've been dreaming, captain," said one of 
 the company. 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 185 
 
 " How should you know that, Sir ?" said the 
 captain. 
 
 " You talk in your sleep,*" replied the former. 
 
 " Sleeping, or waking," said the captain, re- 
 lapsing into a doze, " I speak — nothing but the — 
 truth—" 
 
 A second burst of laughter again aroused the 
 captain, who said, that as he had let the cat out 
 of the bag, he could only plead in excuse the cir- 
 cumstances under which he had done so. 
 
 " But, Sir," said the infuriated Miss Single, 
 " I insist upon your immediately removing the 
 impression which you have made upon the minds 
 of the present company. Sir, it is false ! Mr. 
 Antimoan never went on his knees to me." 
 
 " Surely, Madam, I never said that he did." 
 
 w Sir, you said as much. You had been 
 muttering about Mr. Antimoan's doings with 
 Betsy in the pantry ; and, a few moments after, 
 you spoke of somebody on his knees to me." 
 
 " My dear Madam," said the captain, very 
 gravely, " during those few moments that you 
 speak of, as intervening between my mutterings 
 about Betsy and my mention of you, my imagina- 
 tion had got upon a different tack ; and, since you 
 wish me to be explanatory " 
 
186 THE BOARDING HOUSE. 
 
 " O, no Sir," said Miss Single, in a hurried 
 tone of dread, " 1 am perfectly satisfied — you 
 need not — in short — I am perfectly satisfied."" 
 
 " He !— he !— he !" said the captain, " are you 
 satisfied, Mr. Simon ?" 
 
 " Perfectly," said the puritan, blushing deeply. 
 
 The real state of the case was now apparent ; 
 and the parties, no longer able to bear the ridicule 
 which they had brought upon themselves, quitted 
 the boarding-house next morning, Mr. Simon, 
 however, was not permitted to depart without a 
 few salutary admonitions ; and, as he had before 
 knelt to the lady, he was now compelled to kneel 
 before the lady's brother. He was willing, he said, 
 to conclude the affair in honourable fashion ; but 
 the brother felt it more politic to compound for 
 his sister's happiness, by a small sacrifice of her 
 fame, and declined the enforcement of such com- 
 pensation : matters had not proceeded to extremity 
 in the first instance, and he was justly averse to a 
 botching match in the second. 
 
 The departure of Mr. Simon, and his quondam 
 lady-love, was a matter of no great deprivation to 
 the remaining boarders. The old captain, who 
 always weighed good with evil, thought that we 
 had lost a fair butt for ridicule on the one hand, 
 
THE BOARDING HOUSE. 187 
 
 and, on the other, got rid of a profitless pair, as 
 retarding to more generous mirth, as the lagging 
 merchant craft are to a convoy of swift sailing cut- 
 ters. " No matter," said he, " here is a bumper 
 to the health and success of all boon companions." 
 Having quaffed his sherry, he proceeded to sing, 
 in a tone somewhat approaching " childish 
 treble," the favourite old song of our odd friend, 
 Zachary : — 
 
 " Come, come, my good girls, don't be gloomy, 
 
 While manhood and mirth may be found ; 
 Nor you, my young comrades, be crusty, 
 
 While sweet smiles and beauty abound. 
 Nor speak I of beauty external, 
 
 Of smiles which a fortune would win ; 
 If ye covet the soft breast of woman, 
 Let it be for the heart that's within. 
 
 Let priests, then, be earnest but cheerful j 
 
 Let maidens be virtuous but free ; 
 Then shall men be the happier and better? 
 And husbands a plenty shall be. 
 
 " Ye husbands, whose wives truly love ye ; 
 
 Who've children to dance on your knees ; 
 Disdain not the pleasures of this world — 
 
 Ye merit no better than these. 
 When sadness may sometimes assail ye, 
 
 And losses and crosses ye bear ; 
 Though griev'd — yet be never complaining ; 
 
 Dejected — yet never despair. 
 Let priests, then," &c. 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 " Are we not here ?" said Trim, " and are we not gone ir, 
 a moment ?" 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE, 
 
 The odd gentleman (for he shall once more be 
 alluded to by his old name) had now been gone 
 more than a week ; and the company began to 
 look with impatience to the receipt of a letter, 
 which he had promised to send them. Day after 
 day passed, and yet the desired epistle came not. 
 What could be the meaning of it ? The odd 
 gentleman was noted as a keeper of his word. 
 Something had surely happened to him, and I 
 was commissioned to write him a letter. To this 
 I of course readily acceded, and dispatched 
 my communication accordingly. 
 
192 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 Great disappointment was occasioned, when, 
 by the return of post, no reply had arrived. As 
 we were sitting at the tea-table, however, on the 
 evening of the same day, a gentle knock was 
 heard at the street door ; and, a few moments 
 afterwards, I was called out of the room to some 
 one who had brought intelligence concerning the 
 object of our anxiety. 
 
 On entering the hall I perceived a decent, mid- 
 dle-aged man, dressed in a suit of mourning, and 
 evincing by the expression of his face — his sunken, 
 pallid cheek, and hollow eye — that he felt u that 
 within which passed show V — " Good God !" said 
 I, " what has happened ?" 
 
 The poor fellow could scarcely speak. 
 
 « 4 Walk this way," said I, leading him into a 
 small back parlour, " you seem to be the bearer 
 of melancholy intelligence. Do you bring news 
 from Mr. Antimoan ?" 
 
 " No, Sir," said the messenger, mournfully. 
 
 " News of him, then ?" 
 
 « Yes, Sir." 
 
 " What has happened to him ?" said I, with 
 eager and apprehensive anxiety. 
 
 " Nothing more can happen to him—in this 
 world," was the reply. 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 193 
 
 " Dead !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Buried yesterday/ 1 answered my informant 
 in a scarcely audible tone. 
 
 Corporal Trim's moralising was on the instant 
 active in my mind. " Are we not here? and are 
 we not gone — in a moment ?" But there is 
 something in the sudden intelligence of unexpected 
 dissolution, which prevents an immediate resig- 
 nation to sorrow. Horror and rage are quick in 
 their influence ; but grief may be for a time 
 much qualified by surprise. Death is so inconceiv- 
 able, to the living, that, notwithstanding its daily 
 occurrence, we still regard it with a species of in- 
 credulity ; and look upon it as though it were a 
 destroyer, which others have accidentally encoun- 
 tered, but which we may probably escape. Even 
 while looking upon a corpse, we have some im- 
 pression that the sight is a mockery ; and when 
 we are first made acquainted with the death of a 
 relation or beloved friend, we cannot help sus- 
 pecting some misinformation, some misconcep- 
 tion. We experience not the fulness of sorrow, 
 for we can scarcely credit the cause for it. 
 
 The death of the Odd Gentleman, however, like 
 all other deaths, proved no dream. During his 
 journey from Bath homeward, he caught a vio- 
 
 VOL. II. o 
 
194 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 lent cold ; and, in three or four days afterwards, 
 his existence was terminated. That portly figure 
 —that healthy cheek — that eye, ever sparkling 
 with benevolent jocundity — that hand, ever open 
 to friendship and charity — all were become " a 
 kneaded clod:" the " sensible warm motion," 
 changed into a cold and clammy stillness ! 
 
 The poor servant, my informer on this melan- 
 choly subject, did not the less regret the death 
 of his master, because he largely benefitted by his 
 will. Old Captain Careless, as usual, bore the 
 loss of his favorite acquaintance with much forti- 
 tude ; but the rest of the company were much 
 shocked ; nor did any inmate of Pierpont Board- 
 ing House evince more genuine grief than honest 
 Betsy, the waiting-maid. On my way to Lon- 
 don I visited his grave, and had the following 
 account of his last hours from the clergyman of 
 the parish : 
 
 " It was only, 1 ' said he, " two days before he 
 breathed his last that his physician pronounced 
 him in danger. He received the intimation of 
 his probable dissolution, not only with christian 
 resolution, but with cheerfulness; and imme- 
 diately requested that honest fellow who brought 
 you the first intelligence of his death, to take pen 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 19-5 
 
 and paper, and make memorandums of certain 
 little presents to be given to the numerous ser- 
 vants in the houses of his neighbouring friends. 
 The list was a large one. Not an honest Jack 
 Boots or humble scullion, whose speech or indus- 
 try had ever pleased him, but was remembered. 
 His will had been already made ; and having, 
 to the best of his memory, thought upon each 
 and every of his esteemed acquaintance, he put 
 up a silent prayer for all his dearest relations indi- 
 vidually, and, lastly, gave directions that I should 
 be admitted to his bed-room. Pale and shrunken 
 as he was, he still looked and spoke with almost 
 his usual cheerfulness. Not a murmur of com- 
 plaint was once heard —not an attempt to move 
 pity was observable. On the contrary, it seemed 
 his aim to appease solicitude, and to impress his 
 affected visitors with the idea, that the catas- 
 trophe about to happen was 6 a consummation 
 devoutly to be wished.*' 
 
 " ' What a life of happiness have I lived : — till 
 now a stranger to disease, and wholly unac- 
 quainted with misfortune. Wherefore should I 
 live to grow old— to suffer in decrepitude, and 
 to be a burthen to others by my capriciousness 
 o 2 
 
196 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 and the constant and irremediable complaints of 
 age ?' 
 
 66 He had just uttered the foregoing ejaculation, 
 when, with some other relations, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Brightley, (the latter a favourite cousin, to whom 
 you may have heard him allude as his first and 
 only love,) arrived. The intelligence of their pre- 
 sence greatly affected him. 6 My dear Sir/ said 
 he, c let me see Mr. Frank Brightley first. I 
 would have a few words with him, ere my cousin 
 — my dear Phoebe, comes up stairs.** 
 
 " When Brightley entered the room, my poor 
 friend gave way to tears, and I prepared to with- 
 draw ; but he requested me to remain, saying, c he 
 was neither ashamed of my seeing him weep, nor 
 desirous that I should be ignorant of any thing he 
 had to say." 
 
 " 6 Frank,' said he, ' mistake not these tears 
 for marks of sorrow, which are but the overflow- 
 ings of a joyful heart. I wish, ere I see Phoebe, 
 to thank you for your behaviour to her as a hus- 
 band. You have loved her not less than I had 
 done, and have perhaps deserved her better. I 
 have prayed to God for your happiness, and have 
 remembered ye in my will. My reverend friend 
 here and yourself, I have appointed my executors, 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 197 
 
 not doubting but you will see every thing pro- 
 perly settled. — Wait a few moments There, I 
 
 have relieved my heart of its fulness, and am now 
 prepared to see my cousin Phoebe.'' 
 
 M He received her with a smiling welcome ; but 
 she, unable to echo his cheerfulness, laid her fore- 
 head on his extended hand and sobbed aloud. Her 
 husband was scarcely less affected ; and for my 
 own part, I may say with truth, that my heart 
 was strained to a most painful degree. The dying 
 man alone retained his composure, and looked 
 upon his weeping relatives with compassionate 
 expression : — 
 
 " ' My dearest Phoebe,^ said he, 6 cheer up. I 
 dare say I shall reach heaven in safety, for I have 
 ever trusted in my Redeemer, and am confident in 
 the mercy of Heaven. I shall get there safely, 
 my dear coz, and will bespeak a happy spot for 
 thee and thy Frank. And, Sir,' he continued, ad- 
 dressing his words to me, ' do not think ill of 
 me, as wanting a proper sense of self-demerit, if 
 I acknowledge no very great depression at the 
 idea of death. Were it the pleasure of God that 
 my life should be prolonged, I should certainly 
 endeavour to render it more profitable to the world 
 than I fear it has been, and would bring myself to 
 
IBB DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 think more frequently on serious subjects ; but, if 
 it has not been what it should, it has surely been 
 much better than it might have appeared, had I 
 fallen into bad company after a neglected education. 
 Wine have I quaffed in fair measure, and many a 
 cherry lip (if I may now allude to such matters) 
 have I kissed ; but I hope I have never insulted 
 an honest heart nor injured a fair one. It has been 
 no less a part of my religion not to think the 
 world despicable, than it now is to leave it with- 
 out regret. The pleasures of life I have ever re- 
 ceived with gratitude, and my confidence in the 
 promises of Heaven enables me to resign them 
 with readiness.'' 
 
 " He paused in a state of exhaustion, but his at- 
 tendants remained uncomforted ; for, the gene- 
 rosity, the nobleness, of his dying sentiments, only 
 rendered them more sensible of the loss they were 
 about to sustain. 
 
 " < Frank,' said he, observing his continued grief, 
 * you are fond of Shakspeare : — 
 
 " 6 If I do lose life, I do lose a thing 
 
 That none but fools would keep : a breath it is 
 
 Servile to every skiey influence. * * * 
 
 * * * Let ine not live 
 After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff 
 
DEATH AND THE GItAVE. 199 
 
 Of younger spirits ; and, when old and rich, 
 To have nor heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, 
 To make my riches pleasant.' n 
 
 [" O, the abomination !" some puritan may ex- 
 claim, " of a man's quoting Shakspeare on his 
 death-bed !" Thou fool ! who art unable to find 
 good in any thing but what thy narrow-minded 
 bigotry has adopted — who art incapable of seeing 
 that the true spirit of divinity is much more appa- 
 rent in some works, denominated ' profane/ than 
 in the melancholy maudlin productions of many 
 who are received by thee as professors of all that 
 is dignified and divine —out upon thee !] 
 
 " After his relations had remained with him some 
 time, he gave up his mind to prayer and religious 
 meditations; and I continued with him till the 
 close of the day, when it was the custom for 
 the physician to visit him. He would only 
 suffer an old nurse to sit up with him through 
 the night, and was heard frequently to say, that 
 he had no uncomfortable apprehensions except 
 for the health of Phoebe and her husband, which 
 he feared would suffer from their protracted 
 sorrow. 
 
 u On one occasion, when I remarked with plea- 
 sure upon his unimpaired cheerfulness, he said, 
 
200 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 " ' It is almost invariably found, that persons 
 who give way to extravagant delights, feel 
 at times a comparative depression. I may now, 
 as experience warrants, recommend, that, while 
 people never affect what they feel not, they may 
 never evince all they feel. I was by nature pos- 
 sessed of an uncommon flow of animal spirits ; but, 
 seeing the ill effects of unbridled mirth in my 
 father, who, when oppressed by sickness, was sorely 
 dejected in spirit, I resolved on economizing my 
 hilarity, — on riding my horse tight on the rein. 
 As you see, Sir, he has kept up an uninterrupted 
 trot through a course of fifty-four years, is 
 nearly as fresh as when I started, and I am now 
 about comfortably to dismount at the sign of 
 the grave, where I shall take up my rest during 
 the intervening night Hwixt this and eternity.'' 
 
 " I have frequently attended the dying," conti- 
 nued my informant, " but never saw death en- 
 countered with more decency, or with so much 
 cheerfulness. What he said, therefore, in relation 
 to the policy of restraining without repressing our 
 spirits — of being borne along instead of being 
 borne down by them — was the more impressive. 
 c Yes, 1 said he with a smile which seemed like an 
 apology for such a remark at such a moment — 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 201 
 
 * yes, ever while you live, ride your mare with a 
 curb, and drink your champaign still.' 
 
 "A commentary on such advice is scarcely needed. 
 The unbridled mare may chance to break one's 
 neck ; and a man who quaffs the wine in its effer- 
 vescent state, cannot enjoy its true flavour. 
 
 " On the evening before he died, (the physician 
 having intimated the improbability of his out- 
 living the night,) he said, among other things, to 
 his weeping relatives, ' Do not grieve, my dearest 
 friends ; or, at least, grieve not when I am dead ; 
 for my ghost will be a merry ghost, and will 
 never visit you while you continue to mourn. I 
 desire not that my grave should be planted with 
 the cypress, nor that it should be digged beneath 
 the gloomy shade of the yew-tree. I have lived 
 most happily : I die contentedly ; and I would that 
 my memory might be a cheerful guest in the 
 bosoms of all who knew me. It is fit I should be 
 interred in the church-yard ; else, I could be well 
 content to lie under the sward of the village 
 green; so that— if departed spirits can hear — 
 mine might be cheered by the peasant's song and 
 rustic roundelay. Yet, be sure you place me in the 
 sunshine, and let no melancholy epitaph arrest its 
 cheerfulness There is a little elevated bed of 
 
202 DEATH AND THE GJtAVE. 
 
 earth in one corner of the church-yard, where I 
 have often seen the little children, as they revelled 
 
 in the morning sun ah, bless them ! bless 
 
 them P The tears now filled his waning and 
 benevolent eye. He appeared to muse for some 
 minutes, till lost in thought, then suddenly at- 
 tempted to resume his discourse : — ' What was I 
 saying F said he. 
 
 " ' The spot you have mentioned/ I replied, 
 6 as the situation of your grave, shall be cer- 
 tainly assigned to you.** 
 
 " ' Ah — thank you — thank you P he replied, 
 squeezing my hand. 
 
 " He retained his faculties to the last, constantly 
 endeavouring to allay the sorrows of his friends 
 around him. ' I feel,** said he, ' as a comfort, what 
 I have oftentimes regretted as a misfortune — I 
 mean my isolated state of life. I have neither wife 
 nor children — none who can feel my loss to be 
 more than a mere deprivation of companionship. 
 At the same time, while my death will 'break 
 asunder no tie of very near relationship, I have 
 the happiness of knowing that I shall not leave the 
 world unremembered — unesteemed. God bless 
 you all P 
 
 " During the night he rapidly declined ; and it 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 203 
 
 was evident to all, when we visited him at a very 
 early hour on the following day, that he had not 
 long to live. It was a lovely morning ; and the 
 curtains at the foot of his bed being partly with- 
 drawn for some purpose by the physician, his eye 
 appeared to encounter the clear blue sky with pe- 
 culiar gratification. We were now all looking to 
 his momentary dissolution ; for his speech had 
 almost forsaken him, and he breathed as if with 
 some difficulty. His hands were extended right 
 and left on the counterpane. I had hold of the 
 one, Brightley of the other. He signified a wish 
 that his head should be raised ; and it was now 
 supported on the arm of Mrs. Brightley, who 
 watched his dying breath as though she would 
 imbibe it. His breathing became yet more diffi- 
 cult. ' The window V said he—' open it.' 
 
 " The sash was silently raised — the curtain slight- 
 ly waved in the morning breeze — the dying man ? 
 with a smile of gratitude, enjoyed its freshness in 
 one long-drawn breath ; and, the next moment^ 
 with a gentle exhalation, resigned the world for 
 
 ever 
 
 v> 
 
 The clergyman's interesting narrative being^ 
 
204 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 ended, he took me to see the grave. As we en- 
 tered the churchyard, the shrill voices of several 
 children at play drew my attention towards an 
 opposite corner of the ground, somewhat elevated 
 above the site of the church, and forming a sort of 
 terrace or natural platform, which commanded a 
 pleasing and extensive view over the adjacent 
 country. " There," said my companion, " I need 
 scarcely point out to you the grave of our friend. 
 It would appear as if, on every fine day, his spirit 
 held its levee. Rarely do I enter the churchyard 
 on such a morning, without seeing in the same 
 place much such another party as we now observe. 
 There is not a child in the village, from two to 
 ten years old, that he has not kissed ' I know not 
 how oft ;' nor a good tempered nursery maid, that 
 he has not gratified with some kindness, or flat- 
 tered with some innocent compliment. The chil- 
 dren revel upon his grassy shroud, while their 
 maiden guardians meditate upon it ; nor were the 
 feelings of Hamlet, when commenting on the skull 
 of Yorick, more truly imbued with the delicious 
 melancholy of reminiscence, than are the hearts of 
 the many who visit the grave of Zachary , to imbibe 
 the geniality of his spirit, and drop a tear — less of 
 regret than of affection — to his memory H 
 
DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 205 
 
 As we approached the spot, my breast beat 
 high, nor would my warmest feelings be restrained, 
 Here was a sight, not less winning to the painter 
 than exciting to the moralist. The three marble 
 graces of antiquity, may be matchless in symme- 
 try ; but, in sentiment, they were more than 
 realized in the group of three young nursery 
 girls, who, unmindful of the gambols of their in- 
 fantine charges, listened with " serious inclination" 
 to the words of the old sexton. Seated on the 
 parapet of a low wall, and folding his arms 
 upon the handle of his spade, he was telling 
 them of the much good Zachary had done, 
 and of the more he would have done ; and 
 how his heart thrilled when he threw the first 
 handful of dirt upon the coffin of his old benefac- 
 tor, as though the corpse had said to him, " Is this 
 all I can obtain in return for the many benefits I 
 have rendered you ? Has Christmas ever passed 
 without my supplying you with its cheer ? Cold, 
 hungry, and sick, I have clothed, fed, and re- 
 lieved you ; and all you now do in repayment, is 
 to dig my grave, and throw dust upon my 
 
 dust r 
 
 " I never thought to rob him,'" said the sexton, 
 
206 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 " but I did rob him at last ; for this nail (holding 
 up a small brass-headed nail,) was loose in the 
 lid of his coffin, and I stole it." 
 
 " This !" exclaimed one of his fair listeners, 
 taking it between her fingers : — 
 
 " Ay," said the sexton, continuing rudely to 
 moralize on the influence of association, " to 
 think now," said he, " how we can look upon a 
 nail which, some four weeks gone, was in Sam 
 Puttobed's shop, and thought no more on than 
 one of the hobnails in my shoe." The girls each 
 looked at it in turn, and then gave it back to the 
 old sexton as a thing to be valued. And where- 
 fore not ? Let those, who regard with interest 
 the ruin of an old Roman senate house, answer 
 the question. The nail had as much to do with 
 Zachary, as the ruin with Cicero, or any other he 
 of ancient popularity and present fame. But 
 association is one of the principal promoters of 
 enjoyment. It is, in the moral, what magnetism 
 is in the natural world. The iron, touched by 
 the loadstone, is iron still — the same in shape, 
 size, and weight — but, how increased in value by 
 its communicated polarity ! 
 
 The situation of Zachary 's grave has been de- 
 
DEATH AND THE GItxWE. 207 
 
 scribed. His remains lie beneath an oblong slab 
 of marble, on which is inscribed the following : 
 
 " If Honesty, without a name 
 
 Gilt with hereditary fame ; 
 
 If Charity in deed and word, 
 
 Which nought requires — will all afford ; 
 
 If wit and mental cheerfulness, 
 
 Heightening sweet Virtue's loveliness ; 
 
 If Moral Worth, which cannot pray 
 
 On Sunday — sin till Saturday ; 
 
 More prone to honesty throughout, 
 
 Than giv'n at times to be devout — 
 
 To practise philanthropic acts, 
 
 Than dwell on apostolic facts : 
 
 If to such virtues may be giv'n, 
 
 Or praise on Earth, or hope in Heav'n ; 
 
 He rests below, who, when above, 
 
 Had all these virtues — all men's love. 
 
 Then bless his name, who here doth lie ; 
 
 Who liv'd to smile, and smil'd to die : — 
 
 A merry man was Zachary !" 
 
 " At any hour," concluded my reverend inform- 
 ant, " when the weather is bright, you may behold 
 the votaries of good will and humour, repairing 
 (like pilgrims) to the shrine of the deceased fa- 
 vourite ; and more than once, on a fine sunny 
 afternoon, have I seen a party of honest peasants, 
 
208 DEATH AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 who, on the completion of their daily labours, 
 have gone thither, to moralize on the impartiality 
 of death, and whiff their tobacco over the grave of 
 Zachary." 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 " Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe. 
 Great love, some legacies*" 
 
 Donne. 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 The following is extracted from the Odd Gentle- 
 man's "Last Will and Testament," which, commen- 
 cing in the usual legal fashion, proceeds to specify 
 numerous gifts, legacies, &c. &c, including an an- 
 nuity of fifty pounds to each of the four children 
 of " his dear cousin Phoebe, now Mrs. Frank 
 Brightly :" — also one hundred pounds a year to 
 the said Phoebe Brightly, " with the proviso that, 
 while she may remain mistress of her own house, she 
 shall duly and liberally provide suitable and suffi- 
 cient fare, with all things appertinent, as by good 
 old custom established, for the several festivals of 
 p 2 
 
212 THE WILL. 
 
 Twelfth Day, Shrove Tuesday, Michaelmas, and 
 Christmas ; in consideration of the expense atten- 
 dant upon which (viz. such as may be incurred in 
 the provision of cakes, characters, pancakes, geese, 
 musicians, magic lanterns, snap-dragons, yule 
 logs, and mistletoe), ten pounds per annum are 
 added." After various matters relating to the dis- 
 posal of his money and effects, the will proceeds as 
 follows : 
 
 u To my good friend and cousin, Frank Bright- 
 ly, husband of the above named Phoebe, my cor- 
 dial thanks for his affectionate conduct to the in- 
 dividual in whose love he honourably supplanted 
 me, with many earnest hopes for his continued 
 happiness. 
 
 " To my dearly beloved Phoebe aforesaid, many 
 fond regrets for the happiness I lost in losing her, 
 and many joyful congratulations on her good for- 
 tune in gaining the love of one so worthy her 
 affections." 
 
 " I bequeath the world in general my good 
 will and grateful acknowledgments for the many 
 truly happy hours which it has afforded me ; and, 
 to men, and classes of men, in particular, my re- 
 
THE WILL, 213 
 
 commendations, in manner following, that is to 
 say:— 
 
 " To the King (God bless him !) — that he con- 
 sider himself — not the apex of a pyramid, whose 
 gradations swell downward, under the denomina- 
 tions of lords, commons, clergy, gentry, &c. — but 
 as a brilliant in the clasp of a chain-collar, the 
 links of which are represented in the various 
 classes of a people : so shall he immediately con- 
 nect the extreme links, noble and plebeian ; check- 
 ing the ' fantastic tricks' of the one, and curbing 
 the ' saucy rudeness** of the other. 
 
 " To the Lords hereditary, a due respect for 
 elective wisdom : also a grateful enjoyment of the 
 benefits which they only derive from the noble 
 deeds of their ancestors, whose honours should ra- 
 ther stimulate their deserts than excite their 
 pride. 
 
 " To the Commons elected, a proper sense of 
 their individual duty and of their collective dig- 
 nity : that they ever look with fondness upon the 
 rights of the people, and with jealousy upon the 
 natural desire of all men (the best of princes in- 
 cluded), to increase their power : that they reject 
 all distinction of Whig and Tory, considering 
 
2J4 THE WILL. 
 
 < such names as only used to cloak the knaves of 
 both parties.' 
 
 " To the Clergy 5 a constant perusal of the fifth 
 chapter of Saint Matthew : the recollection, that 
 pride in a churchman is no less objectionable than 
 servility in a statesman ; and that an exclusive 
 bigotry towards the religion in which we are born, 
 is, very likely, nothing more than an evidence 
 to the force of custom and education. 
 
 66 To the Sailor or Soldier, the character of An- 
 drew Fletcher, who would lose his life readily to 
 serve his country ; but would not do a base thing 
 to save it. 
 
 " Convinced that it is from overstrained notions 
 of dignity, and false ideas of respectability, that 
 our affections become warped, and our conduct to 
 one another neither calculated to produce happi- 
 ness nor virtue, I recommend to the great body of 
 the Gentry a little more proneness to consider ho- 
 nesty the only respectable, and talent the most 
 admirable thing in a man's character : that they 
 consider n© profession as disreputable which de- 
 pends not on the existence of vice : that they de- 
 spise no calling which requires intellectual attain- 
 ment ; nor consider any means degrading, the issue 
 of which they readily adopt : that they confound 
 
THE WILL. 215 
 
 not use with abuse ; and that they rather seek to 
 reform the evil than to reject the system : that 
 they look not on simplicity as folly ; but consider 
 that many of the feelings of infancy might remain 
 without prejudice to the dignity of manhood : 
 that they equally oppose cant and Catholicism ; the 
 inflated notions of the merely imaginative, and the 
 low gro veilings of the matter o** fact; the slang of the 
 horse-jockey, and the pedantry of the classic : that 
 they estimate things voluntary before things of 
 course ; preferring the loyalty of a country squire 
 to the allegiance of a government clerk ; and the 
 love of friendship to the dotage of consanguinity : 
 that they see the joke before they laugh at it ; 
 and pay their debts before they say their prayers : 
 that they peruse their bible for the love of heaven, 
 and study Shakspeare for the love of nature and 
 humanity. 
 
 66 To People in genera 1 , I leave my congratula- 
 tions in respect to their having lived later than 
 their grandfathers, whereby they are enabled truly 
 to appreciate the progressive improvements of 
 time and experience. Let them, however, there- 
 with, receive my earnest injunctions, that they 
 admit of no modern innovations which have a ten- 
 dency to destroy simplicity or impoverish mirth : 
 
216 THE WILL. 
 
 but, while they oppose the tyrannical aggressions 
 of sophisticated manner s, let them rejoice at the 
 present emancipation of their heads from hairy 
 castles, fortified with powder and pomatum. 
 
 " To John Bull, individually, I bequeath my 
 discrimination, trusting, that it may aid him not 
 less in the pursuit of his pleasure than in the dis^ 
 pensation of his patronage. If he well exert it, 
 he will discover, that there is something to be seen 
 in his own country, before he talks of nothing but 
 the banks of the Rhine, the palaces of Genoa, and 
 the Bay of Naples. It may bring him to acknow- 
 ledge that we have in England noble buildings, 
 beautiful rivers, and fine bays, as well as bull- 
 dogs, race-horses, and prize-boxers. It may in- 
 duce him to pay his poor-rates, and shoemaker's 
 bill, with as much alacrity as he now exhibits in 
 satisfying the exorbitance of a Parisian dancer, or 
 an Italian opera singer. It may urge him to give 
 the lie to Stephano, who asserts, that an English- 
 man withholds his charity from ' lame beggars/ 
 that he may satisfy his thirst for beholding ' dead 
 Indian s."* 
 
 " Averse to the usual mode of c worldlings,' who 
 give 6 their sum of more to that which hath too 
 much,' I bequeath whatever portion of the under- 
 
THE WILL. 217 
 
 mentioned virtues, &c, I may possess, in manner 
 following ; that is to say : — 
 
 u To Philosophers, my common sense : 
 
 " To Wits, my feeling : 
 
 " To Philanthropists, my ambition : 
 
 " To Merry- Andrews, my cheerfulness : 
 
 " To Rope-dancers, my rheumatism : 
 
 u To Poets, my prudence : 
 
 " To Authors, my indifference : 
 
 " To Critics, my imagination: 
 
 " To Readers, my patience : 
 
 " To Members of the Fine Arts, my modesty. 
 
 " To Scientific men, my pride : 
 
 " To Duellists, my honour : 
 
 u To Civil Officers, my civility : 
 
 " To Lawyers, my brevity : 
 
 "To Tavern-keepers, my moderation : 
 
 " To Whist-players, my temper : 
 
 " To Travellers, my taciturnity : 
 
 " To Sectarians, my tolerance : 
 
 " To Deists, my humility : 
 
 " To Politicians, my liberality : 
 
 " To Ministers of Justice, my sense of equity : 
 
 " To Pick-pockets, my politeness : 
 
 
218 THE WILL. 
 
 " To Scandal-mongers, my asthma : 
 
 " To Courtiers, my conscience : 
 
 " To Editors, my egro-tism : 
 
 " To Shoe-makers, my punctuality : 
 
 "To Candle-snuffers, my steadiness : 
 
 " To Lamp-lighters, my alacrity : 
 
 " To the Laureate, my independence : 
 
 " To Liars, my memory : 
 
 " To the Single, my susceptibility : 
 
 " To the Married, my forbearance : 
 
 " To Prudes, my passions. 
 
 6i All former bequests, being fully answered, I 
 reckon upon an overplus of between one and two 
 hundred pounds, to be disposed of as follows : — 
 
 " Unto such Old Maids in this village, as shall 
 allow, that they have, at any time, been agree- 
 able to marriage, the sum of five pounds. 
 
 " Likewise, unto such as have never hesitated 
 to avow their age, the sum of five pounds. 
 
 " Also, unto such Old Maids in the said village, 
 as will frankly avow that they have never received 
 an offer, the sum of ten pounds. 
 
 " Likewise, unto such as shall acknowledge 
 that they have loved without return, the sum of 
 fifteen pounds. 
 
THE WILL. 219 
 
 " And, further, unto such as may have refused 
 an offer, eligible on the score of rank and fortune, 
 the sum of twenty pounds. 
 
 " Any residue existing, after the payment of all 
 claimants upon the sum before stated, as being 
 6 an overplus of between one and two hundred 
 pounds/ to be applied to the benefit of the charity 
 school, for which I have therefore made no further 
 provision. 
 
 " To such Old Bachelors, as shall prove, to the 
 satisfaction of my executors, that they have re- 
 mained single against their will, I bequeath my 
 sympathy. To any others I have nothing to say ; 
 except that it were well in them to make their 
 peace either with perverted nature or offended 
 propriety. 
 
 " Finally — unto Heaven I commend my soul, 
 &c. &c. &c. &c. 
 
 (Signed) " Zachary Antimoan." 
 
AN 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO JULIA. 
 
 " Man, the lawless libertine, may rove 
 Free and unquestioned in the paths of love ; 
 But Woman, (sense and nature's easy fool !) 
 If poor, weak Woman swerve from nature's rule, 
 Ruin ensues, reproach, and endless shame, 
 And one false step entirely damns her fame !" 
 
 Howe. 
 
AN 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO JULIA. 
 
 It is the custom with most authors to be liberal 
 in compliment, whenever they touch upon that 
 most touching of subjects — Woman. It has been 
 even allowed, that she possesses the virtues of man 
 in a greater degree, together with other virtues 
 which are said to be her's exclusively. < With all 
 my heart ; I'll not be out of fashion ;' 111 not be 
 ungallant. — Granted, then, that woman is all in all 
 to us; — aye, to us: but what is she to herself? 
 Her civil enmity is astonishing ! 
 
 It w r ould seem indeed a decree of nature, that 
 women should not have those kindly feelings 
 
224 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 towards one another, which are mutually enter- 
 tained by men; for we rarely (if ever) see in- 
 stances of their forming such lasting bonds of 
 friendship. That they may possess a greater sum 
 total of affection in their bosoms, is very possible ; 
 it is only a pity they should be so prodigal of it 
 to our sex, and so chary of it in regard to their 
 own. It is surprising how they will overlook in 
 US} and magnify among themselves. How lenient, 
 how indulgent, how blind are they to our demerits 
 in some respects : how scrutinizing, how severe, 
 how bitter in every respect, when they allude to the 
 failings of their kind. Many a woman will attach 
 herself to a reprobate, and yet withhold her charity 
 from a fallen sister. 
 
 It may be said, that women are duped by the 
 censoriousness they assume, inasmuch as it rather 
 answers our purpose than theirs. They would ob- 
 tain man's favour by affecting a contempt for female 
 frailty, unmindful that what they denounce as 
 beneath solicitude, is a facility of which men will 
 therefore the more readily avail themselves, to the 
 unquestionable disadvantage of the virtuous fair. 
 Certainly, men will not complain of the too great 
 license allowed them. Neither will they interfere 
 with a system so favourable to self-indulgence, as 
 
TO JULIA* 225 
 
 that which permits them to solicit with impunity, 
 and renders the concession of women, not a la- 
 mentable misfortune, but an indelible disgrace. 
 
 Suppose that the correct of the softer sex, instead 
 of abusing the frailty of their fair neighbours, 
 were to bestow their abhorrence upon those who 
 take advantage of it ? How would many of your 
 honourable suitors look, if their mistresses were to 
 require them to disavow that they ever sued other 
 women in dishonourable fashion ? What discom- 
 fiture would others experience, if the ladies of their 
 love were to withhold all favour from them, till 
 the victims of their selfishness had received recom- 
 pense for their wrongs ? 
 
 The conduct of one sex is dependant in a very 
 great measure on the wishes and feelings of the 
 other : but women seem to be little aware, that, 
 ere men promised obedience to what might be re- 
 quired of them, they had a politic regard for their 
 selfish desires, in taking good care that nothing 
 should be demanded but what was agreeable. By 
 some specious sophistry, women were taught to 
 consider, that nothing so truly became a man, as a 
 certain virtue, ycleped ' courage.' This courage, 
 however, w r as not settled to include the ' bravery' 
 which prompts a man to 
 
 VOL. II. Q 
 
226 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 " War against his own affections, 
 And the huge army of the world's desires;" 
 
 but it was, on the contrary, appointed to consist 
 of arrogance, combined with foolhardiness — a 
 most accommodating virtue, leaving its professors 
 to be generous at will, or selfish at pleasure. 
 The ladies, however, required nothing more ; and 
 nothing less has been offered. 
 
 As courage, then, is the quality most admirable 
 in man, so chastity has been pronounced the only 
 genuine honour of woman. The premium upon 
 her title to respectability is an immaculate person, 
 a fame without suspicion. With an amiable 
 regard to virtue, abstractedly considered, and a 
 blindness to the cunning of man, she signed the 
 deed of enforcement, without requiring a single 
 qualification. It is the immense duty on women's 
 fair repute that affords the revenue by which the 
 profligacy of men is supported : for it is an impo- 
 sition so extravagant, and demands such heavy 
 draughts on self-denial, that few are able to meet 
 it, who exceed the prodigality of unmasking their 
 beauties to the moon. 
 
 Of course it would not have answered the pur- 
 poses of men to establish a gradation of virtue and 
 criminality ; because, in that case, there would 
 
TO JULIA. 227 
 
 have been some fellow-feeling, even between the 
 most correct and the most abandoned, Women, 
 then, instead of being merely proud of their 
 virtue, would have presumed upon it, as au- 
 thorising them to look into the cause of their fallen 
 sisters' abandonment. It was therefore a. prudent 
 act to cut off all intermediate links of sympathy ; 
 to establish it as a decree, that woman should be 
 all goodness, or wholly unworthy ; and that as the 
 subsistence of profligacy was to be dependant on 
 the frailty of women in general, the security of 
 the profligate should be grounded on the pride of 
 women in particular. 
 
 Now, the pride of people is often proportioned 
 to the taxes they pay for things of mere ornament ; 
 and, as chastity is the brightest ornament of the 
 female character — heavily taxed, and only con- 
 ferring a negative benefit — it would be hard 5 in- 
 deed, were it not allowed to authorise the pride 
 of its possessor. Custom enforces woman to main- 
 tain her propriety, as fashion compels a poor 
 knight to keep his carriage. The knight forfeits 
 many common necessaries and all ease, to pay his 
 coachman and maintain his equipage. What en- 
 joyment can he therefore have, except in looking 
 down upon his inferiors in rank ? The pain he 
 Q 2 
 
228 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 endures in supporting his pomp, is ill calculated to 
 make him pity the fallen state of those who have 
 forfeited their carriages for comforts ; and the only- 
 reward of his dignity is their degradation. I 
 institute no comparison between Miss A.'s honour 
 and Sir J. B.'s carriage. The one is worth keeping, 
 and the other not. It is most certain, however, 
 that the lady has no more right to despise her 
 fallen sister, than the knight has to contemn his 
 humble neighbour. The former should pity the 
 misfortune of tempted frailty, and the latter 
 ridicule the absurdities of fashion. 
 
 The severity of married women against the 
 errors of their sex is imputable chiefly to a want 
 of consideration. The spinsters anger would be 
 justifiable, if directed towards the really offending 
 party. But, in fact, they confound vice with its 
 victims. They pour forth their wrath upon the 
 melancholy sufferer, instead of expending it upon 
 the mischievous author of her suffering. If an 
 unfortunate creature has evinced her laxity in 
 yielding to the empoisoned fascinations of a seducer, 
 the lady of repute scarcely evinces less in after- 
 wards giving him her countenance. But, alas ! 
 "'tis just the fashion, as Jacques says ; worldlings 
 ever give " their sum of more to that which hath 
 
TO JULIA, 229 
 
 too much." The self-indulger, man, is seconded 
 by the indulgence of woman, while the ' broken 
 bankrupt' has not even her pity ! Ill natured folks 
 say, that an overstrained sense of propriety origi- 
 nates in feelings of spleen, rather than of virtue : 
 that people are sometimes one thing, only because 
 they have not been solicited to be another ; and 
 that if a want of attraction has not been protective, 
 a coldness of feeling has. At all events, they who 
 have frequently combatted temptation will be 
 found the more indulgent, as prize fighters are 
 proverbially mild and forbearing in quarrel. 
 
 Surely the present economy of morals in 
 England is bad. Looking at women as the 
 guardians of propriety (which they profess to be), 
 we cannot but observe by how great a loss of 
 charity and humility the state of rectitude is 
 maintained. They save pound-notes (that is, they 
 keep them unchanged) and squander pounds'' worth 
 of pence. No doubt much purity is preserved ; 
 but by what allowances for scandal in women, and 
 for libertinism in men ! 
 
 The present system is one of delicacy. Ladies 
 are to be keenly scrutinizing in the ways of 
 " naughty women," and to exhibit a delightfully 
 ignorant simplicity in respect to the naughty ways 
 
230 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 of men. The policy of this it requires no very 
 great sagacity to discover. Were spinsters avow- 
 edly aware of man's improprieties, they would 
 only prove by their leniency thereto, as compared 
 with their severity towards the failings of their 
 sex, that, however badly they might think of 
 a woman without virtue, they meditated still 
 more fearfully on the possibility of their remaining 
 without husbands ; and, therefore, in respect to the 
 gentlemen, are content to make the best of a bad 
 helpmate. Candour, however, would, after all, 
 prove the right policy. If women must scrutinize, 
 let them demand from every wooer an account 
 of his bachelorship. Let them look after the 
 virtue of men, and their own virtue will take 
 care of itself. Let them also be careful lest 
 their aversion to impropriety be considered ana- 
 logous to canine madness, which causes in the suf- 
 ferer an abhorrence for that in the want of which 
 the disease originated. 
 
 It is in their silence upon the subject of man's 
 lawlessness that women shew themselves the second 
 in creation. " They are amiss, and do not know 
 it."" They talk of rigid propriety, as though it 
 were a grace of their adoption. They wear the 
 ornaments of purity, as if they were merely honour- 
 
TO JULIA. 231 
 
 able. Honourable they are : but they are badges 
 of slavery nevertheless. Man, the tyrant sen- 
 sualist, has cheated them. He has imposed upon 
 them laws which he scorns to obey; and has, 
 somehow, induced them to look upon his greater 
 facility of accomplishing and concealing his 
 practices, as a peculiar privilege, instead of a 
 despicable advantage. He has given a plaything 
 to woman's pride, and obtained a license for his 
 own passions. Feeling his propensity to indulge, 
 he made forbearance and self-denial exclusively 
 female virtues ; and established, that what in 
 woman should be damnable guilt, in man should 
 be pardonable gallantry. Gracious heaven ! can 
 honour suffer itself to be thus perverted ? Can 
 women be virtuous, and yet uncharitable ? If the 
 seduced merits no hope in this world, what may 
 the seducer hope in the next ? 
 
 There is an admired epitaph : — c ' The sons were 
 all brave, and the daughters virtuous." What are 
 we to understand by this ? — That a want of virtue 
 is incompatible with bravery ? Or is it a mere 
 colouring, on a somewhat defective surface ? We 
 have a conclusive assertion in regard to the daugh- 
 ters; but the thorough character of the sons is 
 open to speculation. It was a cunning policy 
 
232 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 which first separated bravery from the other 
 virtues ; such an one as actuates certain people 
 who divide religion from morality. The epitaph 
 above quoted requires explanation : the following 
 were better understood : 
 
 <( The Sons were brave ; 
 The Daughters chaste ; 
 In act and feeling 
 
 All 
 Were honourable.'* 
 
 Let sophistry do its worst; but it will never 
 subvert the monarchy of truth. Any attempt 
 to make the virtues independent of one another is 
 a treason against religion. Women, therefore, 
 who overlook the laxity of men, are guilty of a 
 laxity themselves. Let them exact corresponding 
 exactions — making some allowances. Virtue is 
 not a mere bodice, to be worn by the fair sex 
 only ; neither is it a garment of different ma- 
 terial ; nor a cloak, to be lined internally for the 
 comfort of man, and bedizened externally for the 
 pride of woman. Let the latter be generous as 
 well as chaste, and the former will be just as well 
 as brave. 
 
 Next to the want of charity which women 
 exhibit, in giving no indulgence to the fallen of 
 
TO JULIA. 233 
 
 their own sex, is to be remarked their want of 
 discrimination in censuring ours ; for, of course, 
 we do not wholly escape their severity. If our 
 libertinism be glaring — if it thrust itself upon 
 their notice, they will, no doubt, avoid us, but 
 they will not persecute ; and, if decent in our 
 guilt, they will endure us. It is in permitting 
 this decency to give the libertine a seat in re- 
 spectable society, that they wrong what they pro- 
 fess to reverence. A line should, no doubt, be 
 drawn between the accomplished seducer and the 
 abandoned debauchee ; but, contrary to the usual 
 practice, the latter should have the least unfavour- 
 able regard : for the refinement of vice is infinitely 
 more abominable than its grossness. 
 
 The seducer is an epicure, who abhors the 
 vulgarity of a beef-steak pudding, and lives on 
 the tongues of peacocks. It is not mere hunger 
 which actuates him, but an exquisite suscepti- 
 bility of palate. He is not a brute of the forest, 
 which springs upon some accidental prey to 
 gorge upon a carcass; but an industrious self- 
 caterer, who fascinates the object of his careful 
 search, opens her " dearest vein," and, having 
 tasted the precious tide of her existence, leaves 
 her to bleed to death. He is a man with not much 
 
234 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 passion, whose lusts are moderate, but whose vanity 
 is insatiable. He will not have what others may 
 obtain ; he will not value what he can himself 
 obtain with ease ; and his enjoyment is the 
 greater, in proportion to the acuteness of the 
 self-reproof with which his victim yields to his 
 fascination. He would as soon think of pur- 
 chasing a caress as he would of making an ho- 
 nourable proposal. The grossness of the one is 
 not more offensive to him than the idea of the 
 restraints which must follow the other. He will 
 tamper with the feelings of a virtuous girl, but 
 would not be seen speaking to a wanton for the 
 world. He was never intoxicated ; he never says 
 an indelicate thing; nay, he never does one. 
 His language is choice, and his seducements are 
 as replete with sentiment as his pocket-handker- 
 chief is with lavender scent. He is the ornament 
 of the drawing-room — " sings, plays, dances 
 well" — quotes Tom Moore, and talks of Petrarch. 
 He is, to be sure, a bit of a coxcomb; that is 
 allowed : but, after all, the fault is on the right 
 side; for a man had better be a little affected 
 than in any degree vulgar. So much for the 
 seducer. 
 
 Turn we to the debauchee. So far from being 
 
TO JULIA, 235 
 
 an epicure, dainty in selection, and difficult in 
 taste, he is a gourmand, who gobbles up every 
 thing in his way, with no patience for seduction, 
 nor any prudence in his vice. His range is that 
 of the lion, which, when unpropelled by voracity, 
 is capable of generous if not noble feelings. Re- 
 fined society is by such a man avoided ; and if 
 an occasional member of it, he will probably 
 intoxicate himself with wine, and shock his com- 
 pany with indecency. He never trifles with the 
 feelings of a woman, for he has no vanity to in- 
 dulge : he will too frequently cover a modest 
 cheek with the blush of shame ; but he never 
 caused in any tender heart a pang of remorse. 
 He is justly degraded ; but he is no one's enemy 
 — except his own. 
 
 Ay, I will maintain it, there are many such 
 as the individual I have just described, who have 
 given themselves up entirely to sensuality — who 
 have for ever forfeited their character and ruined 
 their health — who have been arrested in a brothel^ 
 and have died under the effect of a debauch ; — * 
 there are many such, who have been as incapable 
 of doing an ungenerous or dishonest act as of 
 preserving the rules of decorum and morality — * 
 who, whatever may have been their self- abandon- 
 
236 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 ment, are yet enabled with truth to exclaim upon 
 their death-beds, " I have never destroyed, nor 
 attempted to destroy, a fair reputation: I have 
 ruined myself by my excesses, and have made 
 my family wretched by my conduct ; but, how- 
 ever I may have induced others by example, I 
 have never, never injured them by a deed of deli- 
 berate villainy.'" 
 
 Surely, if either deserve favour in the eyes of 
 woman, it is the latter character, which belongs 
 to one who is rather the victim than the votary of 
 vice, and who may have never wilfully contributed 
 to the propagation of it, however he may have 
 participated in its pleasures. 
 
 As there are such men, so there is a cer- 
 tain class of females, loaded with every odium, 
 though they be probably the most truly unfortu- 
 nate. u Fallen never to hope again," they can 
 but make the best of hopelessness. Among all 
 the abominations, however, which surround them, 
 they retain many traits of feeling which would do 
 honour to propriety. Select the best and the 
 most abandoned women in the world : they were 
 probably born with the same propensities : re- 
 versed circumstances have reversed their fates; 
 the one is honoured for the virtues wl^ch educa- 
 
TO JULIA. 237 
 
 tion and society protected ; the other is degraded 
 by the state which temptation and opportunity 
 incurred. Respect the former ; but withhold not 
 thy pity from the delinquent. That very loveli- 
 ness, which, under different circumstances, would 
 have elevated her to a ' palmy state** of honour, 
 has drawn upon her the blast of disgrace and 
 destitution. Those eyes, which had glistened 
 with increased joy and cheerfulness, (had they 
 won the desire of an honourable suitor,) have 
 been the cause of her destruction, — as the orna- 
 ment of polished steel, which makes one wearer 
 conspicuous in the sun-beams, attracts towards 
 another the fatal thunderbolt ! 
 
 Alas, poor Perdita ! — seduced from a station 
 of respectability and happiness, she has yet a 
 sense of shame, so nice, that she dares not en- 
 counter even the qualified reproofs of her parents. 
 She knows, moreover, that should she regain the 
 indulgence of her more partial friends, she " may 
 not look to have" the favour of the world ; but, 
 on the contrary, she is to be merely endured, 
 without a claim to respect ; to be treated with 
 coldness, and regarded with caution. 
 
 " What by returning can she hope to gain ? 
 And what by staying can she fear to lose ?" 
 
238 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 Ah ! beware, stern and inconsiderate moralist ; 
 beware what restrictions are put on the hopes of 
 a penitent, lest the bitterness of repentance be 
 rendered more unendurable than the remorse of 
 sin. Remember the words put into the mouth of 
 Satan by the poet Milton — 
 
 C( Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n I" 
 
 If thy sister have fallen, make it worth her 
 while to return to thee. Such is the present sys- 
 tem, that she is not even induced to appear 
 virtuous. Rejected by the world, she despises 
 herself — is precipitated into the tide of reckless- 
 ness, and shattered on the rocks of remorse ! 
 
 And yet we talk of Christian charity, and 
 allude to the story of the woman in adultery as 
 having a beautiful moral ! Is it, then, to be 
 admired only, and not acted on ? Even so it is. 
 A frail one falls, and her own species hurl upon 
 her the stones of abuse, as though they were not 
 only without sin, but without the weakness of 
 humanity. They are not without the weakness, 
 but, alas, too unmindful of it ! 
 
 One of Fielding's intentions in writing Tom 
 Jones was, to shew that a man might be of very 
 
TO JULIA. 239 
 
 loose habits, and yet possess a very good heart. 
 Now, Tom, as the imagined hero of a novel, 
 is a prodigious favourite. Why should it be more 
 immoral to make a thoughtless woman the good- 
 hearted heroine of a tale, than it is to fascinate us 
 with the frankness of a rake, and to shew that 
 the play-fellow of a Molly Seagrim may be a fit 
 husband for a Sophia Western? When, how- 
 ever, it is said that the one were no worse than 
 the other, it may be also intimated that both are 
 objectionable. We should be taught neither to 
 look for wives in the Magdalene, nor to expect 
 that reformed rakes will make the best husbands : 
 but it were charitable to consider that the former are 
 as likely to turn out well as the latter. We are too 
 candid and sentimental in our tales ; too close 
 and severe in the practice of life. When a man 
 writes a story of adultery, he should be content 
 to make the husband forgive, without restoring 
 the heroine to all her comforts. He is at liberty 
 to take back his own wife into full favour — if he 
 please. 
 
 As to Tom Jones, he must be deemed dangerous 
 in print, however he may be deserving in fact. 
 Every vagabond who has an inclination to indulge 
 his passions, cannot but be pleased to see Tom ap- 
 
24(V AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 plauded by the ladies, Nevertheless such cha- 
 racters as Tom do exist ; and I am yet to learn 
 why women, who (like Tom) have sinned, should 
 not be (like him) reclaimable. 
 
 " Yet, mercy on us ! only think ! — a woman 
 with a patched reputation V Lord, how pro- 
 priety would take the alarm ! " Oh !" Miss 
 Nevergreen exclaims, " then, you know," (for it 
 is astonishing what accommodating prognostics 
 will be entertained,) " you know, all we should 
 have to do would be to sin, and then repent. 
 Innocence must be inoculated !" &c. &c. 
 
 " I beg pardon, Madam ; but what you call 
 the ' inoculation'' is the disease. You would 
 keep your daughter — your niece I mean, Ma'am — 
 ignorant of the existence of vice ; and she is 
 therefore only the more liable to infection. Ino- 
 culate her, Madam, with the knowledge on't, 
 and (do you mind ?) arouse her abhorrence rather 
 against the arts of men than against the frailties 
 of women : instead of trampling on your own 
 sex, bring down ours to your level ; for, as it is, 
 you contribute to the existence of depravity. 
 You are duped in your severity ; you suffer 
 men to reap advantages, where they should but 
 
TO JULIA. 241 
 
 incur disgrace : they serve you with tender 
 solicitings till you serve them : 
 
 " But when they have your roses, 
 They basely leave your thorns to prick yourselves, 
 And mock ye with your bareness." 
 
 They induce the tender hare to leave its home of 
 happiness and content ; and you, instead of turn- 
 ing upon the hunters, join in the chase, denying 
 not only your protection but your sympathy." 
 
 It is possible the above remarks may have so 
 shocked some delicate lady by their occasional 
 allusion to indelicate practices, that she will 
 reject the remainder of my paper, notwithstanding 
 its professed moral tendency. She will, in such 
 case, resemble the exquisite heroine of the well 
 known tale, " Paul and Virginia," who prefers 
 a watery grave to the rescue offered her by a 
 naked sailor. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
JULIA. 
 
 I was, one summer, staying at a pretty vil- 
 lage, within a short drive from Cheltenham, 
 remarkable for its very select society and pure 
 atmosphere. Without being particularly intimate 
 with any of the inhabitants, I was on " good 
 morrow" terms with most, and only regretted my 
 inability to obtain an introduction to a certain 
 lady, or rather, as the villagers would have it, " a 
 certain person," who had lately arrived, together 
 with an interesting looking girl who was " called" 
 her niece. The one appeared to be not less than 
 forty years of age ; the other could not have 
 r2 
 
244 julia. 
 
 been more than twenty. Both were fine women, 
 evidently accustomed to polished society, and, as 
 it seemed, well provided for in a pecuniary sense. 
 A marked difference was, however, observable in 
 their general bearing. The elder female, without 
 evincing anything like haughtiness, or conceit, 
 appeared to be on fair terms with herself. There 
 was nothing soliciting in her manner, nor any- 
 thing forbidding. Her cheerfulness was thought 
 by some to partake of levity : her candour had 
 been accounted rude. 
 
 The younger lady exhibited in her conduct a 
 certain degree of dependence. Her smile was the 
 reflection of her aunt's good humour, and her 
 greatest pleasure, evidently, the fulfilment of her 
 aunt's wish. She was, doubtless, a very amiable 
 girl ; but people did not exactly know whether 
 she was to be respected or pitied : in other words, 
 whether she was to be received independently of 
 her own deserts, or condemned in spite of them. 
 The fact was, Miss Frankwell (as it appeared to 
 several of the lady patronesses, who, on her first 
 coming into the village, honoured her with the 
 ceremony of a morning call,) was singularly re- 
 served on the subject of her family connexions; 
 and I need not remark how those people, who see 
 
JULIA. 24:5 
 
 nothing offensive in impertinent questions, are 
 apt to imagine that an aversion to be communica- 
 tive is a sure sign of concealed impropriety. 
 She was very candid on all subjects but two ; 
 or it might be, only one ; for it was a matter of 
 suspicion, whether the history of the elder Miss 
 Frankwell was separate from that of her protegee, 
 or whether an account of the one involved the 
 other's story. 
 
 There was in this village (as there are in many 
 others) a certain dame of keen policy and copious 
 dimensions, who, having lived longer in the 
 place, and reared a larger family than most of her 
 neighbours, had partly assumed and partly ac- 
 quired a kind of sway over the deference of the 
 more aged and the filial regard of the young. 
 Her protectorship was the grand medium through 
 which the young belles of the village were intro- 
 duced into the beau monde of Cheltenham. Pa- 
 rents, disinclined to mix in gaiety themselves, 
 and yet anxious that their daughters should have 
 " a fair chance," were glad to avail themselves of 
 Mrs. B.'s maternal kindness. In addition, there- 
 fore, to her several daughters, she would gene- 
 rally make her appearance in the ball-room, 
 accompanied by as many more young ladies, the 
 
246 julia. 
 
 children of her less influential neighbours ; and it 
 was, in truth, a sight of no ordinary splendour, 
 when the opening door revealed her turbaned 
 head and ample stomacher, and when, on ad- 
 vancing into the centre of the room, she looked 
 around and about her, and, like a busy partlet, 
 gathered under her protecting wing her brood of 
 beauties. She was the dictator of fashions, the 
 patroness of good breeding, and the censor of 
 female morals. To appear in her train was at 
 once a proof that your style was good, your 
 parents " highly respectable," and your propriety 
 unexceptionable. To be unnoticed by her was to 
 be much in the same state with the shepherd, in 
 " As You Like It," who had never " been at 
 court," and therefore was " damned." To be 
 without her countenance was, in fact, to be " in 
 a truly piteous state ;" and if the mere with- 
 holding her patronage proved unfavourable, how 
 hopeless was the fate of those who, so far from 
 satisfying her fastidiousness, refused to acknow- 
 ledge her censorian rights ! Her dominion was 
 almost universally admitted ; its legitimacy had 
 been never before questioned : how rashly, there- 
 fore, did Miss Frankwell act when she spoke to 
 the village autocrat as follows : — 
 
JULIA. 247 
 
 ** My dear Madam, I feel much honoured by 
 the call with which you have favoured me this 
 morning, and fully appreciate your good inten- 
 tions towards the very select society of this place, 
 when you seem so anxious to know who I am, 
 and who is the mother of my niece. Your insi- 
 nuations have been most delicately managed, I 
 assure you ; but I am not aware that there would 
 have been any mdelicacy in withholding them 
 altogether. You seem doubtful of our respec- 
 tability : I do not, however, feel very desirous 
 of removing your doubts, and for this reason — 
 people are much more scrutinous in discovering 
 the merits of their neighbours, than liberal in 
 rewarding them. One thing more. Madam : we 
 came here to enjoy the salubrity of your atmos- 
 phere, and not the blessings of your society. 
 The former is proving efficacious, and the depri- 
 vation of the latter we shall therefore endure with 
 patience. — Jane, open the door to this lady." 
 
 The Misses Frankwell were now left to enjoy 
 each other's company without much interruption ; 
 and there is no knowing how long they might 
 have remained " among" the villagers, ft but not 
 of them," had it not been for a chance visit they 
 made to Cheltenham on the morning of Sir Fre- 
 
248 julia. 
 
 derick Gaylove^s arrival at that fashionable place. 
 Sir Frederick had visited Cheltenham about two 
 years before, when he first met the important 
 lady patroness before described, together with her 
 bevy of beauties, at a ball. His knighthood, his 
 person and manners, were altogether irresistible. 
 Whether his claims to " propriety" rested on his 
 own readiness to give an account of himself, or 
 whether they were founded on the forbearance of 
 the lady patroness to question him, I know not : he 
 became, however, much desired as a visitor among 
 the select families of the village ; and had Miss 
 Frankwell been also admitted in her turn, she 
 would have heard little else talked of except the 
 knight, Sir Frederick. As it was, she had no idea 
 that any such person had ever visited the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 It was a lovely morning: the fashionables of 
 Cheltenham were pacing up and down the public 
 promenade to the music of a well organized band, 
 and many were the glances of admiration directed 
 towards the persons of the two Misses Frankwell. 
 Some of the ladies, it is true, looked upon them 
 with feelings which partook of contempt, and the 
 young men, on that very account, regarded — at 
 least one of the party— with inclinations not the 
 
julia. 249 
 
 less disrespectful because more indulgent. Not a 
 gallant, however, but was obliged to acknowledge 
 that their appearance was totally at variance with 
 the reports which had originated with the lady 
 patroness. They were, perhaps, unwilling to 
 doubt what the latter had asserted, because they 
 might have already indulged in certain selfish ex- 
 pectations, which, should the ladies prove to be 
 what in every respect they appeared^ must of 
 course be laid aside, 
 
 The two ladies had withstood the artillery of 
 Cupid for some time, .and were about to retire 
 from the field, when the admired Sir Frederick 
 Gaylove, suddenly made his appearance. No 
 sooner did the eyes of Miss Frankwell encounter 
 the wandering glance of the knight, than she 
 stood, as it were, paralyzed ! The recognition 
 of her countenance had nearly as great an effect 
 upon Sir Frederick, who, on the first impulse, 
 blushed deeply, and looked deadly pale the next 
 minute. Taking off his hat, he made a profound 
 bow, and had advanced towards her several 
 paces, when, with a faint exclamation, she sank 
 upon the ground, no less to the surprise than 
 consternation of her young companion. Sir 
 Frederick, having in some measure regained his 
 
250 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 self-possession, raised her from the earth, and 
 held her in his arms, till, by the aid of her 
 affrighted niece's smelling bottle, she recovered 
 her senses. A gentleman who had witnessed this 
 extraordinary affair, offered the assistance of his 
 carriage, which was drawn up to the gate close 
 by, and his kindness being gratefully accepted, 
 the two ladies, accompanied by Sir Frederick, were 
 immediately driven to the hotel. 
 
 Here was food for scandal ! Nor let it be 
 imagined that the landlord of the inn remained 
 long exempt from the importunities of curiosity. 
 The chambermaid was shortly possessed of a fact 
 sufficient to confirm every thing that the lady 
 patroness had asserted ; but " who would have 
 thought Sir Frederick to have been the man !" 
 According to the chambermaid, the younger lady 
 had withdrawn into a bed-room, while Sir Frederick 
 and Miss Frankwell remained together full twenty 
 minutes in an adjoining sitting-room ! He was 
 heard to address her by the title of " dearest 
 Julia," and to talk of " remorseful feelings," and 
 " a desire to make all possible reparation." The 
 most extraordinary intimation, however, was con- 
 veyed in the replies of the lady, who constantly 
 urged her energetic companion to " speak lower," 
 
JULIA. 251 
 
 and so subdued her own utterance that the cham- 
 bermaid's curiosity was sorely baffled. She, never- 
 theless, collected sufficient to be convinced that 
 Miss Frankwell the elder had been the victim of 
 Sir Frederick's fascinations, and that Miss Frank- 
 well the younger was no other than the fruit of 
 their illicit intimacy. 
 
 The chambermaid described the interview be- 
 tween the father and child as most moving, albeit 
 the consequence of immorality. After remaining 
 in close conversation with the ladies for between 
 two and three hours, Sir Frederick escorted them 
 to their lodgings in the village, and, return- 
 ing to the hotel, shut himself in his room for the 
 remainder of the day. 
 
 Each succeeding morning he visited Miss Frank- 
 well and his daughter, to the great annoyance 
 of the lady patroness, who now looked upon the 
 society of the village (hitherto the most select in 
 the neighbourhood) as impregnated with the seeds 
 of impropriety. Whenever she met the Misses 
 Frankwell, she passed them with the most studied 
 haughtiness ; and if she did return the salutations 
 of Sir Frederick, it was in such a manner as left 
 him to understand that while he courted the 
 favour of " such people as the what-d'ye-call-^ms," 
 
252 julia. 
 
 he might not hope to enjoy the honour of her 
 patronage. Her daughters would drop their veils 
 as he passed ; but it does not appear whether 
 this manoeuvre was intended to baffle his observa- 
 tion or favour theirs. 
 
 % * & $■ # 
 
 " Bless me !" exclaimed the lady patroness, as 
 she looked towards the church-yard gate, one 
 morning, u why, I declare, there is a wedding 
 about to take place ! How very strange ! I saw 
 the curate last night only, and he said nothing to 
 me upon the subject ! Who can it be ?" 
 
 There was a single post-chaise awaiting the 
 " happy pair," and at the church door was the 
 company of ringers in expectation of the fee 
 which might enable them to put by their " lea- 
 thern aprons and their rules," and take to the ale 
 cup and bell rope for the day. 
 
 " Good Heavens V ejaculated the lady pa- 
 troness, " the creature, then, has wheedled Sir 
 Frederick into marriage at last !" 
 
 " And only look, mamma !" exclaimed her 
 eldest daughter, " the curate is actually escorting 
 the daughter to the chaise !" 
 
 " Is it possible?" said the mother, putting up 
 her eye-glass to be assured of the curate's identity : 
 
julia. 253 
 
 " well, I did think he would have been above 
 such a thing, at least !" 
 
 Sir Frederick, Lady Gay love, and " her daugh- 
 ter," being now seated in the chaise, the curate 
 cordially shook hands with each ; and as the 
 post-boy lashed his horses past the mansion of our 
 lady patroness, a party of the poorer villagers 
 sent forth a hearty huzza, and the bells struck up 
 a merry peel ! 
 
 As may be supposed, the curate was soon called 
 upon for an explanation. It appeared that he 
 had been made acquainted with the history of the 
 parties when Sir Frederick applied for his mar- 
 riage licence. The vicar of the parish officiated 
 upon this occasion, and the curate had the honour 
 of giving away the bride. 
 
 " The honour !" ejaculated the lady patroness. 
 
 " The honour" repeated the curate, with in- 
 creased emphasis. 
 
 He then proceeded to relate the following brief 
 tale, which, it is said, proved a wholesome check 
 to the scandal-mongering propensities of the lady 
 patroness and villagers in general. 
 
 It appeared, by the curate^s account, (though 
 he greatly qualified it to suit the ears of his female 
 auditors,) that Miss Julia Frankwell (now Lady 
 
254 julia. 
 
 Gaylove) was the only child of a wealthy country 
 gentleman, who died before she came of age, 
 and left her possessed of a handsome fortune. 
 Her mother had died much earlier, deeply re- 
 gretted by Mr. Frankwell, who bestowed the 
 whole care of his remaining days upon 
 
 " His profitably cherish'd, 
 And most deservedly beloved child." 
 
 Julia, with all the usual charms of woman, 
 had another superadded. Whether this was 
 owing to her not having been much in the society 
 of females, or whether it was the sole consequence 
 of her education, which had been almost entirely 
 superintended by male teachers, I shall not take 
 upon me to decide. Certain it is, however, that 
 she was distinguished by a singular feeling of 
 charity towards the errors of her sex. 
 
 Her favourite books were Shakspeare and Tris- 
 tram Shandy : these were always on her sitting- 
 room table, and the Canzonets of Camoens were 
 sometimes to be found under her pillow. She 
 shewed herself, when in company, equally averse 
 to melancholy and squeamishness ; but she 
 might be surprised in her bed weeping over 
 the story of Le Fevre ; and it was easy to dis- 
 
julia. 255 
 
 cover, by turning over her edition of Sterne, that 
 the numerous indelicacies of that author had most 
 probably never met her eye but once. 
 
 She was now entering her twenty-second year. 
 Her father's recent death had thrown a temporary 
 veil of melancholy over her general character ; 
 and the young Frederick Gaylove, who before 
 merely admired her, now first experienced feel- 
 ings of a more interested nature. He was accom- 
 plished, of prepossessing exterior, and distinguished 
 by his refined and gentlemanly habits. The atten- 
 tions he paid to Julia were so tempered with every 
 appearance of good sense and respect, that she 
 began to look upon his society as not objec- 
 tionable ; and we all know that when a woman 
 sees nothing in a man to find fault with, it is the 
 man's own fault if he do not excite in her a less 
 negative regard. To be brief : the young gentle- 
 man, putting aside his scruples about the same 
 time that the lady doffed her mourning suit, made 
 her an offer of marriage, and was accepted. 
 
 The time appointed for their union was fast 
 approaching, when Julia was suddenly attacked 
 by a disorder, the violence of which for a time 
 greatly alarmed her lover and friends. She was 
 for several weeks almost entirely confined to her 
 
256 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 bed, from which she arose in so debilitated a 
 state, that her physician deemed it essential for 
 her to pass a few months at one of the bathing 
 places on the southern coast. Hastings was fixed 
 upon as most suitable to her constitution, and she 
 went thither accordingly. 
 
 It was remarked as very singular that Frederick, 
 who had himself been several times to Hastings 
 for the benefit of his health, and had frequently 
 expressed his opinion of its great charms as a 
 watering place, should evince any doubts of its 
 eligibility in the present instance. Julia, however, 
 was a stranger to suspicion, and put the best 
 possible construction upon her lover's solicitude. 
 She was, nevertheless, grieved that his visits, 
 during her stay there, were so hastily made ; for, 
 though he frequently saw her, he generally found 
 some excuse for not remaining more than a few 
 hours. When she was so far recovered as to 
 walk two or three miles without fatigue, she felt 
 his absence the more ; but she was satisfied with 
 the reasons by which he accounted for it, and 
 fancied she had a full proof of his sincerity in the 
 earnestness of the letters she constantly received 
 from him. 
 
 She was one morning walking through the out- 
 
JULIA. 257 
 
 skirts of the town, when she heard the boisterous 
 vociferations of a female, c; high in oath/ 1 and 
 evidently in a transport of rage against some 
 very sinful or unfortunate individual of her own 
 sex. Julia listened, and plainly discovered that 
 the noise proceeded from a small dress-maker's 
 shop. She advanced towards the window, and 
 distinctly heard the terms " baggage ! r — " turn 
 out !" — " corrupt my other girls !" with certain 
 sentences, denunciations, and designations too 
 coarse to be here set down. Julia's chivalrous 
 spirit mounted in an instant : she went into the 
 shop, and saw a woman (decent in every apparent 
 circumstance except her language) furiously up- 
 braiding a poor, delicate-looking girl, who sat in 
 one corner of the room working at her needle in 
 silence and tears. 
 
 " What's all this about ?" asked Julia. 
 
 The mistress eyed her, as though doubtful 
 whether to regard her as a probable customer or 
 an impertinent intruder. 
 
 u Why, Ma'am," said she, " I believe, if you 
 knew all, you would be inclined to abuse her just 
 as I do." 
 
 " What has she done ?" asked Julia. 
 
 VOL. II. S 
 
258 Julia. 
 
 " Done P echoed the other ; " she has undone 
 herself!" 
 
 " Poor thing !" exclaimed Julia; " then she is, 
 perhaps, to be pitied. How has she undone 
 herself ?" 
 
 " It's too indecent a tale for you, Miss," an- 
 swered the mistress. 
 
 " I confess, my good woman," said Julia, 
 " your present delicacy is scarcely consistent with 
 the very gross language you were using just before 
 I entered your shop." 
 
 *' Well, I'm sure, Miss !" exclaimed the dress- 
 maker, reddening with passion, " it's something 
 quite new for people to come into my shop and 
 abuse me for keeping my 'prentices in order ! 
 That young woman, Miss, is no better than she 
 should be !" 
 
 " Then she's very like the rest of us," said 
 Julia, casting a look of the most christian-like 
 benignity upon the poor girl, who, more affected 
 by kindness than brutality, burst into tears, and, 
 throwing herself upon her knees before her advo- 
 cate, besought her, as well as her sobs would 
 allow, to have pity on an unfortunate wretch who 
 was suffering under the aggravated misery of 
 man's falsehood and woman's hate. 
 
julia. 259 
 
 The girl's appearance and manner of speaking, 
 no less than her misery, commanded the interest of 
 Julia, who was determined on being made ac- 
 quainted with her history. It was soon told. She 
 was the daughter of a tradesman in the vicinity, 
 who after a long struggle with an unfortunate 
 passion, had been induced to leave her parental 
 home under promise of a never-failing protec- 
 tion, and not without some hope of being 
 eventually united to her professed lover in ho- 
 nourable alliance. She acknowledged her folly 
 in having ever aspired to be the wife of her se- 
 ducer, who was a young man of high connexions, 
 though of limited fortune ; but she did not ex- 
 pect that he would so soon have abandoned her, 
 and under such trying circumstances. He con- 
 tinued to visit her, only till the probability of his 
 becoming a father was apparent, after which he 
 would occasionally send her a letter with some 
 trifling remittance, telling her that circumstances 
 of the most unfortunate nature threatened him, 
 in case he continued to see her ; but that he 
 trusted, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 If ever girl deserved pity, it was poor Maria ; 
 for the temptation to leave her home was rendered 
 trebly seducing, owing to the unceasing captious- 
 s2 
 
260 JULIA. 
 
 ness of a step-mother. Jealousy is a tyrant, 
 having a much more potent sway in the hearts of 
 women than in the breasts of men. A man's 
 jealousy is a monster of single purpose, which will 
 occasionally " perplex him in the extreme." A 
 woman's jealousy is a hydra, which will torment 
 her with numerous and varied perplexities ; not 
 making her more furious, but more generally 
 fretful. A man is rarely jealous of any body 
 but his wife ; but a woman is frequently jealous 
 of her offspring, of her friends, and of her cats : 
 nor is the feeling often more subversive of her 
 peace than when it originates in a suspicion that 
 her own children are less favoured than those of a 
 former wife. 
 
 Such a suspicion having harboured itself in 
 the brain of Maria's step-mother, she was always 
 ready to snatch at the slightest cause for cavil. 
 What in other girls was proper dignity, was, in 
 Maria, overbearing pride : what in them was 
 deemed a natural desire, in her was denounced as 
 an extravagant wish. Though her father loved 
 her, he feared his wife ; and poor Maria was mor- 
 tified at beholding the calm submission with which 
 the author of her being would endure the wanton 
 
JULIA. 261 
 
 reproofs, so frequently heaped upon her by one 
 who had no just claim upon her obedience. 
 
 Dinned by the discordant clamours of an angry 
 woman, it was no wonder the honied speech of her 
 seducer should have an irresistible charm. She 
 listened to it, however, not unconscious of its 
 poisonous quality, as the sufferer from bodily pain, 
 though perfectly conscious of its ultimately per- 
 nicious influence, will scarcely hesitate to receive 
 the temporary relief of opium. 
 
 Deserted at length by the murderer of her 
 innocence, she dreaded to encounter the harsh- 
 ness of her mother, and engaged herself as 
 work-woman to the individual, under the storm 
 of whose fury she was meekly bending when 
 Julia (as we have seen) first introduced herself. 
 Without detailing the long altercation which 
 passed between her and the dress-maker, I shall 
 merely remark, that the latter had just disco- 
 vered the unfortunate situation of Maria, and 
 had detected her writing a letter to u the fellow," 
 (as she emphatically designated her seducer,) 
 " when she ought to have been minding her 
 work.*" The more Julia heard, the more she felt 
 inclined to commiserate the poor delinquent ; and 
 as her solicitude increased, the vituperative spirit of 
 
262 julia. 
 
 the mistress increased also. The latter, in fact, 
 became at last moral even to madness, and swore, 
 with a good round oath, that she would suffer no 
 such indecent people in her house. Julia, how- 
 ever, could pity — even this virago. " Perhaps," 
 said she, " it was some misfortune which induced 
 her to take to drinking" 
 
 Most warm hearts are charged with a certain 
 desire, half passion, half philanthropy, which 
 requires not any accidental excitement to wake 
 it into life, but exists self-born, and is restless 
 till satisfied. With us it is generally active in 
 a sexual sense ; but as women are taught to 
 withhold all voluntary love towards men, their 
 affections are often discharged through a dif- 
 ferent channel ; and it is only a pity that they do 
 not more frequently expend them upon such 
 objects as poor Maria, and less frequently upon 
 poodle dogs, cats, and cockatoos. Really, to 
 look at it in the way of profit and loss, the 
 latter species of investment is a squandering of 
 capital without an iota of interest. Wherefore 
 should there be less pleasure in the better policy 
 of disposing of our benevolence where we can 
 obtain a return of gratitude ? 
 
 Till Julia's meeting with Frederick, her bene- 
 
julia. 263 
 
 volence had been, as it were, accumulating till 
 oppressive in its repletion : and his attentions, so 
 far from monopolizing her good will, only 
 tended to make her more prodigal in her kindness 
 to the world in general. Never had she met with 
 an object so deserving of her solicitude as poor 
 Maria. She hired a cottage for her within a 
 short distance of her own house at Hastings, 
 and endeavoured to quell a painful sense of obli- 
 gation by constantly remarking that the advan- 
 tage she enjoyed in Maria's industry was more 
 than commensurate with that assistance " which 
 the common feelings of humanity had prompted 
 — had compelled her to afford." 
 
 Julia had several times urged her to disclose 
 the name of her seducer. " No," said the 
 poor girl ; "it can do me no service, and 
 might be prejudicial to him; for I understand 
 he is about to be married, and have reason to 
 hope, that when he can assist me, he will." 
 
 " What reason have you to think so ?" asked 
 Julia. 
 
 " In this letter," said Maria, shewing the su- 
 perscription to her protectress, " in this letter — " 
 
 A violent exclamation on the part of Julia 
 cut short the words of Maria. The superscript 
 
264 julia. 
 
 tion was in the hand-writing of Frederick Gay- 
 love ! 
 
 " That letter," said Julia, recovering from her 
 astonishment, and assuming a tone of dignity — 
 " that letter is from Mr. Gaylove !" 
 
 The surprise of poor Maria was now scarcely 
 less than that which, a moment before, had been 
 exhibited by Julia. 
 
 " My poor, dear girl," said the latter, with a 
 mixed feeling of sorrow and indignation, " I 
 have been myself near falling into the hands of 
 this same unprincipled libertine !" 
 
 " How !" exclaimed the other ; " did he dare to 
 sue you in a dishonourable sense ?" 
 
 Julia fainted under the excitement of her feel- 
 ings, and recovered only to fall into a torpor of 
 disgust. The shock, as may be conceived, 
 proved beyond endurance, and the amiable Julia 
 (ere this convalescent and happy) was now pros- 
 trated on a bed of sickness and misery. 
 
 On the day subsequent to this disclosure, 
 Frederick came to visit his ci-devant " destined 
 bride." Of course, his turn for astonishment 
 was now arrived. On entering the bed-chamber 
 of Julia, his eye first encountered the person 
 of Maria, who was serving in the capacity of 
 
julia. 265 
 
 nurse ! She was so affected by his presence as 
 to sink in an almost senseless state upon a chair 
 by the bed-side ; and Julia, instead of greeting 
 him with her usual smile of welcome, only fixed 
 upon him a look of indignation, and pointed in 
 silence to the fainting form of her attendant. 
 
 Lost in confusion, he remained several minutes 
 without speech or movement. At length he inquired 
 in an agitated manner, u what he could do to re- 
 gain the favour which, it was too plain, he had 
 lately forfeited ?" 
 
 " Repair her wrongs !" said Julia, again point- 
 ing to her poor dependant, who was now hanging 
 over the bed, and sobbing violently. 
 
 " Would you have me marry her ?" asked 
 Frederick, in a tone the most unamiable. 
 
 6i No," replied Julia, "for you would make 
 her miserable." 
 
 " What then can I do ?" 
 
 " Nay — nothing," said the lady, with a heavy 
 sigh — " leave her to me." 
 
 " And what may I hope from you ?" 
 
 " On one condition, Frederick, my forgive- 
 ness." 
 
 " Name the condition." 
 
 " The dissolution of our engagement." 
 
266 julia. 
 
 " Is this an evidence of your love ?" said 
 Frederick. 
 
 u Is the fate of this poor girl an evidence of 
 yours f 9 replied Julia. " But, no more, Frederick. 
 I shew my love, by forgiving in you what in 
 another man I could not pardon. If you think I 
 wrong you in refusing to be your wife, I will 
 endeavour to make amends by acting as a friend 
 to your mistress. I do this, because her suffering 
 has been, I am convinced, the unfortunate con- 
 sequence of her lowly situation in life. My 
 superior birth, on the contrary, has proved my 
 safety. As a farmer's daughter, you had treated 
 me as you have served her; but my education 
 and fortune have protected me from dishonour. 
 If you can obtain this poor girl's forgiveness, 
 1 shall then have nothing to add, except the 
 request that you importune me no further on the 
 subject of our union. Go, and sin no more !" 
 
 Gaylove's fortune was very limited. Disap- 
 pointed in his hopes of pecuniary aggrandize- 
 ment by marriage, it was not likely he should 
 feel much inclined to bear the expenses which 
 might shortly, by law, devolve upon him. His 
 love for Julia had been at least secondary to 
 his regard for her wealth ; and as he now 
 
JULIA. 26J 
 
 saw no hope of securing the latter, he bore 
 the loss of the former without much difficulty. 
 The fact was, he had been unlucky in his col- 
 lege friends and early companions. Mental polish 
 is independent of the heart's best exercise ; 
 and Frederick, though highly accomplished, was 
 yet to have his humanity developed. The 
 amiable Julia suffered the real cause of their 
 separation to be veiled by a report of some 
 obligation enforced by family circumstances ; 
 and Frederick, under the pretence of seeking an 
 antidote to sorrow, booked his place to Paris, 
 and left his friends to speculate on the truth of his 
 motives. 
 
 Julia recovered from her illness only just in 
 time to play the nurse in turn. Let no fair 
 reader exhibit other than a blush of admiration, 
 when she learns that the pure, the generous, 
 the accomplished Julia was the first to receive 
 into her arms the fruits of a seducer's false- 
 hood. Could the shrinking delicacy of a prude, 
 or the severity of a frowning moralist have 
 produced a tithe of the salutary effect which 
 originated in the christian conduct of our heroine ? 
 She may be truly said to have made virtue 
 
268 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 resemble " a star f the darkest night :" she 
 made it dazzle by its brightness, and captivate 
 by its loveliness ! 
 
 Several years had now passed on : Julia looked 
 as one who had never known the existence of 
 sorrow, and was enriching herself with the 
 " golden opinions" of all who knew her. She 
 had but one fault, namely, an apparent blindness 
 to the merits of her many wooers ; nor will I 
 pretend to say how many sonnets were written 
 on the sad subject of her impenetrability. Her 
 protegee, the little Maria, was culling the honours 
 of a small boarding school in the neighbour- 
 hood, while the mother remained with her be- 
 nefactress as occasional companion, and superin- 
 tendant of the house affairs. 
 
 The latter, naturally delicate, had been of 
 late much subject to fits of melancholy. These, 
 however, originated in feelings the very reverse of 
 discontent : it was the thought of having been 
 instrumental to the rupture between Frederick 
 and Julia, that preyed deeply on her mind ; 
 
JULJA. 269 
 
 for, whatever he might have shewn himself un- 
 der past circumstances, it was not for her to 
 deny that marriage might have reformed him : 
 he might eventually have become all that such 
 a wife could desire; and she scarcely conceived 
 that any individual could be long in her society 
 without imbibing her excellencies. 
 
 When she saw the inefficacious attempts of men 
 to gain her mistresses favour, she was the more 
 inclined to accuse herself of having crushed the 
 early expectations of a heart which had fondly 
 loved, and could love but once ; and in this light 
 she regarded her beloved protectress as suffering 
 more than she could have suffered herself, even sup- 
 posing her miseries had met with no commisera- 
 tion. Unable, for some time, to divine the cause 
 of her unhappiness, Julia could only endeavour 
 to relieve it by increased kindness ; but she was 
 little aware that, as her indulgence exceeded 
 Marians consciousness of desert, it became rather 
 a burthen than a blessing. It had, moreover, 
 come to her knowledge, that the neighbours 
 thought Julia too condescending in her familiarity 
 to her housekeeper. The servants also — that is, 
 the women servants— had acquired some intima- 
 
270 JULIA. 
 
 tion that Mrs. Maria was of extraction humble as 
 their own, and that (even granting her superior 
 birth) it was a matter of great doubt with them 
 whether she had a just right to put before her 
 name that honourable appendage of three letters — 
 MRS. It ought, perhaps, to have been before 
 stated, that Julia, when she first appointed Maria 
 to the station she now occupied, induced her neigh- 
 bours to believe that she was the widow of a 
 poor farmer. 
 
 The sensitiveness of Maria proved too much. 
 It was evident the subordinates of Julians house- 
 hold looked upon her with feelings of jealousy 
 and contempt. As her mistresses kindness could 
 not divert her melancholy, so her own studied 
 affability was insufficient to assuage their ill will. 
 When defective in their duty, she feared to check 
 them, lest, under the impulse of irritated pride, 
 they might wound her feelings with some retort 
 not the less cruel because founded on truth. On 
 one occasion, however, she was provoked into some 
 warmth of censure, and the consequence of the 
 offender's hate was even worse than she could have 
 anticipated. To make a sad tale short, she sickened 
 and died ! 
 
JULIA, 27l 
 
 Julia followed her to her grave, and erected a 
 tablet with the following inscription to the memory 
 of 
 
 " Poor Maeia !" 
 
 If Penitence be of Worth ; 
 
 If Fidelity merit Praise ; 
 
 If Gratitude be a Virtue ; 
 
 If Mortals be subject to offend, 
 
 And Christians enjoined to forgive ; 
 
 Then be Maria remembered, 
 
 With Feelings of 
 
 Indulgence 
 
 Towards the Error which her Loveliness induced ; 
 
 Of Pity 
 
 For those sufferings which Reflection occasioned ; 
 
 And of Love 
 
 For her sincere and unceasing attachment 
 
 To one of her sex ; 
 
 who, 
 
 Aware of her own liability to fall, 
 
 Fearfully anticipated the anger of Heaven ; 
 
 And gave protection to a fallen Sister, 
 
 With intent to propitiate 
 
 Similar Indulgence. 
 
 After the death of her attached servant, Julia 
 
272 JULIA. 
 
 adopted the little Maria as a niece ; and resolving 
 handsomely to provide for her, she withdrew her 
 from school, and procured her the best masters 
 for her private education at home. Capable and 
 docile, she soon became the pride and pleasure of 
 her tutors. Pure in morals, and most amiable 
 in disposition, she won by her modesty and 
 dazzled by her accomplishments, while the know- 
 ledge of her birth threw a fascinating tone of 
 humility into her manners. When she had at- 
 tained the age of eighteen, her " aunt" resolved 
 on affording her the indulgence of a continental 
 tour. They remained abroad two years, and 
 might have prolonged their stay, if Maria had 
 not experienced a violent attack of the ague 
 while travelling in the Netherlands. Shortly 
 after their return to England, it was deemed 
 advisable by her medical attendant that Maria 
 should visit Cheltenham ; and Julia, snatching 
 at any possible means of benefiting her beloved 
 protegee, immediately set off for Gloucestershire, 
 and took a house in the " village elect " as de- 
 scribed in the beginning of my story. 
 
 The accidental meeting between Julia and 
 Frederick (who had lately received the honour of 
 knighthood — no consequence for why, as the "why" 
 
JULIA, 273 
 
 was of no consequence in itself) need not be 
 repeated. Twenty years had elapsed since Julia 
 banished him her favour ; for it is, after all, a 
 matter of doubt whether he was ever entirely 
 banished from her love. His tale of penitence and 
 remorse, at all events, made a deep impression on 
 her ; and, having rejected him as the seducer of a 
 weak woman, she was inclined to receive him as 
 the father of a virtuous child. It was not, 
 he acknowledged, till lately that he seriously 
 reflected on the unfeeling conduct of his youth ; 
 though he had certainly evinced some sense of 
 shame in carefully avoiding, for a considerable 
 time, any meeting with the justly indignant 
 Julia. On revisiting, at length, the village in 
 which his early intended had resided, he was 
 deeply affected by the memorial to u Poor Maria," 
 and resolved to venture upon an interview with 
 her protectress, of whose movements he obtained 
 with difficulty some intimation. So careless had 
 he been about the fate of his child, and so rarely 
 had he communicated with those who were ac- 
 quainted with Julia, that he scarcely knew whether 
 he was a father of the living or the dead. His 
 means no less than his morals were now improved, 
 and he determined on appealing to the excellent 
 vol. 11. x 
 
274 JULIA, 
 
 Julia, in hopes to obtain a lover's pardon and a 
 father's right. 
 
 If the sight of Marians epitaph had aroused 
 the better feelings of his heart, the meeting with 
 his daughter caused their thorough and immediate 
 expansion. He professed a revolution in his na- 
 ture ; and having felt, for the first time, a father's 
 pride and love, he knelt to the restorer of his 
 long estranged virtue, and obtained, as we have 
 seen, not only her heart's forgiveness, but her 
 hand in marriage. Sir Frederick's subsequent 
 happiness was qualified by many a melancholy 
 retrospect ; but Julia's was unalloyed as mortal's 
 may be ! 
 
STERNHERST. 
 
 « F or we bid this be done, 
 
 When evil deeds have their permissive pass, 
 And not the punishment.' ' 
 
 Measure for Measure, 
 
 T 2 
 
STERNHERST. 
 
 In the history of Julia, we have seen how a 
 female may be liberal without loss of honour ; how 
 indulgence may reclaim a fallen sister ; and how 
 effective is the 'mercy-seasoned justice'' of a for- 
 giving spirit, as evinced in the conduct of a vir- 
 tuous woman towards a libertine of the other sex. 
 What an example does the amiable Julia afford of 
 that wholesome morality, which inclines the mind 
 equally to oppose the sickliness of prudery and the 
 infamy of sin ; and which, instead of making us 
 shrink with delicate sensibility from the contem- 
 plation of our neighbour's violated repute, induces 
 us to probe the wound with our sympathy. Your 
 
278 STERNHERST. 
 
 double-refined moralist flees vice when he should 
 flay it. His delicacy exempts him from the fulfil- 
 ment of his duty. He is but a poor eradicator of 
 disease, and refuses to apply the liniment to any 
 hurt which may have been received between the 
 ancle and breast-bone. But Heaven shall reward 
 thee, Julia! — thou, who didst cherish with 
 maternal tenderness what many women (with 
 feelings more correct than christian) would have 
 4 despised and rejected V 
 
 It is, however, with no intention of urging a 
 full forgiveness, under all circumstances, that the 
 narrative of Julia has been brought forward ; and 
 the author is the less anxious to incur such a sup- 
 position, being aware, that if we are too severe 
 upon the misfortunes of the frail, we are also too 
 regardless of the deserts of the good. It is said 
 that virtue is its own reward. By parity of rea- 
 soning, vice is its own punishment. We have, 
 nevertheless, judges and a Jack Ketch. It is no 
 doubt politic, as a religious injunction, that we 
 should only look to the reward of a good con- 
 science : but, though it be well in us to content 
 ourselves with such remuneration, it is no less 
 good in others to be liberal in the acknowledg- 
 ment of our deserts. Men and women are, after 
 
STERNHERST, 279 
 
 all, but children of a larger growth, equally to 
 be benefited by correction in some cases, and 
 caraway-comfits in others. In the nursery, the 
 best child gets a sugar-plum ; in the school, the 
 best boy obtains a silver medal ; in after life, we 
 too frequently lack encouragement, and lose our 
 honesty in consequence. Pierre is too near the 
 truth when he calls honesty " a ragged virtue ;" 
 for it is certain many have thrown it aside with 
 advantage, and have gained, by a disreputable 
 notoriety, such worldly benefits as integrity had 
 never yielded. 
 
 In the preceding tale, it was attempted to 
 decry the usual severity of women towards the 
 victim of seduction — to claim an indulgence for the 
 first false step of the young unmarried female— 
 but by no means to advocate the system Ger- 
 rnanorum, which makes ultimate repentance more 
 fascinating than uniform rectitude. Pity and 
 forgiveness are excellent things ; but it would be 
 not less a violation of common sense than of 
 justice, to withhold our admiration from unerring 
 virtue, and to bestow our sympathy on those, who, 
 having discovered the inconvenience of vicious 
 pursuits, might be desirous of re-adopting that line 
 of moral conduct which once proved so insipid. 
 
280 STjEIINHEKST, 
 
 In such a case, young ladies would find it no very- 
 difficult matter to render themselves interesting. 
 They would have, in the first place, to excite our 
 reproach by the commission of an impropriety, 
 that they might enable themselves, in the second, 
 to claim our pity by an exhibition of remorse. The 
 charms of reconciliation being so sweet, they would 
 be almost tempted to sin for their sake. But, though 
 Mercy season Justice, let not Pity destroy it. The 
 latter pleads only in behalf of the individual ; but 
 Justice speaks in support of the general good ; 
 and Mercy may be satisfied if we withhold 
 persecution, without requiring that we should 
 restore happiness. The repentance of a wife, 
 faithless without cause, is fully appreciated, if the 
 husband suspend his anger, and supply her with the 
 means of subsistence. Whatever may be our com- 
 passion for delinquency, let us avoid that impolitic 
 stretch of indulgence, which not only pardons the 
 repentant abuser of our love, but endues her with 
 a greater share of our affection than she would 
 have possessed had she never erred. 
 
 After the lascivious seductiveness of a certain 
 little school of poetry (which, instead of depicting 
 love in its purely impassioned character, only gilds 
 sensuality), no class of writings is calculated to 
 
STERNHERST. 
 
 281 
 
 do more mischief than that of some German 
 authors, which, if it do not immediately corrupt 
 the mind, certainly effeminates it, and thus renders 
 it the more susceptible of corruption. Few plays 
 take a stronger hold upon the feeling, than " The 
 Stranger" of Kotzebue. And what is the moral to 
 be deduced ? Some will answer, the forgiveness 
 of injuries. But will they maintain that every 
 thing which becomes an individual in his private 
 capacity, is fitting as an example for the conduct 
 of society at large ? We may esteem the forgiving 
 temper of an injured husband ; but we must needs 
 deplore the bad judgment of an author, who 
 selects for the subject of his play the compatibility 
 of virtue and vanity, generosity and vice. 
 
 Had Kotzebue^s heroine fallen from a virgin 
 state, her re-elevation into favour had been not 
 amiss ; but in the play of " The Stranger," he has 
 been extravagantly immoral for the sake of being 
 irresistibly moving. The tendency of the drama 
 is to make us believe, that one of the best and 
 most angelic of women may be betrayed into the 
 guilt of desertion and incontinence ; and therefore 
 that much allowance should be made for these 
 crimes in general. But it will be said, that such a 
 play, however it may teach men to be merciful, can- 
 
282 STERNHERST. 
 
 not possibly have any good effect on the female 
 mind ; while the probability of its having a per- 
 nicious tendency, is apparent in that seductive sen- 
 timentality with which the heart of the heroine is 
 so liberally imbued. 
 
 Mrs. Haller's sobs and tears are no doubt very 
 stirring ; but the most pitiable part of her stor 
 is, that she could not appreciate the blessings of 
 virtue till she had proved the curses attendant 
 upon its violation. Much more has been said 
 upon the immorality of " The Beggar's Opera" 
 than on the evil character of the play under con- 
 sideration. It is a question, however, whether 
 Macheath's reprieve is not more pardonable than 
 Mrs. Haller^s restoration. At any rate, the cap- 
 tain's crime is less heinous ; nor does he merit 
 more severity because he is less prodigal in shews 
 of humility, charity, and, in fact, all the virtues 
 which hover round the lady's cankered heart, like 
 satellites round their centre. — Married at the 
 time ! — the wife of a doating husband ! ! — the 
 mother of two children ! ! ! O, Mr. Kotzebue ! 
 
 Miss O'Neil may, however, be grateful for the 
 opportunity afforded her in this character, of win- 
 ning a tear from many an eye " not used to the 
 melting mood." In this charming actress was 
 
STERNHERST. 283 
 
 combined every quality suiting a personation 
 of the reformed Mrs. Haller ; nor was it till the 
 first impression of her performance had lost some of 
 its acuteness, that we could find it in our hearts to 
 accuse the " Stranger" of having been too for- 
 giving. Her manners and speech were so subdued 
 by humility, that even women looked with ad- 
 miration on her loveliness. The most moving 
 sight in the world (to young eyes at least) is 
 beauty in distress. In such a case the heart is a 
 prisoner directly the eye is arrested. The idea of 
 administering comfort to a distressed female is one 
 of the earliest day-dreams in which susceptible 
 youths indulge. We cannot pause to inquire into 
 causes. What will we not do for her? What 
 does she not deserve ? Pity is hardly excited ere 
 it expands into love. Our warmest sympathies 
 are aroused ; and, should we discover her to have 
 been a faithless wife, we only envy the man who 
 is at once empowered to shew his mercy and his 
 love, by pardoning all her errors, and taking her 
 again to his arms. 
 
 The reader is here presented with a brief tale 9 
 resembling in a great measure the pathetic story 
 on which the play of " The Stranger" is founded^ 
 
284 STERNHERST. 
 
 but affording, it it hoped, a much more salutary 
 example to injured and forgiving husbands. 
 
 Charlotte Carey, the leading belle of a 
 fashionable country town, was at an early age beset 
 by suitors of various ages, fortunes, and preten- 
 sions, and played her part with so much tact, 
 that they regarded each other as rivals, although 
 not one of them had any decided reason for 
 affirming that she had given him sufficient encou- 
 ragement to warrant the supposition of more than 
 ordinary regard. Some disinterested and discri- 
 minating persons, however, plainly saw that she 
 was turning over her several lovers as she might 
 muslin patterns at her dress-maker's ; and it was a 
 matter of much wonder that one so partial to 
 French hats and flounces should for a moment 
 endure the addresses of my poor friend Sternherst 
 — a man of excellent heart and warm feelings, but 
 of secluded and studious habits, unpolished man- 
 ners, and rough exterior. That Sternherst should 
 become enamoured of a girl whose mental dis- 
 position might be accounted the very opposite of 
 his own, will not be a matter of surprise to any 
 
STERNHERST\ 285 
 
 reader whose observation has made him acquainted 
 with those inconsistencies of character in which 
 nature seems to delight. I have often remarked, 
 how men of science, and of the simplest unsophisti- 
 cated habits, will fix their wishes on some pretty 
 little plaything of a woman, all vanity and giggle^ 
 who has lived, from her " coming out," the life of a 
 butterfly, sipping the honied compliments of every 
 dull or designing coxcomb, and ever fluttering in 
 the sunshine of gaiety. Learned men are unques- 
 tionably sad noodles in affairs of love. It is 
 positively ludicrous to see the mind, which has just 
 been expanding under the study of Nature's law 
 and the economy of the heavens, brought into 
 humble subjugation by some " dainty-fingered 
 girl." O, this beauty ! Should we not be happier 
 did no such thing exist ? Then would suitable 
 dispositions more frequently come together, and 
 jealousy be comparatively unknown. Yet let us 
 not impiously complain of its existence, as there 
 is, no doubt, some great good to balance the 
 mischief which it causes. It is certainly a strong 
 corrective to the pride of man, for he can scarcely 
 boast the nobleness of mind which acknowledges 
 such a conqueror ! — Your humble servant^ reader, 
 is the veriest slave on earth. 
 
286 STERNHERST. 
 
 Several of Miss Carey's admirers had now been 
 successively dismissed, and it only remained for 
 her to choose between Sternherst and a young gal- 
 lant, his opposite in every respect. Edward 
 Raven was not less remarkable for the insinuating 
 softness of his manners, than for the beauty of his 
 person. He could sing a little, draw cupids 
 and roses on fire-screens, and write poetical 
 conceits in ladies' albums. He had, in short, 
 every charm in which the generality of girls de- 
 light, except one — the means of making a dash in 
 the fashionable world. He was poor. But for 
 this, we may conclude that Raven would have 
 been the gainer of her hand. She had, indeed, 
 evinced some degree of attachment towards him ; 
 but, suffering either her mother's prudence or 
 her own pride to over-rule her natural incli- 
 nations, she solicited Raven to be still her 
 " friend," and married his rival. 
 
 We will not suppose, that at the time of 
 her marriage she entertained any ideas of satis- 
 fying her love for wealth without the sacrifice of 
 her liberty. Sternhersfs generosity (being com- 
 mensurate with his means) was great. He granted 
 her every indulgence which money could pur- 
 chase ; nor had he a doubt concerning the 
 
STERNHERST. 287 
 
 entire possession of her affections. He knew 
 that his person and manners had little to recom- 
 mend them, but readily believed that his wife's 
 professed admiration of his talents and integrity- 
 was not feigned, Frank even to a fault, he 
 opened his bosom to her with the most un- 
 suspecting confidence, and as confidently ima- 
 gined that her every thought was known to 
 him. With no self-torturing propensity to seek 
 a cause for jealousy, he never hesitated, when 
 she desired to visit some scene of gaiety which 
 he (owing to more important occupation) might 
 be incapable of attending, to entrust her to the 
 guardianship even of his friend Raven. Regarding 
 the love of fashionable pleasure as a mere cha- 
 racteristic of the fair sex, he freely and liberally 
 satisfied such inclinations, often suspending his more 
 serious pursuits, and accommodating himself to the 
 disposition, not to say caprice, of his lady. 
 
 They had now been married three years, and 
 Sternherst looked with fond delight upon two 
 sweet infants, which he loved the more because 
 they inherited their mother's " eye of heavenly 
 blue." What the fascinations of gay life had failed 
 to do, his children at length effected. He was 
 now much less in his study than usual, and 
 
288 STERXHKHST. 
 
 would suffer even a borrowed book to remain 
 unread, while he danced his little daughter on his 
 knee, or fondled his baby boy. Had he been 
 hitherto indifferent to his wife, he would have 
 loved her now for her children's sake. 
 
 Business of importance commanded my friend's 
 presence in the metropolis, and a period of three 
 or four weeks was expected to elapse ere he 
 might reckon on the pleasure of returning to 
 his family. His wife parted from him with 
 such apparent uneasiness, that he smiled at her 
 overwrought solicitude, though by no means dis- 
 pleased at such an evidence of her affection. He 
 had read somewhere of woman's devotion when her 
 love is once obtained, and was now presented with 
 an example. The lady bade him employ as 
 much haste as might be consistent with the 
 nature of business, and was much grieved that it 
 could not be managed by deputy. He was to 
 stay " the very riping of the time ;" but, as he 
 loved her, not to exceed it. No such prayer, 
 however, was needed: his own earnest inclina- 
 tions required no soliciting as a stimulus ; so with 
 an affectionate " farewell," he departed on his 
 journey. 
 
STERNHEIIST. 289 
 
 He had been absent a fortnight, when circum- 
 stances, more favourable than he had dared to 
 anticipate, relieved him from the irksome necessity 
 of further separation, and he determined on 
 giving his beloved wife the agreeable surprise of 
 an unexpected return. He had just received a 
 letter from her, in which she regretted the 
 probability of his continued absence ; urged him 
 at least to comfort her by an immediate reply, 
 and to state the " happy time" when he might 
 be expected to return. 
 
 Instead of a letter, he put himself into the 
 mail, and travelling all night in sleepless anticipa- 
 tion, arrived near the gate of his shrubbery just 
 as the sun was at its mid-day height. 
 
 With " neither wife nor children, good or bad, 
 to provide for," I can but guess at the bounding 
 delight of a husband on the eve of returning, after 
 absence, to the bosom of a wife whom he knows 
 to be awaiting him with all the fretful anxiety of 
 hungry love. Surely it must be a precious feel- 
 ing, for Shakspeare never threw more ecstacy into 
 any speech than into the exclamation of Othello 
 when he unexpectedly meets Desdemona at Cy- 
 pres : — 
 
 vol. it. u 
 
290 STERNHERST. 
 
 a It gives me wonder great as my content 
 To see you here before me ! — O, my soul's joy ! 
 * * If it were now to die, 
 
 'Twere now to be most happy ; for, I fear, 
 My soul hath her content so absolute, 
 That not another comfort like to this 
 Succeeds in unknown fate. O, my sweet, 
 I prattle out of fashion, and I dote 
 In mine own comforts," &c. 
 
 Sternherst, though a man of sober habits, was 
 possessed of strong feeling ; and with a glowing 
 breast did he hasten through a narrow and secluded 
 path, which formed a shorter approach to his door 
 than the carriage road. " A few minutes more," 
 said he, " and I shall indeed be happy." 
 
 Scarcely were the words uttered, when his hap- 
 piness was blighted for ever ! 
 
 He was about to pass a small summer-house, 
 (the scene of many a blissful moment,) when he 
 heard — and paused to hear most distinctly — the 
 voice of his wife : — 
 
 " But, really, it is too bad. He is very fond of 
 me, and I ought indeed to repay his excessive 
 kindness with more than a mere semblance of 
 affection." 
 
 " Oh, not at all," replied a voice, which the 
 
STERNHERST. 291 
 
 astounded husband too truly recognised as that of 
 "his friend" Raven. "Not at all. If he be 
 satisfied, wherefore need you deny yourself? ' He 
 that is roWd, not wanting what is stolen, let him 
 not know it, and he's not roWd at all? We must 
 really, accommodate ourselves to the ways of the 
 world. Obey prudence in the choice of a hus- 
 band, and passion in the selection of a lover. 
 Nay, throw aside this peevish coyness. There is 
 but another week ere he returns to mar our hap- 
 piness ; and * * * * 
 * * * % * 
 
 They bade each other " farewell," and Stern- 
 herst, stepping behind the summer-house, saw 
 them depart, the lady to the house, and the gen- 
 tleman towards the entrance lodge. 
 
 Any other person, with Sternherst^s feelings, 
 would most probably have discovered himself on 
 the instant, and given way to immediate ven- 
 geance ; but he, though agonized by what he had 
 just beheld, so far maintained his appearance of 
 composure as to meet the destroyer of his happi- 
 ness, a few minutes after, with a salutation of seem- 
 ing cheerfulness. He had managed, by leaping a 
 hedge, and making his way through a plantation, 
 to arrive at the lodge entrance just as young 
 u 2 
 
292 STERNHERST. 
 
 Raven was about to make his exit. The meeting, 
 of course, had the appearance of being entirely 
 accidental ; but a casual beholder might have 
 observed, with some degree of surprise, that 
 Raven evinced a feeling of confusion, rather than a 
 shew of welcome, at the unexpected sight of his 
 friend. Sternherst, however, affected to see 
 nothing suspicious in his manner ; and, in his 
 usual good-natured tone, expressed his joy at the 
 encounter. 
 
 " I have just been calling," said Raven, u to 
 see if you were returned ; but was told by your 
 good lady that she did not expect you for a 
 week." 
 
 " Why," rejoined the other, " my coming is 
 unexpected ; but I trust not the less welcome on 
 that account, and I have only to hope that you 
 will return and take an early dinner with us." 
 
 Young Raven, deeming it politic to shew no 
 feeling of reluctance, accepted the invitation ; but, 
 with that ready susceptibility of fear which dis- 
 tinguishes the guilty mind, he grew uneasy on 
 observing that as Sternherst approached nearer the 
 house, he became less and less composed. The 
 unusual way in which he first accosted his wife 
 was still more harassing to his conscience-stricken 
 
STERNHER3T, 293 
 
 companion ; while the lady, observing her para- 
 mour's confusion, was disabled by apprehension 
 from supporting the hypocritical character which 
 she had hitherto sustained with so much artfulness 
 and success. 
 
 Indifferently, however, as the injured husband 
 performed his part, he proved himself, in this in- 
 s tance, the best actor. The presence of a third 
 person afforded at least some explanation for the 
 qualified joy with which he received the welcome 
 of his wife : and O ! what a contrast was here be- 
 tween the fact and the expectation ! The harlots 
 " bought embrace — loveless, joyless, unendeared," 
 would have been luxury to the repulsive chill of 
 his wife's hand and cheek : he could not touch her 
 lip — that lip, from which he had before culled 
 sweets, " sweeter than honey or the honey-comb." 
 He pressed her hand ; but it was with the feeling 
 of a man who squeezes the neck of a viper, to avoid 
 the bite of its envenomed fangs. Though he could 
 not entirely mask his own emotions, he affected not 
 to observe those of his companions, and they were 
 at length somewhat relieved, in the supposition 
 that he had not remarked them. 
 
 After several common place observations on the 
 subject of his business in town, and other matters, 
 
294 STERNHERST. 
 
 he fixed his eyes firmly on a beautiful portrait of his 
 wife, which hung over the fire-place, and spoke as 
 follows : — 
 
 u It is astonishing, my friend Raven, that 
 people should so delight in slandering the charac- 
 ter of their neighbours ; and that they should seek 
 materials for their own reputation among the 
 wrecks of the reputations of others. They act as 
 if there were only a certain sum of honour in cur- 
 rency, and none in the mint ; and as though 
 scandal were a certain marketable commodity, 
 at so much credit~for-virtue per measure. For 
 my own part, I am scarcely less annoyed by the 
 officiousness of a prying spirit than by the vices of 
 a weak one. I use the term " weak," being in- 
 clined to believe. Sir, that those errors which are 
 most vicious in themselves, and most pernicious 
 as examples, are committed by men of moral im- 
 becility, rather than by individuals radically im- 
 moral. What think you upon this subject, Mr. 
 Raven ?" 
 
 " Why — yes, Sternherst," replied the latter, 
 beginning to hope that his injured friend might be 
 still deceived. " Yes," said he, " I am certainly 
 of your opinion in this particular ; though not 
 inclined, (as you probably are,) to be more 
 
STEItNHERST. 295 
 
 lenient towards the sinful; because they were 
 born not less imbued with virtue than those who, 
 in after life, may be renowned for their good con- 
 duct.^ 
 
 " Nay," said Sternherst, " you anticipate me 
 wrongly. It were bad policy to find an excuse 
 for murder — or — or adultery — or, indeed, any 
 crime less heinous, either in our natural moral 
 weakness, or in the deficiency of our moral educa- 
 tion. But — to return to what I was saying at 
 first — much as I should suffer, for instance, by 
 the discovery of any unfriendly conduct on your 
 part, or of any infidelity on the part of my wife, I 
 should be scarcely less irritated — I do not say 
 grieved, for wretchedness and wrath are not con- 
 stant companions — but I should be scarcely less 
 angered by the officiousness of the individual who 
 might be my informant in such a case. Sir, I 
 hate the man who can only shew his regard for 
 virtue by revealing the acts of the vicious, and by 
 undeceiving the poor confiding dupe, hitherto 
 happy in his ignorance. What says Othello ? 
 
 " He that is lobbed, not wanting what is stol'n, 
 Let him not know it, and he's not robb'd at all." 
 
 The reader need not be informed, why the quo- 
 
296 STEltNHERST. 
 
 tation of this couplet had so visible an effect upon 
 the guilty pair. Sternherst, however, took no 
 note of it ; but continued to look upon his wife's 
 portrait, and thus proceeded : — 
 
 " Truly, we live in a meddling world. Now 
 appearances would certainly justify the suppo- 
 sition of my being the happiest of husbands ; 
 Charlotte the most affectionate of wives ; and 
 Edward Raven the truest of friends." 
 
 " What mean you ?" interrupted the latter. 
 
 " Nay, my good Sir," continued the husband, 
 " do not imagine that I have given credence to 
 any reports against ye. Believe me, I have not a 
 doubt upon the subject of your honesty, or my 
 wife's honour — not the shadow of a doubt ! Mrs. 
 Sternherst has, till this day, behaved to me in the 
 most endearing manner. Often have I blessed the 
 auspicious morning which saw us united, and have 
 even sometimes feared that my great affection 
 towards the partner of my heart might arouse the 
 jealousy of heaven. Never have I suspected her 
 integrity, and, God knows, at this very moment, 
 I believe her conduct unquestionable. Yet," con- 
 continued he, with a smile 4 which was a 
 mockery,' " should I believe my ears, this charm- 
 ing wife of mine is not only indifferent to me, but 
 
STERNHERST. 297 
 
 fully sensible to the charms of another. It would, 
 in short, appear, that her ' show of love 1 to me is 
 6 indeed but show/ and that you, Raven, are the 
 true possessor of her heart !" 
 
 " Good heaven !" exclaimed Mrs. Sternherst, 
 while Raven started erect from his chair, and, 
 with great apparent indignation, demanded the 
 author of u the calumny ?" 
 
 " Nay," said Sternherst, "do not suppose that 
 I attach any weight to the gossip of others, or that 
 I, in the slightest degree, suspect you. Believe 
 me, I am convinced upon the subject ; and, 
 remain assured, that, until a better authority than 
 mere report shall arise to impeach the virtue of a 
 wife, I shall ever consider her unimpeachable. 
 Banish, therefore, your uneasiness. I shall remain 
 firm in the opinion I now entertain of you ; and 
 will certainly, in this instance, give credit to 
 appearances, however a busy meddler might be 
 inclined to suspect them." 
 
 " I am obliged by your confidence," said Raven, 
 and will continue to deserve it: but, I beseech 
 you, Sternherst, give me up the name of my 
 traducer — a scoundrel, whose life is in a state at 
 least as precarious as my reputation !" 
 
 The injured husband now for the first time 
 
298 STERNHERST. 
 
 planted a steadfast gaze upon the shrinking dupe 
 of his irony, and smiled as if in contempt at the 
 miserable bravado he had just heard. Now it was, 
 that he felt a ten-fold gratification in his forbear- 
 ance when he witnessed the convincing evidence 
 of their guilt. The violence of instant vengeance 
 might have wrecked his peace for ever. He had 
 now the opportunity of indulging in a calm 
 revenge, dignified in itself, and the more bitter in 
 its effect. 
 
 The fire of Sternhersfs eye shot into the very 
 soul of Raven, who at once comprehended the 
 real meaning of all he had just heard. After a 
 short pause, Sternherst continued :— 
 
 " And would you, Sir, add murder to the crime 
 of adultery? — Would you take the life of the 
 husband, (for his eyes and ears are the informants 
 in this unparalleled case of hypocrisy and faith- 
 lessness,) —would you take my life as the means of 
 mending your fame, and securing your mistress ? 
 — You need not, Sir. She is at liberty to go and 
 do wherever and whatever you may require. I 
 value the 6 damages' I have received at no price 
 which a court of justice can award. I do not 
 value the abuser of my love or friendship suffi- 
 ciently to employ either money, time, or energy in 
 
STERNHERST. 299 
 
 the exaction of a worthless or nominal ' compensa- 
 tion." Fear nothing, Sir, in the way of my wrath, 
 so long as you make not my summer-house the 
 scene of your guilty dalliance. Make what ar- 
 rangements you will with your mistress, only let 
 them have no interference with me or any thing 
 belonging to me. Quit the house immediately, 
 under pain of chastisement ; and never enter my 
 grounds again, except you be prepared to encounter 
 the prowess of my groom, who shall have a horse- 
 whip provided for your especial service." 
 
 " I am ready," said the dashing gallant, assum- 
 ing now a tone of reckless impudence, " to give 
 you any satisfaction you may require." 
 
 " Pray, Sir," rejoined Sternherst, " do not in- 
 sult me with such cant. What satisfaction can 
 you give ? Could you restore to me peace of 
 mind by obliterating all recollection of the past ? 
 or render substantial the seeming virtue of my 
 wife, then might I apply to you for satisfaction. 
 But go, Sir ; leave my wounds to heal under the 
 soothing influence of religion's philosophy, and 
 take with you my advice, that you consider — not 
 my sorrows — but your own deplorable situation. 
 Go ! — my contempt precludes enmity, for you are 
 rather to be pitied than persecuted. My forgive-. 
 
300 STERNHERST. 
 
 ness can be of little worth to you. Tender then 
 to Heaven your repentance, and sin no more. It is 
 my desire that you leave this house with all pos- 
 sible expedition ; nevertheless, as you may wish 
 to conclude some arrangements with that lady, I 
 leave you awhile to yourselves. " Saying this, he 
 quitted the room. 
 
 Sternherst had remained in his study about a 
 quarter of an hour when he heard the footsteps of 
 Raven, as the latter crossed the hall to make his 
 final exit from that mansion, into which he had 
 been so often welcomed as a desired and honour- 
 able guest. The wretched husband would have 
 probably long continued in a state of apathy or 
 stupor, had it not been for his little girl, who, in 
 fond but broken accents, now solicited admittance 
 to " Papa," as she vainly tried to open the study- 
 door. The nursery-maid was standing a few paces 
 behind, as if fearful to intrude upon his privacy, 
 and yet anxious to indulge the child, who, hearing 
 of her father's return, had been urgent to see him. 
 He took the smiling innocent to his bosom, but 
 experienced, for the first time, a feeling of sorrow 
 at beholding her auburn hair and light blue eyes. 
 He had, however, too much philosophy to coun- 
 tenance the absurdity, and too much philanthropy 
 
STEHNHERST. 301 
 
 to be blind to the injustice of visiting the sins of 
 the parent upon the child. " Thou art like thy 
 mother in person," thought he ; " but thou shalt 
 have different principles instilled into thy mind, so 
 that thy conduct may be better." 
 
 After leaving his wife to her own meditations 
 for several hours, he presented himself before her. 
 When he entered the room she was reclining her 
 head upon the arm of a sofa, from which she 
 raised her pallid countenance as he approached to 
 address her. The expression of her face was 
 rather one of resignation than regret. Conscious 
 that she had committed what would allow of no 
 palliative, she neither exhibited sorrow nor endea- 
 voured to excite pity, and if any thing in her 
 present conduct could be gratifying to Sternherst, 
 it was this. She had deceived him by smiles of 
 seeming love ; and it was with some satisfaction 
 that he now observed her refrain from attempting 
 to impose upon him by any affectation of remorse. 
 Gazing upon him only for an instant, she averted 
 her eyes, and, like a convicted culprit expecting 
 the judge's sentence, silently awaited the speech of 
 her injured master. The latter was some minutes 
 ere he could give his grief an utterance ; at length, 
 
302 STEIttfHERST. 
 
 with tearful eyes, and words surcharged with feel- 
 ing, he thus addressed her : — 
 
 " If my dearest friend had only hinted to me 
 the probable existence of the facts which have 
 transpired, I should on the instant have loaded 
 him with the full measure of such abuse as the 
 slanders of a liar would merit ; but mine own ears 
 — too well acquainted with your honied tones, and 
 my eyes— too susceptible of your loveliness — these 
 are witnesses whose evidence is too strong to admit 
 the shadow of a doubt. Under impressions of the 
 most ardent expectancy on your part, and of the 
 most glowing anticipation on mine, I was hasten- 
 ing to your arms, and found— a villain in their 
 fold ! I witnessed your cheek burn under his kiss, 
 and heard — O, Charlotte !— a confession of the 
 most unfeeling hypocrisy and bitterest ingratitude 
 that ever came from the lips of woman ! How 
 have I been deceived ! and, good heaven, how I 
 might have erred ! Had the intelligence of your 
 death preceded my hapless arrival, I fear I should 
 have lacked fortitude to support the loss. At all 
 events, I should have erected a tomb to your 
 memory, and debauched it with terms of affection, 
 virtue, and chastity. I should have flooded your 
 
STERNHERST. 303 
 
 memory, Charlotte, with tears of sorrow, and have 
 sought consolation — aye, in the bosom of your 
 paramour — the villain who has undone me !" 
 
 The last allusion fell upon the senses of the 
 guilty woman with irresistible force. Tears gushed 
 into her eyes, and she concealed her face within 
 her hands during the remainder of her husband's 
 speech. 
 
 " But for our children, life had been for a time 
 burthensome. I should have lived the dupe of a 
 scoundrel, and looked to the last with an eye of 
 friendship upon the poisoner of my honour. Permit 
 me to inquire why I have deserved this ? What 
 restraint have I imposed ? What indulgence have 
 I withheld ? Have evidences of my affection and 
 duty, of subserviency to your inclinations and 
 comparative indifference to my own — have such 
 evidences been sparingly bestowed ? What was 
 it that deceived you before our marriage ? What 
 has undeceived you since ? But this is trifling ; 
 since I am now acquainted with the base motives 
 which induced you to form a union with one 
 whose affections, instead of returning, you only 
 endured. It appears, then, your prudence — not 
 your passion — rendered me eligible. It is only 
 a pity your mind had no principle to govern it. 
 
304 
 
 STERNHERST. 
 
 One thing at least may be said in your favour, 
 viz. that you have never shewn any decrease of 
 love. That cannot diminish which never existed. 
 Yet, wherefore these tears, Charlotte ?" 
 
 " Nay, do not ask me, Sir," was the brief 
 reply. 
 
 Sternherst had " spoken daggers to her." His 
 severity was not the less impressive in being so 
 tempered with the tone of mildness. Had he 
 given way to that anger which- the magnitude of 
 his wrongs might seem to justify, it is possible she 
 might have been prompted to fly for refuge into 
 the arms of her paramour ; and she had then 
 ended her career, as she commenced it — in infamy. 
 The subdued spirit of his reproof, however, was 
 far more effectual in awaking her sense of shame. 
 He seemed rather to regret the loss of all he loved 
 than to feel infuriate against the murderer of his 
 peace ; and the wife, perhaps for the first time, 
 was made conscious of her own infamy, and of the 
 value of that heart which she had so grossly mis- 
 used. If any portion of Sternherst's address might 
 be deemed adequately severe, it was this : — 
 
 " These tears, I presume, originate in thwarted 
 inclination. Yet, do not grieve. Edward Raven 
 still lives to comfort you ; and the lucre which 
 
STERNHERST, 305 
 
 has purchased me a temporary possession of your 
 person, shall not be entirely withheld. I will 
 make arrangements for a periodical remittance of 
 what will suffice to provide you with lodging, 
 food, and raiment; and for protection, you, of 
 course, know where to look. The children will 
 remain with me ; for— your- — friend, Mr. Raven, 
 wanting the proper feelings of a man, would prove 
 but a poor step-father. I think I can take better 
 care of them myself." 
 
 Such was Mrs. Sternherst^s agitation at this mo- 
 ment, that her husband with difficulty maintained 
 his own composure. 
 
 " Charlotte," said he, assuming his mildest tone, 
 ^ we are now about to part — for ever, or not, as 
 our conduct may merit. I shall quit this house 
 till you are no longer its tenant ; but pray (I 
 speak it most earnestly,) take ample time to make 
 all necessary preparations, and do not scruple to 
 appropriate whatever may serve for your future 
 comfort. When settled, let me know where ; and 
 — Charlotte — (the last time I may call you so) — 
 take with you the parting sentiments of one who 
 loved you with the blindness of an idolater. 
 Were you now a corpse before me, I would do 
 the last office of a husband. Your errors should 
 
 VOL. II. x 
 
306 STERNHERST, 
 
 be buried with you, nor would my prayers for the 
 safety of your soul be withheld. Nay, as it is, I 
 consider you — dead ! An unhappy widower stands 
 before you, whose last remaining comfort ori- 
 ginates in the hope that your repentance will 
 conciliate offended Heaven, and that we may be 
 hereafter reunited. On earth we never shall ! Nor 
 think me cruel or unforgiving. The greatest 
 share of cruelty I inflict upon myself. I cannot 
 forget, but my heart prompts me to forgive ; and 
 it is the stern resolve, to support man's dignity 
 and the cause of virtue, which urges me to the 
 adoption of my present measures. I would fain 
 persuade myself that these tears are the first fruits 
 of a penitent heart. Adieu, Madam. — Charlotte, 
 adieu ; and may Heaven forgive you freely as I do." 
 
 She was stupified: his last words fell imper- 
 fectly upon her ear ; nor did she think upon a 
 farewell glance till Sternherst had left the room. 
 
 The supposition of radical error frequently in- 
 duces us falsely to infer the incorrigibility of an 
 offender ; or, at least, to apply such remedies as 
 contribute the more to render him that which we 
 imagine him to be. There are people, on whom 
 no gentle censure will have any effect, and others, 
 who, on the contrary, are deeply impressed by it. 
 
STEKNHERST. 30J 
 
 Nor is it that the minds of the latter are less radi- 
 cally vicious ; but that their breasts are more 
 imbued with susceptibility ; the cold-blooded 
 felon who strikes you down with a bludgeon, for 
 the sake of your watch or purse, can be benefitted 
 by naught save " stripes and a dungeon." But it 
 will be found, that many who have long erred in 
 the iniquitous indulgence of their passions, are to be 
 recovered (and that speedily) by making their sen- 
 sibility the medium of correction. The calm dig- 
 nity of insulted and forgiving virtue is frequently 
 more efficacious than the castigatory hand of severe 
 justice. Revenge and retaliation give strength to 
 the cause of the aggressor ; they render his regret 
 less poignant, if they do not altogether extinguish 
 it ; while the reproofs of gentle forbearance have, 
 in many instances, the opposite effect, and trans- 
 mute the action of sin into the pangs of remorse. 
 
 In the course of a very short time, Sternherst 
 remained the sole inhabitant of that drawing-room 
 which, ere now, had afforded him the full enjoy- 
 ment of domestic happiness. His wife was com- 
 fortably lodged in a retired village, within twenty 
 miles of her former home ; and her guilty seducer, 
 from feelings either of penitence or disappointment, 
 took his departure for Italy, either to turn Catho- 
 
308 STEftNHERST. 
 
 lie and gain absolution, or to indulge in his love 
 for intrigue, where he might be less liable to inter- 
 ruption. Neither Sternherst nor his wife ever 
 heard of him more ; but I was informed, that he 
 ultimately took up his residence at Naples ; where, 
 as we understand, neither courage in men, nor 
 chastity in women, is much esteemed, — a place 
 renowned for its macaroni, burning mountain, and 
 lax morality. 
 
 There is a certain cant among authors, touching 
 the more delicate feelings of women — their strong 
 susceptibilities — and liability to that interesting 
 climax of wretchedness, — a broken heart : but I 
 believe there are as many men die of broken hearts 
 as women ; indeed the only broken heart I ever saw 
 was that of a man. It was in the Anatomical 
 Museum of the celebrated Mr. Brookes, who in- 
 troduced it to my notice with all the pathos of 
 which he was capable. " Here," said he, " is 
 the palpable illustration of — a broken heart I 
 Of course, you will anticipate me in the idea that 
 this citadel of the affections, after long cherishing its 
 dearest, tenderest object, was either assaulted by 
 some overwhelming misfortune or undermined by 
 some treacherous villainy : despoiled of its precious 
 hope, it lost all energy for defence, and death 
 
STERNHERST. 309 
 
 soon entered the breach which sorrow had effected. 
 Yes, Sir, — alas ! — this heart — this heart, Sir, is 
 
 the heart of " 
 
 " Of whom ? " said I, impatient at his pause :— 
 " Of a coal-heaver," said he, " who died sud- 
 denly from the effects of that rent, caused by over- 
 strained exertion in carrying a heavy sack of 
 coals ! " 
 
 By a broken heart, however, we are, I presume, 
 to understand a blasted hope, or disappointment 
 not to be remedied. That men die less frequently 
 than women under circumstances of disappointed 
 love, is certainly true ; but this is assignable to 
 other causes, than that which is so commonly 
 asserted, viz. the greater depth of woman's feeling, 
 or the greater delicacy of her susceptibility ; it 
 originates simply in the less expansion of her mind, 
 and in her fewer opportunities of diverting her 
 thoughts from the one melancholy channel, by 
 mixing in busy life. It will be seen, that men of 
 serious and scientific pursuits generally support 
 misfortune with more fortitude than men of ima* 
 gination ; but let it not be therefore said that the 
 former have less feeling than the latter ; nor, by 
 parity of reasoning, that men are less devoted in 
 their affections than women, because thev less? 
 
310 STERNHERST. 
 
 frequently die under the disappointment of them- 
 The delicacy of man's susceptibility averages at 
 least that of woman, although a charming essayist of 
 the present day has left us to infer a contrary 
 opinion. But it is doubtful whether he speaks 
 from a conviction of its truth, or under a feeling of 
 gallantry . I have rarely seen women moved to 
 tears at hearing those of his stories which many a 
 man, from excess of feeling, has been almost 
 unable to peruse aloud ; and have frequently 
 observed, during the performance of our most 
 affecting tragedies, that mama and her daughter 
 can whisper and giggle, while the father greets the 
 well painted sorrow of an actor, 
 
 " With silence and tears.*' 
 
 Thus much has been said, lest the conduct of 
 Sternherst, subsequent to his separation from his 
 wife, should appear unfeeling, or, at least, incon- 
 sistent with that show of grief which in the first 
 instance he exhibited. It is, perhaps, expected 
 by the reader, that he will get more and more 
 miserable — that his heart will become misanthro- 
 pical — his mind impaired — that he will make a 
 bonfire of the guilt-fraught summer-house, and 
 throw his wife's portrait into the flames — sell his 
 
STERNHERST. 311 
 
 magnificent house and grounds— put aside his 
 carriage — forfeit every comfort — save nothing but 
 his books —hoard nothing but his misery — go and 
 live in a cottage — hire a very old woman, and give 
 her strict injunctions not to disturb the cobwebs — 
 swear openly that the world is vicious and un- 
 grateful — do deeds of charity by stealth — weep to 
 think that his children must either be the propa- 
 gators or the victims] of vice — avoid suicide only 
 on account of his religion — esteem the world as 
 damnable solely on his own account — find more re- 
 lief in thrusting the barbed point still deeper and 
 deeper, than in attempting to withdraw it — me- 
 lancholy his only balm-— thought his bane and 
 antidote— peace gone for ever ! — heart broken ! ! 
 —till, at length, he dies, forgiving his wife, and 
 at peace with all the world ! ! ! 
 
 ^Twas " no such thing." He suffered greatly 
 for a time, and was, perhaps, ever after some- 
 what more serious than formerly. He sent his 
 children to a good school, and a regular remit- 
 tance to his wife of fifty pounds every quarter. 
 He had the pleasure of finding that she became 
 truly penitent ; and, at length, when his children 
 had arrived at a proper age, he gave them some 
 slight intimation concerning the cause of his sepa- 
 
312 
 
 STERNHERST. 
 
 ration from their mother, and allowed them fre- 
 quently to visit her. Thus a communication was 
 maintained, grateful to both parties ; and thus it 
 would have continued, had not Sternherst been 
 suddenly attacked by a violent complaint which 
 threatened his speedy dissolution. He had made 
 a vow never more to see his wife, otherwise it 
 is possible he might now have indulged himself 
 in the meeting which it was evident he earnestly 
 desired. In his will, however, he considered her 
 as one who had never, in word or act, offended 
 him, and, with his own hand, penned to her the 
 following letter, only a few days before his 
 death : — 
 
 u My dearest Charlotte, 
 u The vow I made never more on earth to see 
 you, I keep with determination, though not without 
 difficulty. It was in no feeling of enmity that 
 I made that vow ; neither have I borne the sepa- 
 ration with that indifference which the world pro- 
 bably supposes, and you may possibly think. 
 You know me to have been ever firm in my 
 resolves : learn also that I have been constant in 
 my love. At the marriage altar I vowed to re- 
 main yours only, ' forgetting" all others. 1 Yours 
 I have ever since been, and yours I die. 
 
STERNHERST. 313 
 
 " You have suffered much, and much, believe 
 me, have I suffered also. Now, however, let our 
 sorrow cease. I encounter death cheerfully, joyful 
 in the assurance that your sincere penitence has 
 obtained a complete pardon for that error which 
 robbed me of what I dearly cherished, and 
 happy in the hope that we may shortly meet 
 again where love is pure, and deceit has no exist- 
 ence. 
 
 " Death, under some circumstances, I should 
 not have met without fears — fears for my chil- 
 dren. Such fears, however, are no more. My 
 boy and girl have found a mother to protect them 
 — one who will, I am sure, instruct them in the 
 comforts of virtue, for she has discovered the 
 bitterness of error. Forgive me, Charlotte, that 
 I once more allude to circumstances which, as I 
 hope, will henceforward never trouble your me- 
 mory — your conscience they surely need not pain ; 
 nor could I leave the world thus happily, if I did not 
 conceive that you?* penitence and my prayers have 
 purchased from the throne of mercy that pardon, 
 that perfect and unqualified forgiveness, which 
 your expiring and faithful husband tenders you 
 with his dying breath, 
 
 VOL. II. y 
 
314 STERNHERST. 
 
 " God bless thee, Charlotte ! and may he also 
 protect our children, that thy old age may be 
 supported by their strength, and made happy in 
 thei^ virtue !" 
 
 THE EisD, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SHACKELL AND BAYL1S, JOHNSON's-COUJRT, PJLEJ2T-STllEJiT. 
 

 ** .. V A ' 
 
 
 
 1,4 *^ A* 
 
 » A V ^ o 
 
 <& 
 
 5^ 
 
 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper pn 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 . ^ v£* c Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 
 **y%T^ * <£ V'^&JISr** a^" Treatment Date: May 2009 
 
 'o , » * A ^ *< VY« S 
 
 ** «^°* ^ o* -• PreservationTechnologies 
 
 ^0 *j^> A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 \£» n^ ' »S 111 Th o m son Park Drive 
 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 5?^ ^llBP^ ^^ •% (724)779-2111 
 
V 
 
 
 o^ *o M o' -0 
 ck jey « * • o 
 
 
 
 
 1*» ••i^tvl*' "P