^ 
 
 ^L I B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 P73h 
 v.l 
 
 1
 
 i 
 
 A >c
 
 THE 
 
 HISTORY 
 
 OP 
 
 MYSELF AND MY FRIEND, 
 
 A NOVEL: 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNE PLUMPTRE. 
 VOL. L
 
 Just puhlished, 
 
 TRAVELS in SOUTHERN AFRICA, during the 
 
 Years 1803, 4, 5, and 6, 
 
 By Professor Lichtensteik : 
 
 Translated from the German 
 
 By Anne Plumptre. 
 
 In one vol. 4to, with Engravings. Price I/. I6s. boards. 
 
 A VIEW of LITERATURE, and its INFLUENCE 
 
 upon SOCIETY: 
 
 Translated from the French of 
 
 Mad. de Stael Holstein. 
 
 To which are prefixed. Memoirs of the Life and Writings 
 
 of the Author. Tvro vols. Hs.
 
 THE 
 
 HISTORY 
 
 OP 
 
 MYSELF AND MY FRIEND, 
 A NOVEL: 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNE PLUMPTRE. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 The Power that did create, can change the scene 
 Of things; make mean of great, and great of mean ; 
 The brightest glory can eclipse with might. 
 And place the most obscure in dazzling light. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 ENGLISH AND FOREIGN PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT STREET, 
 HANOVER SQUARE. 
 
 1815.
 
 9riiuUd by Ruhttrd Taylor and Co., Sh»*'Lmt, Lwdmu
 
 ^23 
 
 P73i 
 ^.\ PREFACE 
 
 AND 
 
 DEDICATION, 
 
 a VVrite your own History and that of 
 * your Friend ! — Why, who knows or cares 
 ff about either you or your Friend ? — 
 - Courteous reader, I do not think it very 
 ■ polite to tell a man to his face, that no- 
 body knows or cares about him, and if 
 4 I were not very peaceable-minded, it 
 '^J^ might bring thee into rather an awk- 
 ^'^ward predicament. Granted, however, 
 i that it is so : — This I consider rather as 
 ^ an argument for than against the under- 
 }^ taking, since I hope and trust that, 
 ''Lfrom the time my book is published, 
 ^the name of Samuel Danville will be 
 ^universally known, and people will be 
 «:J exceedingly interested about him; and 
 ^ will fairly confess, courteous reader, 
 |that I am extremely solicitous to see my 
 vi VOL. I. a
 
 IV 
 
 name become one of great publicity, 
 and no less ambitious of exciting, in a 
 high degree, ihe interest of my fellow- 
 creatures ! Then, as to my friend, the 
 name of Armstrong must be allowed 
 one of infinite notoriety, though un- 
 happily the name of Danville may not 
 be so. And how does any body know 
 that my friend may not be a descendant 
 of the great poet whose name he bears? 
 If he be so, the v/orld are always deeply- 
 interested in the descendants of a poet at 
 least, even though the poor poet him- 
 self may have been doomed to expe- 
 rience the most mortifying neglect. 
 
 But though my principal incitements 
 to take up the pen were those above 
 stated, yet I must do myself the justice 
 to say, that they Vv^ere not the sole ones. 
 I was besides actuated by strong feelings 
 cf philanthropy, and an earnest desire of 
 contributing towards the entertainment 
 of the public.
 
 I had once proposed giving my work 
 thetitleof Confessions, sincel thought 
 that The Confessions of Samuel 
 Danville would look extremely well 
 in a title page, and that is a very im- 
 portant consideration in composing a 
 book. Besides, as I have confessed that 
 a desire of notoriety is one of my lead- 
 ing motives in commencing Author, 
 this title seemed particularly appropriate. 
 On reflecting, however, more deeply, it 
 seemed to me that the days of Confes- 
 sions were gone by ; that the present 
 are rather the days of Lives and Hi- 
 stories ; and I am well aware that an 
 Author who writes from the pure love 
 of fame, must study the prevailing 
 fashions of the day, and even sacrifice 
 to them, if necessary, the look of his 
 title page. 1 have therefore, preferred 
 giving my work the title of a History. 
 
 To that Public, then, v/hose interest 
 I am so anxious to excite, whose enter-
 
 Yl 
 
 tainment I am so desirous to promote^ 
 this true History is very respectfully 
 inscribed by 
 
 Their most obedient, 
 And as I hope to become, through 
 
 the immense sale of my book, 
 most obliged humble servant^ 
 
 Samuel Danville*
 
 THE HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 MYSELF AND MY FRIEND, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A dialogue in a sick-room. — The character of a 
 college quiz. — Parental affection. — Odd notions 
 entertained by a young divine. — A departure 
 Jar the continent. 
 
 " 1 HIS is kind indeed," said Mr. Worledge 
 with a voice rendered tremulous by the para- 
 lytic stroke under which he was suffering, and 
 addressing his cousin Mr. Anderson as the 
 latter entered his sickroom: — "this is kind 
 indeed," said he, — " and you will accompany 
 me again to Baieges?" 
 
 " To the world's end, if it would be of any 
 use to you,'' answered Mr. Anderson, 
 
 " I have consented to go at the earnest re* 
 commendation of my physicians, and at the 
 no less earnest entreaties of my friends j but I 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 had rather that both would have suffered me to 
 stay and die quietly at home." 
 
 *' I cannot say Amen to the latter sentiment: 
 — on the contrary, I think that your physicians 
 have done very right to recommend, and your 
 friends to entreat, and that you do very right to 
 comply vi'ith their recommendations and en- 
 treaties. Rem.ember the benefit you received 
 on a former occasion from those waters, in con- 
 junction with the fine, pure, clear air which 
 you breathed for so many months." 
 
 *' I remember it with gratitude: — but, my 
 good cousin, I was then fifteen years younger 
 than I am now, and th^t was a first attack :— 
 I cannot expect the waters to prove equally effi- 
 cacious after a second attack, and at a so much 
 more advanced period of life." 
 
 "But you are only now between fifty and sixty 
 years of age : — you may then reasonably hope 
 for considerable benefit, though not perhaps 
 for such a perfect recovery as in the former in- 
 stance. At least the experiment is worth try- 
 ing ; and we shall both revisit with pleasure a 
 spot with which we were so much charmed." 
 " I shall be a sad burden upon you." 
 *' That is a word not to be found in the 
 dictionary of friendship, and my friendship to 
 you cannot, I hope, be doubted. Talk not 
 then of a burden 5 but believe that to be of
 
 5 
 
 use to you is always a particular satisfaction to 
 me." 
 
 " 1 can only say again, this is truly kind. — 
 And you have thought of the other matter 
 mentioned in my letter?" 
 
 " About a curate to supply your place here?" 
 
 " Even so." 
 
 " It has been duly attended to ; and I have 
 one in my eye who I think will suit you ex- 
 actly, — a young man recently elected fellow of. 
 our college. He is not yet ordained, but will 
 be so next Sunday, and can enter upon the 
 curacy directly." 
 
 '' Not yet ordained ! — He is then very young ; 
 — I had rather you had procured me an older 
 person. But you think him steady, I presume, 
 or you would not recommend him. He will 
 not, I hope, be running after the hounds when 
 he should be making a sermon^ or embroiling 
 himself with his neighbours by poaching on 
 their manors." 
 
 " Of these things there is not the least dan- 
 ger:— I much doubt whether he even knows 
 how to fire a gun ; and 1 am very sure that he 
 never took aim at a bird in his life : — he has, 
 indeed, a strange fancy of not liking to kill any 
 thing. He has, in short, been something of 
 a quiz at college ; but I thought you would be 
 £0 good as to overlook that. He is perfectly ig- 
 B 2
 
 norant of the important science of twisting 
 knockers off the doors of houses ; he never 
 drinks any thing stronger than water, or at most 
 a dish of tea or coffee ; and is less fond of 
 cards than of books. But it is enough to 
 say that he was the senior wrangler of his year, 
 and that, you know, implies that he must be a 
 quiz." 
 
 " Well, I don't see any thing very objection- 
 able in all this. — And you say that he can come 
 immediately to reside here?'* 
 
 *' Immediately. — He is, indeed, anxious to 
 come as soon as possible. He has three sisters 
 upon his hands, for whom he wants a home 
 and an asylum." 
 
 "Three sisters! — Upon my word I think 
 that is having rather too much of a good thing. 
 —I hope my curacy is not all that they have to 
 depend upon.'* 
 
 " Not absolutely : he has his fellowship be- 
 sides; and the ladies have a thousand pounds 
 each. They belong to a very ancient family in 
 the North, which I am pretty sure you know 
 by name, the Armstrongs of Winstanton. The 
 faiht r died about three months ago. after having 
 been two years a widower. His property was 
 very considerable ; but he was of that descrip- 
 tion of beings, who think that younger sons 
 have quite as much of the good things of this
 
 world as they have any right to expect, if they 
 arrive at a piece of cheese to their bread : as to 
 being comfortably provided for by their father, 
 'tis a thing to which they can have no claim 
 whatever. With regard to daughters his creed 
 was, that if they have not address enough to get 
 themselves husbands by the time they are eigh- 
 teen, they are extremely well off if they are not 
 turned pennyless out of doors. He prided him- 
 self upon leaving the family estates unimpaired 
 to his eldest son ; but regularly spent every shil- 
 ling of his annual income, so that he did not die 
 with a very large stock of ready money in the 
 hands of his bankers. True to his principle with 
 regard to younger sons, two that he left were 
 not so much as named in his will ; and to the 
 daughters he nobly bequeathed a thousand 
 pounds each, after having given them ideas, 
 from the style of living in his house, which 
 ought not to have been given to any young la- 
 dies unless they were to have an annual income 
 of nearly that amount." 
 
 " Poor things ! — And what are they all to 
 do now?*' 
 
 " Of the daughters I know nothing, so that 
 I cannot say how they are likely to support 
 this reverse. The second son was sent out 
 some years ago as a trader to India, but is not 
 supposed to be in a very prosperous way ; the
 
 third son, my young friend, happily for him- 
 self never was a man of much expense ; in- 
 deed if he had been so, another residence 
 than your parsonage would probably by this 
 time have been provided for him. His father 
 made him such a scanty allowance at college, 
 that if he had been endowed with as much taste 
 and spirit as many of our young Cantabs, he 
 must have incurred debts which would by this 
 time have fixed him in a jail for life.'* 
 
 *' And does not the elder brother do any 
 thing for his sisters ?** 
 
 '^ Yes, he has given them mourning." 
 
 *' How extremely generous!" 
 
 " Why, indeed, to speak impartially upon 
 the matter, it may he made a question whether 
 in so doing he has not gone as far as was fairly 
 in his power, ail circumstances considered. 
 "While a youth at college, he had the misfor- 
 tune to fall in love with a lady very rich in 
 beauty, but not equally so in fortune; and in 
 an unlucky hour they took a matrimonial trip 
 to Scotland, which it is extremely probable both 
 have repented of almost ever since. The father, 
 who, as you must have inferred from the state- 
 ments already made, was not very generously 
 disposed tov^ards any body but himself, it is 
 strongly conjectured rejoiced in secret at not 
 having been consulted by his son in this aOair,
 
 since it furnished him with something like an 
 excuse for the parsimony which he would pro- 
 bably in any case have practised. The allow- 
 ance that he made to his eldest son, as a married 
 man, was measured out with the same sparing 
 hand as that dispensed to the youngest for his 
 maintenance at the university ; and since the 
 young people, as is commonly the case under 
 such circumstances, have, by the blessing of 
 Providence, had an addition to their family 
 every year, so that they are now the parents of 
 eight very fine children, they have been led, 
 almost unavoidably, into contracting large debts 
 merely to feed and clothe them. The conse- 
 quence is, that they must live for several years 
 to come with great prudence, in order to free 
 themselves from these incumbrances/' 
 
 *' Upon my word, a hopeful accoimt of the 
 family !"^ 
 
 " 'Tis, as in most cases, a mixture of dross 
 and ore ; only that unfortunately the dross is 
 here rather the preponderating portion of the 
 mass." 
 
 " So because your fellow collegiate is the 
 worst off of any of the sons, he is to have the 
 additional burden of helping out his sisters?*' 
 
 " Among other odd notions which he enter- 
 tains, he has taken it into his head that he seems
 
 to be the person pointed out by Providence as 
 their comforter and protector in their present 
 forlorn and desolate state. He is therefore 
 anxious to get a curacy, where he can have the 
 parsonage house to reside in, as a home to offer 
 them ; this appearing the most effectual means 
 of assisting them which in their relative situa- 
 tions he could devise. Having always consi- 
 dered me as his friend, he had applied to me 
 to assist him in his researches for such an esta- 
 blishment ; not very long, my good cousin, 
 before I heard of your attack, and received 
 your request that I would look out a curate for 
 you." 
 
 *' Indeed, by your account, both myself and 
 my parish seem particularly fortunate in the 
 substitute you have procured." 
 
 " Certainly not very unfortunate: — both 
 you and they might have been worse off." 
 
 Enough was here said by Mr. Anderson to 
 satisfy Mr. Worledge : — the treaty with regard 
 to the curacy was therefore soon arranged, 
 signed, and sealed, Mr. Anderson being en- 
 dowed with full powers, by the intended curate, 
 as a negotiator on his side. The latter was im- 
 mediately invited to come as soon as the ordi- 
 nation should be over, in order to be introduced 
 to his principal, and to enter upon his office^
 
 remaining a guest at the parsonage till the 
 rector's departure, when he was to be left 
 master of it. 
 
 This important preliminary being settled, the 
 preparations for the journey to Bareges were 
 now carried on with great alacrity ; and in ten 
 days after the arrival of the new curate, the two 
 cousins departed for the continent, Mr. Wor- 
 ledge being extremely satisfied with the hands 
 in which he had left the care of his flock. Thus 
 was the Rev. Bernard Armstrong established in 
 the curacy of Langham in Wiltshire, and here, 
 about three weeks after, he was joined by his 
 three sisters. 
 
 b5
 
 lO 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 The squire s daughters and the curate's sisters 
 two very different descriptions of persons, — The 
 truth of this exemplified. — Experiments upon 
 reformation in a variety of nays, and the success 
 attendant upon thein. — The first dawnings of an 
 important revolution. 
 
 JL HE Miss Armstrongs could not by any 
 means comprehend, on their first settling at 
 Langham, that there is in the estimation of the 
 world a vast difference between the daughters 
 of a gentleman of large fortune and the sisters 
 of a country curate. At Winstanton they 
 had been accustomed to live in a noble man- 
 sion with a long train of servants, a profuse 
 tabl^, and elegant equipage,' and never to 
 think of stirring out without that equipage, ex- 
 cepting just about their own grounds : by their 
 migration these things were exchanged for liv- 
 ing in a humble rectory, with only one maid, 
 and a man who was someihing between a 
 house servant and a labourer, and being ob- 
 liged, when they wanted to go out, to make use 
 of their own feet instead of those of the horses. 
 And though they felt that all this was so, and 
 could not but be sensible of the alteration.
 
 li 
 
 they yet. felt that they were in reality the same 
 individual Miss Armstrongs in the county of 
 Wiltshire that they had been in the county of 
 Durham, the descendants in a direct line of a 
 very ancient and distinguished family, and 
 could not conceive that they had not the same 
 right to deference and distinction in the one 
 place which had been accorded them in the 
 other. It was impossible for them to compre- 
 hend that any thing was abated of the right 
 they had assumed while under their father's 
 roof, whether justly entitled to it or not it is 
 not my business to decide, of giving themselves 
 a number of pretty little ornamental graces and 
 airs, and showing all their neighbours how 
 much they considered themselves as their su- 
 periors. They were not aware that if these 
 claims had been acquiesced in by the neigh- 
 bours at Winstanlon, it was to the number of 
 acres of land of which their father was propri- 
 etor, and to his profuse style of living, that they 
 were indebted for the acquiescence, not to any 
 qualities inherent in themselves ; and they ex- 
 pected to find among the neighbours at Lang- 
 ham, the same complacency towards the high- 
 bred manifestations of insolence and contempt 
 with which they thought it expedient to honour 
 the circle around them. 
 
 Margaret, the eldest of these young ladies.
 
 )2 
 
 was now nearly twenty- four years of age ; Fan- 
 ny, the second, was just turned of twenty- 
 one ; but Eleanor, the youngest, was only in 
 her fifteenth year. They were little known to 
 their brother Bernard. He had been educated 
 at Winchester school ; and having at that time 
 an uncle residing in Hampshire, Mr. Arm- 
 strong, the father, had commonly desired this 
 gentleman to let the boy spend his holidays 
 with him, that the expense of journeys to so 
 great a distance as his own residence might be 
 saved. During the time of his continuance at 
 school, Bernard had therefore only been at 
 home three times, and after he was removed 
 to college not once : his sisters and he were 
 consequently almost strangers to each other, 
 nor had he any idea of their being people of 
 such very great importance in their own eyes. 
 Indeed if he had been ever so well informed 
 concerning the opinions they entertained on 
 this head while living with their father, he 
 would not have conceived it possible that the 
 very great change of circumstances they had 
 experienced had operated no change in this 
 respect. To his regrets therefore was added a 
 secret astonishment, as he listened to the ridi- 
 cule bestowed upon some of the neighbours 
 who had visited them, and still more upon the 
 wives and daughters of the farmers in the pa-
 
 IS 
 
 rish ; or witnessed the fashionable sneer and 
 genteel toss of the head with which the cour- 
 tesy of the latter was returned, if by chance 
 they were met and saluted by them in their 
 walks. 
 
 Yet to notice matters of this kind to young 
 ladies in any other than terms of admiration at 
 the wit displayed in them, or the elegance and 
 grace with which they are performed, is always 
 a very delicate point. Mr. Armstrong besides 
 felt his situation with regard to his sisters so 
 particularly delicate, that whatever inward cha- 
 grin such discourtesies might give to a mind 
 which was the very seat of courtesy and urba- 
 nity, he was extremely reluctant to make this 
 chagrin known. He was fearful that any 
 strictures made by him upon the conduct of his 
 sisters in the way of censure, might have too 
 much the appearance of presuming upon the 
 obligations he was conferring on them to as- 
 sume a dictatorial tone very unbecoming to 
 him. He felt this the more strongly, since he 
 thought that considering his own youth, ad- 
 monitions which from an older person could 
 bear no other interpretation than being the 
 result of friendship, and a desire of amending 
 what was censurable, might from him have an 
 air of pedantry and conceit. In fact the eldest 
 sister being older than himself, it might be re-
 
 14 
 
 plied that she was as capable of knowing how 
 to conduct herself with propriety as he was 
 of instructing her. He hoped too that a short 
 time would make them more sensible to the 
 difference of their situation, and that without 
 his interference the change he wished to see 
 might be effected. 
 
 But the reproofs which he was cautious of 
 giving, the neighbours, who did. not feel the 
 same delicacy upon the subject, tailed not to 
 administer, and the slights put upon others by 
 tlie Miss Armstrongs were soon returned with 
 interest. In particular, certain sarcastic re- 
 marks which had occasionally been made upon 
 the farmers' daughters, if by chance they were 
 met by the young ladies, in a manner that they 
 could not fail to be heard by them, roused at 
 length the latent spirit in the bosoms of the 
 young farmeresses. Since in their ideas dress 
 made the sole difference between man and 
 man, or rather between woman and woman, 
 and they found that they could afford to spend 
 more money in dress than the Miss Arm- 
 strongs, they thought themselves far the best 
 gentlewomen, and took care to let the young 
 ladies know their sentiments, — with the addi- 
 tion, that they considered them as proud minxes 
 who gave themselves airs that did not at all 
 become a poor curate's sisters.
 
 15 
 
 At length this idle contention of vanity be- 
 gan to assume a form so degrading to the young 
 ladies, and so extremely ridiculous, that Mr. 
 Armstrong thought he should be highly to 
 blame, if he suffered feelings in his own mind, 
 of the justice and accuracy of which he was 
 never quite certain, to prevent his noticing and 
 endeavouring to put a stop to it. He did 
 therefore assume resolution enough to expos- 
 tulate with his sisters, and endeavour to con- 
 vince them that the tone and manner which 
 they had thought proper to assume were un- 
 becoming in any circumstances, and in persons 
 under those in which they were placed were 
 not merely unbecoming, but absolutely con- 
 temptible. 
 
 A considerable time elapsed before he could 
 perceive that his lectures produced any effect, 
 or before he could make them comprehend 
 that the humility and courtesy which from per- 
 sons in any situation are considered but as mat- 
 ters of decency, are particularly expected in 
 those who had suffered such a reverse of for- 
 tune as they had done. At length however 
 some gleams of hope appeared that they had 
 not been wholly ineffectual: indeed it was 
 scarcely possible that precepts so enforced by 
 example as his were, should not in time pro- 
 duce at least a partial effect, and it vfas with
 
 16 
 
 extreme pleasure he saw the young ladies be- 
 gin gradually to assume a somewhat more 
 courteous style of behaviour. Eleanor, who 
 from being so much younger than the others 
 had less settled habits, was the first on whom 
 her brother's admonitions and exhortations 
 seemed to make a deep impression ; and he, 
 perceiving that she listened to him more rea- 
 dily than the others, became naturally more 
 assiduous in his endeavours to correct what he 
 thought amiss in her, and to form her mind 
 after his own ideas : — thus a stronger affection 
 was soon awakened in his mind towards her 
 than towards the elder sisters. 
 
 Yet, however regretting these defects of 
 character, and feeling himself compelled to 
 remonstrate against them, no abatement ever 
 took place in his kindness to any of the three, 
 no relaxation in his endeavours to promote 
 their happiness in every way sanctioned by rea- 
 son and by his principles, or permitted by his 
 means. Nor, though his affections might from 
 circumstances be drawn more closely to Elea- 
 nor, did he allow these feelings to lead him 
 into showing towards her a partiality either 
 mortifying or unjust to her sisters ; — he endea- 
 voured uniformly so to conduct himself to- 
 wards all, that no preference to one should be 
 apparent. Still he could not help feeling that
 
 17 
 
 while a sense of duty was the active principle 
 which dictated his behaviour to Margaret and 
 Fanny, the regard he showed to Eleanor was 
 the impulse of the heart ; — all considerations 
 of duty apart, strong affection would have 
 urged the same conduct towards her. 
 
 He who could fulfil in so exemplary a man- 
 ner his fraternal duties, was not likely to be 
 deficient in any others connected with the dif- 
 ferent relations in which he stood to society, 
 whether of a public or of a private nature. 
 In his delegated office of spiritual pastor of the 
 parish he showed himself perfectly alive to the 
 obligations which so important a charge im- 
 posed upon him. He read the church service 
 with a pious solemnity alike removed from 
 every appearance of carelessness and inatten- 
 tion, and from that conceit and affectation which 
 seems rather to court the attention of the con- 
 gregation to the reader, than to the Almighty 
 Being whom they are assembled to address ; — 
 which, instead of seeming anxious above all 
 things to impress their minds with that devout 
 adoration due to the Power to whom we owe 
 all things, on whom we are dependent for 
 whatever we enjoy of this world's goods, to 
 whose bounty we are indebted for our very 
 existence, seems much rather to aim at inspir- 
 ing them with profound admiration of his own
 
 18 
 
 oratorical talents. His sermons were plam 
 practical lessons of morality, level to the com- 
 prehension of the most uncuhivated under- 
 standing, yet enforcing duties not less binding 
 to the most cultivated. He abstained from the 
 discussion of abstruse metaphysical points of 
 doctrine, considering them as rather calculated 
 to perplex than to instruct the minds of the 
 unlearned congregation in a country village. 
 Regarding the Ten Commandments with the 
 Sermon of Jesus Christ on the Mount as the 
 most simple yet most comprehensive code of 
 morals ever given to mortals, — as guides in 
 following which the mind could never be led 
 astray, and as having this advantage over 
 every other code, that they could never become 
 antiquated or obsolete, or want any commen- 
 tary to elucidate or explain them ; — regarding 
 them in this light, they were the portions of 
 Scripture which he always recommended the 
 most strenuously to the study of his parishion- 
 ers, while at the same time he made the pre- 
 cepts they contain the leading subjects of his 
 discourses from the pulpit. 
 
 His principal Mr. Worledge, though a very 
 worthy good- hearted man, yet had been trou- 
 bled all his life with habils of indolence not to 
 be overcome, and these had rather been in- 
 creased than diminished by the paralytic stroke
 
 19 
 
 which occasioned his first journey to Bareges* 
 He had therefore never been so active in regu- 
 lating the manners and habits of his parishion- 
 ers as it is desirable that every parish priest 
 should be. For these deficiencies his deputy 
 now made ample. amends. Mr. Armstrong's 
 means of giving to the poor were of necessity 
 extremely limited, since the union of his own 
 income with that of his sisters produced alto- 
 gether by no means an ample provision for 
 four people. But he was not anxious to give 
 away large sums in alms ; he did not consider 
 this as the most desirable means of assisting his 
 industrious neighbours^ for it was by that ap- 
 pella'ion, and not as the poor^ that he was 
 wont to designate the labouring class of his 
 parishioners. None he would say should be 
 called pour^ who could maintain themselves and 
 their families by their own earnings without 
 assistance from the parish ; and he made it 
 his pride, that according to this definition 
 there should be no poor among his flock at 
 Langham. 
 
 He was a zealous promoter of all plans of 
 industry, and took infinite pains in instructing 
 the labouring class how to manage their earn- 
 ings to the be.^t advantage; — a mode of assist- 
 ance vjiich few people think of giving to them, 
 fhougn it is perhaps of the most valuable kind
 
 20 
 
 that they can r^eive. He above all things wss 
 indefatigable in his endeavours, both by exhor- 
 tation and by every possible means of encou- 
 ragement, to prevent their contracting debts, 
 considering the keeping them to habits of re- 
 gularity in this respect, as one of the most ef- 
 fectual means of establishing good principles 
 and good order among them. Among other 
 incitements to this end, he gave a good dinner 
 of roast beef and plum-pudding every Christ- 
 mas day to those of his labouring parishioners, 
 their wives and families, who had never con- 
 tracted a debt during the preceding year, but 
 had paid for every thing at the moment of pur- 
 chase. He had not been more than four years 
 in the parish when there was not a single fa- 
 mily absent from this dinner; so that whereas 
 at first his own kitchen sufficed for the enter- 
 tainment, he was in the end obliged to borrow 
 the large servants' hall at the squire's for the 
 occasion. 
 
 The beneficial effects arising from the atten- 
 tion paid to this point were soon found to be 
 even more extensive than Mr. Armstrong could 
 have flattered himself, though he always ex- 
 pected its influence to be very great. No mo- 
 ney was now squandered in the parish in idle- 
 ness or drinking at the alehouse, it was all re- 
 served to answer the necessary calls upon it, so
 
 21 
 
 that in the end the publican was obliged to give 
 up his license for want of custom. Instead 
 therefore of continuing to follow a trade which 
 commonly terminates in cutting short the days 
 of its followers, as well as in injuring both the 
 health and morals of their neighbours, he now 
 lived like the rest of the parish upon the fruits 
 of his honest industry. 
 
 Not that the curare by any means discou- 
 raged cheerfulness among his fl > k, or wished 
 to deprive them of such recreations as were 
 consistent with decorum and suited to their si- 
 tuations. It was no part of his creed that their 
 religion required them to be glojmy, or that 
 cheerfulness was inconsistent with the Christian 
 character ; on the contrary, he inculcated that 
 it was an essential part of it. But he taught 
 them to discriminate between those recreations 
 that were proper for a religious person to par- 
 take in and those that were not ; and while he 
 promoted those that could contribute towards 
 maintaining a cheerful disposition among them, 
 without infringing on the laws of religion and 
 morality, he equally discouraged any that 
 would take them away improperly from the la- 
 bours necessarv for the support of their fami- 
 lies: — he was the director alike of their hours 
 of relaxation, of the course of their industry.
 
 99 
 
 and of the meditations of their more serious 
 moments. 
 
 In any difficulty he encouraged them to come 
 to him as their adviser, and had always a stock 
 of medicines by him to dispense to them when 
 sick. He pronioied reading among them, and 
 while he attended assiduously to a school 
 which had 'been endowed by the squire for 
 the education ot [he. children, to see that the 
 duty ot the master was faithfully discharged, 
 and that it was othersvi^e properly regulated, 
 he directed the studies of his parishioners in 
 thfir niaturer years to such books as were suit- 
 ed to their stations, by enforcing a religious and 
 moral conduct under a cheerful and pleasing 
 aspect. He formed at the rectory a parish li- 
 brary, as he called it, consisting of a collection 
 of such books a»he thought best suited to their 
 capacities and most proper for them to read. 
 These he lent out to them ; but he was very 
 exact in having them returned when read, in- 
 culcating strongly upon them that a sacred re- 
 gard ought always to be had to returning duly 
 whatever \\ as borrowed :-^--the not doine so 
 designedly was nothing better than stealing, 
 and the emitting it through negligence showed 
 at least no delicate feelings on the score of ho- 
 nesty. What he meant to give, he gave at
 
 2?> 
 
 once, — what he lent, he always required strict- 
 ly to be returned ; and it he laid out money for 
 them at their own desire, he was rigidly exact 
 in its being paid to the utmost penny. Any re- 
 laxation on this point he would have consider- 
 ed as encouraging them to a^k things of him 
 in an indirect way, and he particularly wished 
 to discourage every thing l,ke underhand pro- 
 ceedings, and to enforce frankness and openness 
 in all their deahngs. 
 
 These are but some among the numberless 
 minutiae of morals to which he was scrictly at- 
 tentive, and are rather given as specimens ^han 
 as a complete sketch of the objects whicti he 
 regarded it as no less incumbent on a Mii.ister 
 to attend to among his parishioners, than to 
 watch over the more important features of their 
 moral conduct. His cares were rewarded as 
 they deserved to be, by acquiring him the uni- 
 versal respect and esteem of them ail, farmers 
 as well as labourers ; — for the former in being 
 released from the burden of the poor-rates, and 
 in haviiig a sober, regular, orderly race of ser- 
 vants trained for Tiiem, were no less benefited 
 by his exertions than the latter. But no one 
 seemed to have a deeper sense of obligation for 
 what was done, than Air. Conway, the squire 
 of the parish, who was also patron of the hv- 
 ing. Every possible assistance was given by
 
 24. 
 
 him, both with his purse and his personal coun- 
 tenance, to promote the laudable purposes of 
 the curate. He had himself avocations which 
 left him little leisure for retirement, so that he 
 was seldom down at Langham for more than 
 three months in the year ; but at these times 
 he always accompanied him in a round of vi- 
 sits to the houses of all the parishioners, to wit- 
 ness, by the good order and regularity observa- 
 ble in them, the happy effects produced ; when 
 he was even lavi-h in the expression of his gra- 
 titude for the solid advantages he himself derived 
 from them. He and Mrs. Conway besides made 
 a point of showing all possible personal attention 
 both to Mr. Armstrong and the young ladies. 
 
 Yet there was one thing which the curate 
 still felt to be wanting for the completion of his 
 benevolent purposes. While he was endea- 
 vouring to inspire ihe men with such a spirit of 
 industry as would lead them to seek all possi- 
 ble employment without doors, with how 
 much satisfaction would he have seen his sisters 
 instructing the women in the better regulation 
 of their domestic ceconomy ! But how were 
 they to instruct others in matters of which they 
 were themselves wholly ignorant ? and the na- 
 ture of their education had been such, that they 
 were totally destitute of any ideas upon these 
 subjects. Sent to a celebrated London board-
 
 ing-school, they had been instructed only in 
 those showy accomplishments which their fa- 
 ther conceived would be conducive to the at- 
 tainment of the sole object he had in view, — 
 that of their getting husbands. They were 
 taught to speak bad French, to dress, to work 
 a little embroider}^, to dance, to sing, to play 
 on the piano-forte; — any thing, in short, which 
 would contribute towards catching the eyes and 
 fancies of young men, and nothing else : they 
 would scarcely have been less awkward in set- 
 ting about building a house, than in attempt- 
 ing to make a shirt or a pudding, or to cast up 
 a sum in an account-book. Indeed, before they 
 could think of attending to things which had 
 any relation to domestic management, even as 
 far as their brother had a right to expect from 
 them in his house, it was necessary that the 
 lofty notions we have seen him combating 
 should be subdued : — a much more arduous 
 conflict then, it is obvious, must of necessity 
 be sustained, before he could reasonably hope 
 to see their attentions extended to the concerns 
 of others ; especially when those others were 
 their poor neighbours. 
 
 Indeed, the first object to be accomplished 
 was to make them fully sensible of their own 
 deficiency ; for of that they did not seem the 
 least aware when they came to Langham. It 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 was only when time united with their brother's 
 precepts and example had somewhat reconciled 
 their minds to the idea of being a mere country 
 parson's sisters, and they began to think with 
 a certain degree of complacency of entering 
 into the details of household ceconomy, that 
 they became the lea:^t sensible how lamentably 
 defective their education had been in this re- 
 spect, — how destitute they were of all those 
 useful acquirements which are in reality the 
 most essential things in the formation of the 
 female character. How this was to be cor- 
 rected, it was no easy matter to determine. 
 As far as their brother could supply the defici- 
 -encv, he exerted himself to do so ; but a man 
 could teach them a very small part of what it 
 was requisite for them to know. However, 
 when the desire of receiving instruction was 
 really and sincerely awakened in their minds, 
 and they appHed themselves seriously to de- 
 vising the means of procuring it, a source pre- 
 sented itself,^whence they ultimately derived, at 
 no expense, information, which as they ad- 
 vanced in life they learned to regard as of infi- 
 nitely more real importance than what had beeil 
 acquired in their early years at school, at an 
 expense so considerable.
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Questions upon visiting invastigated with much 
 critical and philosophical acumen. — Decisions 
 and counter decisions upon this important sub- 
 ject. — Mutual instruction, its pleasures and 
 effects. — Motives for assiduity in study, — An 
 interesting secret penetrated. 
 
 JLjangham was distant only two miles from 
 the town of Ambresbury. A considerable de- 
 gree of intimacy had always subsisted between 
 Mr. Worledge and Mr. Middieton the mini- 
 ster of Ambresbury ; and Mr. Armstrong had 
 been introduced to the latter by Mr. Wor- 
 ledge one morning when he called upon him 
 just before his departure, as the person de- 
 stined to be his locum teneas during his ab- 
 sence. It was naturally therefore to be expect- 
 ed that Mr. Middieton would be one of the ear- 
 liest visitors to the new curate upon hi^s being 
 established at Langham ; but it so happened 
 that he and his wife were then about setting off 
 on a journey into- the North upon some bUvsi- 
 ness which would occasion their being absent 
 some time. This indeed he announced when 
 he was introduc.d to Mr. Armstrong, adding, 
 however, thut at his return he should take the 
 c 'Z
 
 28 
 
 first opportunity of calling upon him. He was 
 not then aware that the curate was not coming 
 in the character of a single solitary bachelor, — 
 that he was to find at his return his household 
 increased by the addition of three sisters. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Middleton had two daughters, 
 who remained at Ambresbury during their ab- 
 sence : consequently, upon their return at the 
 end of four months, these young ladies were 
 very full of the character which even in that 
 •short time the Miss Armstrongs had acquired 
 themselves in the neighbourhood, of being so 
 extremely proud and arrogant that their society 
 was almost insupportable. This was faithfully 
 imparted by the Miss Middletons to Papa and 
 Mamma, w^o thereupon immediately held a 
 solemn council together; in which, after a very 
 able and impartial discussion of the matter, it 
 was determined that they saw no sense in sub- 
 jecting themselves to be made objects of ridicule 
 and contempt by these silly girls, and that 
 therefore the idea of visiting at Langham 
 should be entirely abandoned. In vain thei-e- 
 fore was their promised visit expected by Mr. 
 Armstrong : week after week passed on, yet 
 still he saw them not ; till at length he began 
 to suspect what might be the real state of the 
 case, and the idea occasioned him no little vex- 
 ation and mortification. He had always heard
 
 2^ 
 
 the MIdJieton family mentioned as such ex- 
 tremely friendly good kind of people, that he 
 particularly wished for their acquaintance ; bat 
 there was no remedy, he must acquiesce in the 
 matter as well as he could ; for it did not be- 
 long to him, according to all the etiquettes of 
 visiting, to make any further advances. The 
 Mi idletons indeed carried their dread of the 
 Miss Armstrongs and iheir desire of avoiding 
 ihdr society to such a length, that they more 
 than once declined invitations from their neigh- 
 bours, merely from the apprehension that they 
 might be of the party. 
 
 But it was recorded in the book of fate that 
 this distance was not to endure for ever ; a-id 
 after it had been carried on for a yer-u* and half 
 the Middletons were surprised at lar.t into a 
 meeting N^ith these objects of their dread at 
 Mr. Conway's. Here it has already appeared 
 that Mr. Armstrong and his sisters were re- 
 ceived in the most friendly manner; and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Conway being persons of family and 
 fortune, before them the young ladies always 
 forbore to exhibit any of their airs and graces : 
 they sought only to please, and render them- 
 selves agreeable ; and this they were extremely 
 capable of doing, when they would conde- 
 scend to make such an exertion. To see them 
 here therefore would at any mo meat have been
 
 30 
 
 to see them to great advantage ; but by the 
 time this meeting took place, their general be- 
 haviour was so much improved, that wherever 
 they had been seen it must have appeared as if 
 the character given them in the country was, 
 if not wholly unjust and unfounded, at least 
 greatly exaggerated. Mr. and Mrs. Middleton 
 were surprised beyond measure at finding their 
 manners so very different from what they had 
 been taught to expect ; and since nothing is 
 more painful to a candid mind than the idea of 
 having entertained an ill opinion of others 
 wichout sufTicient cause, they were now, under 
 this impression, disposed to consider them with 
 more favourable eyes than they would have 
 done under any other circumstances ; and, as 
 an atonement for their late unfounded preju- 
 dices, for such they now conceived th*em, even 
 Co gire them credit for good qualities which 
 they did not really possess. At their return 
 home therefore they were full of regret, that 
 they had suffered themselves to be influ- 
 enced by the idle reports of their neighbours, 
 which they now determined to have originated 
 in a mean jealousy of the superior accompHsh- 
 ments of these young ladies ; to which perhaps 
 was joined envy of Miss Armstrong's person, 
 as she was universally allowed to be a very fme 
 woman.
 
 31 
 
 The Miss Armstrongs, on their side, pro- 
 nounced the Middletons to be really vastly- 
 good sort of people, better company indeed 
 than most of the neighbours, and wondered 
 much why they alone of almost all people 
 within a visiting distance had never called upon 
 them. But what more than any thing contri- 
 buted to changing the distance hitherto main- 
 tained between these two families into a close in- 
 timacy, was the sentiments mutually awakened, 
 even at this first interview, in thj bosoms of 
 Eleanor Armstrong and Sophia, the youngest of 
 the two Miss Middletons. They were just of an 
 age, and that the very age when the mind is most 
 full of enthusiasm, and prone to enter into a hasty 
 and ardent friendship ; and there was a some- 
 thing of congeniality in their ideas and dispo- 
 sitions which seem.^d immediately to attract 
 them towards each other. la a walk taktn by 
 the party, they almost imperceptibly to them, 
 selves remained always together, and rather 
 separatfd from the rest of the company, and 
 got into that kind of famihar and unembar- 
 rassed exchange of sentiments, that it seemed 
 as if a long intmiacy had subsisted betweea 
 them. What Sophia said, and what Sophia 
 did, were the sole themes of Eleanor's conver- 
 sation when she returned home ; nor could 
 she forbear to express with some eagerness
 
 heir deep regrets, that owing to the two families 
 not visiting there was so httle chance of a fre- 
 quent repetition of the pleasure she had just re- 
 ceived in her company. Nor was Sophia less 
 eloquent on her side in her admiration of Ele- 
 anor^ and indignation of the calumnies which 
 had been circulated of her and her sisters. 
 
 When two persons, or two groups of per- 
 sons, are reciprocally inspired with the wish 
 of becoming visiting acquaintance, the means 
 cf effecting their purpose is soon devised. The 
 Middletons feeling it rather incumbent on 
 them to make the first advances, since they 
 were sensible that the distance hitherto ob- 
 served was their seeking, it was not many days 
 before Mr. Middleton determined upon calling 
 at the rectory at Langham, with his apologies 
 that he had not done so long before: — but 
 when Mrs. Middleton and himself returned 
 from the North, the weather was bad, and 
 Mrs. Middleton was really very far from well, 
 50 that she was little out for several months, 
 with some other lame excuses, which trans- 
 lated into plain terms signified that they did 
 not then wish for the acquaintance, and that 
 they did wish for it now. To conclude the 
 whole matter, he signified that it was the inten- 
 tion of his wife and daughters, if agreeable, to 
 take an early opportunity of waiting upon the
 
 S3 
 
 Miss Armstrongs. Mr. Armstrong e.-^pressed 
 himself as much gratified by this intention, 
 and said he was sure that his sisters would be 
 equally so. Thus the ice being broken, the 
 next day Mrs. and the Miss Middletons made 
 their visit in all due form and ceremony. This 
 acquaintance was the more gratifying to Mr. 
 Armstrong, since he had often heard Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton mentioned as an excellent manager in 
 every thing belonging to the female department 
 in a house ; and she was universally chronicled 
 in the neighbourhood as having trained up her 
 dau^Hiters so well in this respect, that either 
 would be a prize to any man v;ho wanted a 
 good domestic wife. As she was, moreover, 
 represented of an extremely friendly dispo- 
 sition, and ready to do any act of kindness 
 within the compass of her abilities, he thought 
 it not impossible, that from her his sisters might 
 in due time obtain the instruction they so much 
 wanted. 
 
 Eleanor and Sophia had now an opportu- 
 nity of confirming and increasing the partiality 
 which at the first interview they had felt for 
 each other ; and Mr. Armstrong's sentiments 
 naturally led to his rather encouraging than at- 
 tempting to put any restraint upon, an intimacy- 
 which was evidently so gratifying^ to both,. 
 Thus an enthusiastic friendship was soon. awa^- 
 a5-
 
 34 
 
 kened between them, which, far from being of 
 a like transient nature with the friendships 
 often contracted between persons of their sex 
 at such a period of life, remained unshaken as 
 long as both parties remained in existence. 
 
 It was not long befoi-e Eleanor began herself 
 to entertain ideas similar to those which we 
 have seen entertained by Mr. Armstrong, and 
 to think thai she might in time be able to avail 
 herself of the intimacy she had thus formed, to 
 get some assistance in attaining an object upon 
 which her mind had long dwelt with some de- 
 gree of eagerness. Her heart was warm, she 
 deeply felt the kindness of her brother's con- 
 duct towards herself and her sisters, and saw 
 that it could not be repaid in any way so grate- 
 ful to him, as in seeking to acquire those purely 
 feminine accomplishments on which he evi- 
 dently set so high a value j so that from mo- 
 tives of gratitude to him, no less than from 
 having learned really to think it a duty attached 
 to their situation, she was very desirous of in- 
 structing herself on all points relating to the 
 domestic management of a family. Books that 
 treated upon these matters she had studied, but 
 found them very inadequate to the accomplish- 
 ment of her purpose ; that they were of no use 
 to one who had even the first rudiments to 
 learn J that some practical knowledge of the
 
 S5 
 
 subjects which they treated was necessary in 
 order to understand the books : and where was 
 that knowledge to be obtained ? This had for 
 a while seemed to her an almost invincible 
 stumbling-block in her way, but now new 
 views opened upon her. IF, when she was 
 with her young friend, she found that she had 
 been herself instructed in many showy ac- 
 complishments of which Sophia was wholly ig- 
 norant, yet she equally saw, that in all those 
 domestic occupations where she was herself so 
 lamentably deficient, Sophia was an adept ; and 
 while she admired, she wished it were in her 
 power to emulate her talents. Why then not 
 seek to do so ? — Sophia was so good-tempered 
 and obliging, that she would surely be very 
 ready to impart her knowl-edge ; at least the 
 experiment was worth making. 
 
 She be^an then by askin;^ so mctny questions 
 concernii]^ these matters, that at length Sophia 
 could not forbear thinking that they must be 
 prompted by something more than mere curi- 
 osity, an J it recurred to her that th y might 
 be aske 1 wifu a view to mstrnction ; till at 
 length s.'ie ventured to offer h^r as.istance, if 
 Ekan<)r wist^ed to I?arn such ano such ihings, 
 witij VAhicij by iter q ie^ti(if:S sae seemed u;;hc- 
 quainre J. iiiis was the ihm^ oi ali ^ 
 
 Eleanor wished; and thev be-j^* ■ 
 lessons ii\ plain wo:k. Bi
 
 36 
 
 sons with Sophia had not proceeded far, when 
 the latter suggested that she would be much 
 better instructed by her mother, who alone, 
 she said, had been her instructor, and would, 
 she was sure, with equal pleasure undertake 
 the instruction of her friend. Nothing could 
 be more delightful to Eleanor than such a pro- 
 posal ; and application being made to Mrs. 
 Middleton, she readily connr«ied her daughter's 
 engagements. Her instructions to her new 
 pupil were therefore commenced without delay. 
 All was at first conducted with the most pro- 
 found secrecy, and Eleanor made a progress in 
 her new acquirements beyond her most san- 
 guine hopes. Mr. Armstrong saw that she 
 was more intimate than ever with the Middle- 
 ton family, but he savv it with pleasure, always 
 hoping that it might lead ultimately to the reali- 
 zation of his wishes, yet never dreaming of the 
 progress already made towards it. At length 
 one evening on her return from spending 
 tie day at Ambresbury, Eleanor brought in 
 one hand a shirt, and in the other a cake, 
 with which she presented him, assuring him 
 that they were both entirely of her own mak- 
 ing. 
 
 The offerings were received by Mr. Arm- 
 strong with a glow of satisfaction and anima- 
 tion in hiij Lountenance, which spoke much 
 more iorcibiy than even the warm expressions
 
 S7 
 
 of approbation he lavished upon her, how 
 welcome was the tribute she had brought. 
 Indeed the gratification he derived from his 
 presents seemed so great, so sincere, that it 
 made a more powerful impression upon the 
 other sisters than had ever been produced by 
 his advice and admonitions: they fek besides 
 somewhat ashamed at this reversion of the or- 
 der of things, and could not help inwardly ac- 
 knowledging to themselves, that while they 
 ought to have set the example to their younger 
 sister, she was in fact setting the example to 
 them. The eldest in particular was so struck, 
 that while she saw her brother in the fulness of 
 his heart by an almost involuntary movement 
 catch Eleanor in his arms and kiss her with a 
 lively emotion like that of paternal affection, 
 she burst into tears and was obliged to leave 
 the room. Mr. Armstrong observing her thus 
 affected thought the moment favourable, and 
 following her into another apartment, by gentle 
 exhortations and mild remonstrances so com- 
 pleted the revolution which his commendation, 
 of Eleanor had begun, that the next day she 
 became a suitor to Mrs. Middleton for permis-. 
 sion to share in her sister's lectures. This put 
 the finishing stroke to the second sister's con- 
 version 5 and in a few days more, she too, at 
 her own request, was admitted to enter oa her
 
 58 
 
 noviciate. This was somewhat more than two 
 years after they had been settled at Langham. 
 
 Such an act of real friendship in Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton, and the very gratifying change which in 
 consequence of it Mr. Armstrong soon found 
 in the management of his domestic affairs, 
 awakened in his mind a deep sense of the obli- 
 gations which he owed her, and soon excited in 
 him the commendable desire of finding some 
 "more solid mode of evincing his gratitude, than 
 the eloquent language in which he was daily 
 expressing it. After much reflection he thought 
 that there could scarcely be a more appropriate 
 return devised, than to propose taking upon 
 himself the instruction of her daughters in some 
 of those ornamental accomplishments which 
 they had not hitherto had any opportunity of 
 acquiring. These he thought miL:ht enlarge 
 their spnere of amusem.ent, without intrenching 
 upon the more important branches of female 
 attainment, to which their education had as yet 
 been confined. He was the rather induced to 
 make this offer, since he perceived that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Middlcton, though v^^ry worthy excellent 
 people, had nc.t the means within themselves of 
 instructing their daughters in any thing beyond 
 the uselui branches of knowledge ; thev were, 
 incapable of inj>tructing them in many things 
 desirable to be acquired as arts which adorn life.
 
 39 
 
 without being in any way inconsistent witb 
 the strictest moral purity. 
 
 Mr. Middleton was not originally designed 
 for the church, but for trade, and his early 
 education had consequently run in a channel 
 very different from that into which his pursuits 
 were afterwards to be turned. He went late in 
 life to college; and to make up for his deficiency 
 in the knowledge whica is expected even in an 
 incipient there, he was obliged to devote all his 
 time to. the studies necessary for obtaining a 
 creditable degree, and afterwards for qualifying 
 himself as a candidate for orders ; — he had no 
 time to spare for the acquisition of polite litera- 
 ture, or any other attainments irrelevant to these 
 objects. Mrs. Middleton's education had been 
 confined so entirely to the idea of making her 
 a notable good housewife, that had it not been 
 for a naturally excellent understanding, which 
 taught her as it were intuitively the manners of 
 a gentlewoman, even to those manners she 
 w^ould have been a stranger : — how much more 
 then must she necessarily h^rve been precluded 
 from the merely ornamental acquirements of 
 that station! A hint which dropped one day 
 from Eleanor that Sophia wished she under- 
 stood French, first suggested to Mr. Armstrong 
 the idea of taking the Miss Middlttons under 
 his tuition j and he was so much pleased with
 
 40 
 
 the prospect of being able to repay obligations 
 which he so deeply felt, that he lost no time in 
 mentioning the subject. The offer was ac- 
 cepted for Sophia with a profusion of thanks, 
 but declined for her eldest sister ; she had long 
 been engaged to a clergyman who had just got 
 a living, and was now so soon to be married, 
 that her becoming Mr. Armstrong's pupil was 
 out of the question. 
 
 In Mr. Armstrong the new office he had 
 taken upon himself was attended with no other 
 consequences than the pleasure his benevolent 
 mind found in contributing towards the im- 
 provement of an amiable girl, and the satisfac- 
 tion of thinking that he was discharging a debt 
 of gratitude. Besides being an elegant classical 
 scholar, he was master of the French and Ita- 
 lian languages, and had a considerable know- 
 ledge of the German, the Spanish, and the 
 Portuguese. He was a proficient in drawing, 
 and had a partial knowledge of music, enough 
 to derive much amusement from it, though he 
 had not studied it deeply as a science. What 
 knowledge he had in it he now imparted to 
 Sophia Middleton, and instructed her in draw- 
 ing and in French, purposing, if she should 
 show a taste for the acquisition of languages, to 
 instruct her at a future period in any other she 
 might wish to attain.
 
 41 
 
 Eleanor, in the warmth of her heart, had 
 often dwelt to Sopliia upon the extraordinary 
 kindness that she and her sisters had received 
 from her brother ; it was indeed her favourite 
 topic in all their private conversations. What 
 she deeply felt, it was painful to her not some- 
 times to express ; and as she never found any 
 one who seemed to sympathize in her feelings so 
 fully as Sophia did, she was particularly eoger 
 to embrace every opportunity of descanting 
 upon the subject with her. The enthusiasm 
 with which she spoke on these occasions, the 
 little less than adoration with which the name 
 of Bernard was always pronounced by her, 
 sunk deep into the heart of Sophia ; nor could 
 the latter forbear often dwelling in her mind on 
 the idea, that if so good a brother, what would 
 he be as a husband ! Now become his pupil, 
 she had an opportunity of contemplating much 
 more nearly those fine qualities with the repre- 
 sentation of which her bosom had been so 
 deeply impressed, — when, far from finding the 
 reality fall short of the picture formed in her 
 imagination, she was rather dispos.d to think 
 that even Eleanor had not done her brother 
 justice ; that it was indeed scarcely possible for 
 any description to give an adequate idea of the 
 perfection to be found in the original. Thus bv 
 degrees a flame was kindled in her bosom, of
 
 42 
 
 which for. a considerable time she was scarcely 
 aware herself, yet which at length she found it 
 impossible not secretly to confess. This was a 
 lesson with which it" was no part of the worthy 
 curate's intention to store the mind of his pupil. 
 Yet though no longer able to disguise to her- 
 self the state of her heart, she was resolved, if 
 possible, that the secret should not be known 
 further ; nay the more ardently she experienced 
 the flame, the more anxious did she become to 
 keep it concealed. 
 
 Nothing could exceed her assiduity in prose- 
 cuting her studies ; to obtain a word of com- 
 mendation from her instructor was the highest 
 pleasure she could receive ; she placed her 
 whole happiness in meriting his approbation. 
 He saw with the utmost satisfaction the pro- 
 gress she made, and, finding the soil so tnict- 
 able, had a double gratificaiion in having 
 thought of und' rtaking iis culdvation. But he 
 saw only the tfllci, nor thought of any thing 
 further ; or, if he thought of tracing the effect 
 up to a cause, he found ihat cause merely in a 
 generally ami.ible disposition, he never perceived 
 that the great moving principle of all was anxi- 
 ety to be approved by him. The daily kind- 
 n«rss which she now experienced from him, 
 added to the witnessing how. every personal 
 consideration with regard to himself was sacri^
 
 43 
 
 ficed to his endeavours to make his sisters ra- 
 tionally happy, afforded her such constantly in- 
 creasing subjects of admiration, that, however 
 strongly she felt her heart interested^ her reason 
 confirmed her feelings, and assured her that 
 her heart was not leading her astray. Since 
 inclination then was sanctioned by reason, no 
 possible objection appeared against giving way 
 to it, or cherishing a passion which every thing 
 concurred to assure her was a laudable one : — - 
 far therefore from having any idea of repress- 
 ing, she constantly encom-aged it, till at length, 
 her heart might truly be said to be wholly 
 absorbed by it. 
 
 From the nature of Mr. Armstrong's situa- 
 tion, however, at the commencement of this 
 attachment, it was impossible for her to en- 
 tertain the least idea of its leading immediately 
 to any further consequences, even supposing^ 
 what she dared not hope, that sentimtnts cor- 
 respondent to her own should ever be awa- 
 kened in his bosom. Kis income was then 
 very small; and since the greater part of it 
 arose from his fellowship, which would be lost 
 in the event of his marrying, it was not possi- 
 ble for him to think of encumbering himself 
 with a wife and family under such circum- 
 stances, and of this she was perfectly sensible. 
 There was even, good reason to suppose that if
 
 44 
 
 this obstacle should be removed, by the ac- 
 quisition of preferment wnich wouM enable 
 him to marry, another remained, which would 
 prove almost insurmountable ; — this was, the 
 manner in which he had devoted himself to 
 the care and protection of his sisters. To 
 judpje from his past conduct, it seemed as if 
 nothing would induce him to change his pre^ 
 sent condition while they remained unprovided 
 for ; and that any increase of income would 
 rather be received by him as the happy means 
 of enlarging their comforts, than of enabling 
 him to seek additional com.forts for himself. 
 Sophia indeed persuaded herself that she did 
 not wish to become his wife ; if, in order to be 
 so, she must see his sisters less the objects of 
 bis kindness and attention ; — she even thought 
 that the warmth of her admiration would be 
 abated, if she should find that any thing, 
 though it were attachment to herself, could 
 check that devotion of fraternal affection which 
 rendered him so amiable in her eyes. 
 
 But the most fatal consideration of all to 
 her p-ace of mind was, the impossibility, as it 
 appeared to her, of her passion ever being re- 
 turned. A ray of hope on this point might 
 have enabled her to bear with fortitude the 
 idea that the period for her happiness being 
 completed was very distant j but, even look-
 
 45 
 
 ing to ever so remote a period, not the smallest 
 ray of hope could she flatter herself was to be 
 discerned. The object of her affections ap- 
 peared to her as of a nature so superior to her 
 own, that she could not conceive the possi- 
 bility of his ever condescending so far, as to 
 think of making her the sharer of his heart 
 and fortune. To be his wife seemed a happi- 
 ness so exalted, that it must be reserved for 
 some peculiarly favoured mortal, and she had 
 not sufficient vanity to think that she had any 
 pretension to being so favoured. Yet to che- 
 rish her p.'ssion by taking every opportunity 
 of being with the object of it was her sole de- 
 light, till by thus feeding it, — and feeding it 
 too without suffering herself to indulge a hope 
 of its being returned, — it began insensibly to 
 prey upon her health. 
 
 Sophia was not however altogether so able 
 a dissembler as she flattered herself. If the 
 friends in general by wiiom she was surround- 
 ed remained without suspicion of what was 
 passing in her mind, there was one from whom 
 it could not be concealed, and this was Elea- 
 nor. With a heart open to all the kindest 
 affections, the latter possessed great acuteness 
 of penetration, and had plainly discovered, 
 even from its first dawnings, the passion to 
 which her friend's heart was now wholly sur-
 
 46 
 
 Tendered. She saw it however without regret, 
 nay even with a secret satisfaction, since she 
 felt that nothing would give her greater plea- 
 sure than beholding the two persons who en- 
 joyed of all others the largest share of her 
 affections, united in ties which the merits of 
 both convinced her must be productive of 
 particular happiness. Yet she too was per- 
 fectly aware that the prospect of this union, if 
 ewer it was to take place, must necessarily be 
 a distant one ; since at that time it appeared 
 as if her brother's only chance of preferment 
 was a college living, and for that he might 
 wait many years. 
 
 To this idea, however, she could easily re- 
 concile her mind ; she was satisfied with the 
 hope that her favourite object might one day 
 be accomplished, and thought that she could 
 wait without repining, the propitious moment 
 for its accomplishment. She never hinted to 
 Sophia that she had discovered her secret ; her 
 behaviour remained exactly the same towards 
 her; she talked to her of her brother with the 
 same raptures; and though she found Sophia 
 grow somewhat reserved upon the subject, 
 this appeared a not unnatural resuilt of her 
 feelings. 
 
 But when she saw her health evidently be- 
 gin to suffer from the state of her mind, this
 
 47 
 
 opened to her a source of the most poignant 
 uneasiness. Then was first awakened in her 
 bosom an ardent desire to discover her bro- 
 ther's real sentiments wTth regard to her friend; 
 and if she had reason to think them corre- 
 spondent to her wishes, she thought that she 
 might venture to give him such hints as would 
 lead to an explanation on his part, sufficient 
 to tranquillize Sophia's mind, from the assur- 
 ance that it was unpropitious circumstances 
 alone which at present kept her happiness ia 
 suspense, and that, these removed, it might at 
 length be completed. But in this experiment 
 Eleanor met with no encouragement to pro- 
 ceed : when studiously talking of Sophia to 
 her brother, with a view to collecting his sen- 
 timents, by the manner in which he mentioned 
 her, not a gHmmering of reason appeared to 
 think that he had the slightest perception of 
 the passion he had inspired, or had any feel- 
 ings in his own bosom responsive to it. Thus, 
 though keenly sensible to the ravages it was 
 making on her friend's health, she found her- 
 self, for the present at least, compelled to 
 observe this painful eflect in profound silence.
 
 4S 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 j^ singular manner of bestowing preferment. — The 
 extreme anxiety of a sister to promote a brother's 
 happiness. — Exemvlifcation of ike maxim that 
 
 ^^ PITY MELTS THE SOUL TO LOVE." TwO 
 
 couple made happy. 
 
 JVIr. Armstrong had now been six years 
 curate of Langham. All this time Mr. Wor- 
 ledge had remained in France, still accompa- 
 nied by Mr. Anderson, his health continuing 
 so indifferent that he was advised by no means 
 to quit that mild climate, or think of returning 
 to England. At length, despairing of any 
 material amendment, and desirous at least to 
 die in his own country, he resolved to take his 
 chance of suffering or not by it, and return at 
 all events. He accordingly set out on his jour- 
 ney, but by the time he arrived at Dieppe was 
 so much worse, that Mr. Anderson would 
 fain have persuaded him not to attempt the 
 passage immediately, fearing indeed that he 
 might not live through it. But he would not 
 hear of any delay, and was carried almost dy- 
 ing on board the vessel. He just lived to 
 breathe his last, as he wished, in England, 
 but expired about two houre after he had land- 
 ed at Portsmouth.
 
 49 
 
 Mr. Conway was at this time down at Lang- 
 ham, and no sooner heard of the rector's 
 death, than he waited upon Mr. Armstrong to 
 announce that he intended him as his successor. 
 In this he said he did not by any means con- 
 sider himself a'^. conferring a favour, but rather 
 as paying a debt of gratitude for all the pains 
 the curate had taken to establish good order 
 and regularity in the parish; he might even in 
 some degree call it an act of selnshnessj since it 
 would have given him pain indeed to see the 
 cure pass into other hands. 
 
 Never did any promotion give more univer- 
 sal satisfaction, — there was scarcely a single 
 parishioner who would not have regretted the 
 loss of their pastor, as much as Mr. Conway 
 himself, and who was not even eloquent in his 
 expressions of joy on finding that he was to 
 remain among them. It was agreed on all 
 hands that the disposal of the living did equal 
 honour to the promoter and the promoted. 
 
 Mr. Worledge had received from his friends 
 in England such excellent reports of the con- 
 duct of his deputy, that as a testimony of the 
 sense he entertained of his services, and per- 
 haps thinking it not improbable that he might 
 be his successor, he bequeathed him the whole 
 and entire property which he had left upon the 
 premises of the rectory at his departure. As 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 30 
 
 to every thing, therefore, but the very agree- 
 able alteration in his income, Mr. Armstrong 
 remained exactly in the same situation as be- 
 fore. Mr. Worledge having desired to be 
 buried at Langham, he vi^as accordingly brought 
 thither, Mr. Anderson accompanying the fu- 
 neral. The latter stayed ten days at the rec- 
 tory, and then proceeded to Ludlow, the 
 residence of his mother, who was still alive, 
 and with whom he usually resided when he 
 was not In college. Mr. Arhistrong would 
 fain have persuaded him to prolong his stay ; 
 but he expressed a great wish not to delay 
 seeing his mother after so long an absence, 
 and urged that besides he had many affairs to 
 settle, he being left executor and principal 
 heir to his cousin. 
 
 Though to every individual of the Arm- 
 strong family the promotion of the curate 
 was a source of great joy, to none of them, 
 not even to the new rector himself, did it 
 give sensations of such exquisite delight as 
 to Eleanor. Hope seemed now once more to 
 beam upon her, — to flatter her with the pro- 
 spect that, one powerful obstacle to her bro- 
 ther's marrying being removed, her friend, her 
 poor Sophia, might still be happy ; — she could 
 scarcely persuade herself that her brother's 
 blindness could continue for ever, but that he
 
 must at length see how strongly Sophia was 
 attached to him, and that if not love, com- 
 passion at least, would determine him to heal 
 the wounds he had so undesignedly infiicted. 
 
 Still however time rolled on, and she saw 
 no symptoms of any advances on the part of 
 Mr. Armstrong to this union ; her sisters and 
 herself seemed still the sole objects of his cares 
 and attentions; — to render his increase of in- 
 come subservient to the promotion of their 
 happiness seemed to be the only pleasure he 
 derived from it ; — for as to his own personal 
 expenses, they were still restrained within the 
 same moderate bounds as before. Her wishes 
 sometimes rather inclined her to hope that he 
 appeared not altogether insensible to the situa- 
 tion of her friend, nay even that he was him- 
 self inspired with corresponding sentiments ; 
 yet at other times, when she reflected more 
 coolly upon the subject, she was convinced that 
 her hopes were entirely fallacious. He always 
 behaved to Sophia with the utmost cordiality 
 of kindness ; but it was a kindness much ra- 
 ther like that fraternal affection which she her- 
 self experienced from him, than bearing any 
 resemblance to the distant admiration and ti- 
 midity which mark the advances of a loVer. 
 His maintaining a certain degree of distance 
 and reserve in his behaviour towards her 
 
 UfilVERSnX Of «!****
 
 62 
 
 would have been far more satisfactory ; would 
 have given her much greater hopes of seeing 
 them one day as closely united as she wished. 
 
 The state of Sophia s health in the mean 
 time gave her every day increased subject of 
 alarm ; nor was it the least part of her uneasi- 
 ness that it was very evident she was herself 
 the only person among all who surrounded 
 her, by whom this alarm was felt. Some- 
 times she observed to her brother that she was 
 uneasy about her friend, and feared that she 
 was in a declining state of health ; but Mr. 
 Arm.strong only replied, that indeed he thought 
 she was grown thinner of late, but that the 
 health of young people was fluctuating, and 
 he trusted there was no cause for serious ap- 
 prehension on her account. This coldness 
 sunk into the heart of Eleanor ; — she would 
 fain have seen him shocked at the most distant 
 idea of alarm for Sophia's safety ; — she had 
 flattered herself that such a hint would have 
 been sufficient, — that he would immediately 
 have been anxious to investigate the cause of 
 this change, and no less anxious to remove it 
 when known. 
 
 Once she remarked to Mrs. Middleton, that 
 she thought Sophia very much altered within 
 a short time, and expressed serious apprehen- 
 sions of her going into a decline. The anxi-
 
 ,'j:> 
 
 ous mother instantly caught the alarm, and 
 began inquiring minutely into the state of her 
 daughter's health : but as Sophia dreaded 
 nothing so much as her secret being known, 
 she positively denied any indisposition ; and 
 Mrs. Middleton, who was past the time of life 
 when the perceptions are very quick to such a 
 malady as her daughter's, was satisfied with 
 this assurance, and believed Eleanor's alarms 
 to be groundless : — this she told Eleanor, the 
 next time she saw her, with an air of great 
 satisfaction ; — but to her, Sophia's assertion 
 was not equally satisfactory. 
 
 Things went on in this situation for nearly 
 three years after Mr. Armstrong became rec- 
 tor of Langham ; — but two events which then 
 took place within six months of each other, 
 once more awakened hopes in the mind of 
 Eleanor. These were, the marriage of her 
 eldest sister, and the death of the second. The 
 former was united to a respectable attorney at 
 Warwick, of the name of Shelburne, with 
 whom she had become acquainted on his being 
 for awhile frequently backwards and forwards 
 at Langham, negctiadng an exchange of pro- 
 perty between Mr. Conway and a genrleman 
 near Warvrick. It was barely half a year after 
 this marriage, that the second sister was seized 
 with a violent fever v^'hich carried her off in a
 
 54. 
 
 few days. Thus Eleanor remained the sole 
 inmate of her brother. 
 
 These obstacles to his marrying removed^ 
 she felt the crisis of her friend's fare to be ar- 
 rived ; that if foiled in the hope of seeing her 
 now united to her brother, all hope of it must 
 be for ever relinquished. Sophia had con- 
 stantly forborne to mention the subject, but 
 Eleanor wanted no information to be sure that 
 she was not in an error. Yet still she hesi- 
 tated y — Still hope to see her brother of him- 
 self evince the dispositions she wished, with- 
 held her from speaking : she was^ however, 
 resolved to speak at length, if she found no 
 other resource remain ; — she was resolved to 
 make even this painful effort, rather than see 
 so amiable a creature sink into the grave with- 
 out doing all in her power to save her. 
 
 But what at last determined her to open her 
 heart to her brother was, the reports which 
 had long prevailed in the neighbourhood, 
 though they were but recently known to her, 
 that an actual engagement subsisted -between 
 hini and Sophia, and that the only reason why 
 their marriage had not yet taken place was, 
 that he did not know how to dispose of his 
 sisters. To the good gossips of the country it 
 seemed absolutely impossible that a pretty 
 young girl could receive the notice Sophia re-
 
 ceived from him, with out something more 
 being intended : — indeed the pains he had been 
 taking to improve her mind and give her those 
 elegant accomplishments in which he found her 
 deficient, could be only with the intention of 
 forming her as a wife after his own ideas. To 
 some, the very scciable terms en which she 
 was received at Mr. Armstrong's was even a 
 matter of scandal, and she was condemned as 
 wanting in the reserve becoming to a young 
 v/oman, that she could go so continually to the 
 house of an unmarried man : this was scarcely 
 admissible even supposing him a lover, and 
 wholly inexcusable if he was not. A few laid 
 the whole blame upon Mr. Armstrono^, and 
 said that he was trifling very im.properly with 
 the character of an amiable girl, and placing 
 her in a situation which might lead people to 
 doubt the purity of his intentions : — indeed, if 
 his general character had not been so high in 
 the w^orld, his conduct in this instance would 
 certainly have brought scandal both upon him- 
 self and the young lady. 
 
 These reports, with the strictures upon 
 them, wounded Eleanor to the soul : — it was 
 impossible not to see with very painful feelings 
 the characters of two persons so dear to her, 
 in danger of suffering from an intimacy of 
 which she v/as herself in great measure the
 
 56 
 
 cause, and which, if it was not to go further, 
 
 ought never, as it appeared, to have gone so 
 
 far: — she v/as even more hurt, if possible, by 
 
 the injury done to the reputation of her friend, 
 
 in making it at all a subject of animadversion, 
 
 than at the ravages the affair had made in her 
 
 health. From all these considerations, she at 
 
 last persuaded herself, that friendship for both 
 
 demanded of her to keep silence no longer ; 
 
 for that, if a more intimate connection vi^as not 
 
 to take place, it was necessary that a greater 
 
 distance should from that time be preserved. 
 
 The least injury that would accrue to Sophia 
 
 from things remaining in their present state 
 
 would be, that any other person who might 
 
 otherwise think of becoming a suitor to her 
 
 would be effectually precluded from it. 
 
 Accordingly, one day when she thought the 
 opportunity favourable, summoning all her 
 courage to her aid, she laid open at large to 
 her brother the mighty secret which had been 
 so long labouring in her bosom. She assured 
 him, that having accurately observed her friend 
 for a long time, she Vv^as convinced that an 
 attachment to him, which it was not in her 
 power to resist, had taken possession : of her 
 bosom ; that it was slowly undermining her 
 health, and that she must soon become a vie- 
 tim to it, unless the cause of her uneasiness
 
 was removed. She did not fail too to hint 
 obliquely at the reports prevalent in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and the injury which might ulti- 
 mately arise from them both to himself and 
 her friend. 
 
 This disclosure overpowered Mr. Armstrong 
 with such a mixture of concern and astonish- 
 ment, that he was for some moments unable to 
 speak. When these feelings v/ere a little sub- 
 sided, he observed to Eleanor that she could 
 scarcely have imparted any intelligence by 
 which he felt himself so deeply affected, " I 
 have a high value, believe me,*' said "he, " for 
 your friend ; and^ next to seeing you happily- 
 settled in the world, few things would give me 
 more pleasure than to see her so ; but nothing 
 was ever further from my thoughts than to en- 
 ter into the connection with her at which you 
 hint. As an amiable and excellent young wo- 
 man, the intimate friend of my favourite sister, 
 I have regarded her almost as my own sisterj 
 but never had an idea of regarding her in any 
 
 other light. Oh Eleanor ! words can ill •> 
 
 but tell me, How came you so v;ell acquainted 
 with your friend's sentiments? Has siie ever 
 disclosed them to you?'* 
 
 " Never ! and I believe would sooner have 
 died than have disclosed them. But I have^ 
 D 5-
 
 58 
 
 watched her narrowly, and am well convinced 
 of the truth of what I have told you." 
 
 "Eleanor! Eleanor! — you — you know not 
 how much you have distressed me! " He 
 could say no more, but rose up hastily and left 
 the room. 
 
 Never was astonishment greater than Elea- 
 nor's on witnessing the effect produced by the 
 step she had taken, — the very imprudent step, 
 as she now considered it, — nor ever was distress 
 much more poignant than what she felt, in re- 
 flecting that while her sole idea was to promote 
 the happiness of her brother, and her friend, 
 to the former at least she seemed only to have 
 opened a source of heart-rending anguish. But 
 the thing was past, and couid not now be re- 
 called ; she could only rest in the hope, that 
 though she had occasioned her brother a mo- 
 mentary conflict, yet that, this conflict past, the 
 result might lead to his permanent happiness;— 
 for never could she divest herself of the idea, 
 that the union of tvvo such perfect beings as 
 she considered her brother and Sophia, must 
 be essentially conducive to the happiness of 
 both. 
 
 As she sat absorbed in reflection on what had 
 passed, sometimes reproaching herself with in- 
 gratitude towards her brother, ia having beesi
 
 59 
 
 the cause of a single moment's uneasiness to 
 him, then again satisfying herself that she 
 eould not have stood acquitted towards friend- 
 ship if she had acted otherwise, a. new idea 
 was awakened in her mind. 
 
 Besides his two daughters, Mr. Middletoiv 
 had a son who was clerk in one of the princi- 
 pal banking-houses in London. In^ the visits 
 Vfhlch this young man occasionally made to his 
 parents, he had of course become acquainted 
 with Eleanor; — he had even shown her very 
 marked attention, and Sophia had often told 
 her that she was a great favourite with her bro- 
 ther. He v/as at this moment at Ambrcsbury,. 
 having been recently promoted to be first clerk- 
 in the house where he was established, with a 
 considerable addition of salary sufficient to 
 enable him to think of marrying and settling* 
 Eleanor had seen him but once since he came 
 down ; but she recollected that his behaviour 
 to her v;as even more pardcular than before; 
 and in reflecting upon the whole matter, there- 
 seemed good reason to suppose that he would 
 not quit the country without explicitly declaring, 
 his mind to her. Hitherto she had thought httle 
 upon this subject; she knew that he had not the- 
 means of marrying, and she scarcely had an? 
 idea of asking herself whether she liked him 
 or not; she had. neither encouraged, nor rQ«»-
 
 60 
 
 pelled bis advances. Her attachment to her 
 brother, and her friend, occupied her heart 
 entirely; there hardly seemed a vacancy in it to 
 admit of any other. 
 
 But in searching for the cause of that agita- 
 tion in which she had seen her brother upon 
 being informed of Sophia's attachment to him, 
 she could find no other except his kind consi- 
 deration for her; — it was his unwillingness 
 alone to engage in any connection which might 
 interfere v/ith his devotion to her, that made 
 him start at the idea of marriage. — Well then, 
 she hoped that this sole objection to what she 
 had proposed might soon be obviated : — she 
 hoped that she might be otherwise provided 
 for ; and for the first time she began to con- 
 sider whether she could like Lawrence Mid- 
 dleton as a husband. 
 
 She was in the midst of this train of reflec- 
 tion, when Lawrence actually arrived for the 
 purpose of making the declaration of his sen- 
 timents, which she suspected he meditated. He 
 could not have appeared at a moment more fa- 
 vourable for the success of his proposals; he 
 could never have found the object to whom 
 his suit was to be preferred, so predisposed to 
 grant without hesitation any suit of tne kind. 
 Eleanor's mind was so full of the idea that she 
 was an obstacle to the happiness of her brother.
 
 61 
 
 and her friend, that she was ready to embrace 
 with eagerness an offer which would remove 
 her out of the way of being so any longer : — 
 she was ready to do any thing which would ob- 
 viate, as she conceived, every objection to the 
 union on which her heart was so much bent. 
 She did not therefore even request her lover to 
 allow her any time for consideration, or for 
 consulting her brother, before his doom was to 
 be pronounced ; she signified, at the first start- 
 ing of the question, her most cordial accept- 
 ance of the hand and heart he offered ; and 
 before they separated, every thing was arranged 
 between them for the speedy conclusion of 
 their marriage. 
 
 Her mind had been so entirely occupied by 
 this subject during her interview with Law- 
 rence, that she never perceived the length of 
 time which had elapsed since her brother quit- • 
 ted her so abruptly, nor had an idea that he 
 had been absent three hours. She now thought 
 only of the welcome news she should have to 
 impart at his return, and became impatient for 
 it, well assured that she should be able to calra 
 in a manner most grateful to him the agitation 
 she had occasioned, it was not long before her 
 impatience was gratitied, by seeing him reenter. 
 "Where he had been during the last three hours^^. 
 or what had been passing in his mind, he did
 
 62 
 
 not disclose: Eleanor could only conjecture 
 from the result the subject of his meditations : 
 she only knew for certain, that he had not only 
 been absent from the room, but from the house, 
 during the whole time. 
 
 He entered, however, with a much more 
 tranquil appearance than he had departed. His 
 features had resum-ed that benignity and mild 
 composure which was their peculiar characte- 
 ristic, and no one who then regarded them, 
 could have supposed that so short a time be- 
 fore they had displayed every symptom of the 
 most cruel agitation. " My dear Eleanor," he 
 said, '' will you be the bearer of a suit to your 
 friend, which but for your interference! should 
 never have thought of preferring? If it be 
 true, as you assure m,e, that she is suffering 
 grievously from an attachment unreturned, my 
 path of duty seems plain and obvious. But 
 since the propof^als I have to make coming sud- 
 denly upon her might overpower and prove 
 fatal to her, she had perhaps better be pre- 
 pared before 1 speak toiler myself. Use your 
 discretion then in communicating the matter to 
 her in such a way that it may not produce an 
 effect the very opposite to what I intend. — My 
 Eleanor, I feel that this must be so, that it 
 ought to be so : 1 have perhaps been to blame 
 in encouraging the intimacy which, has led to
 
 63 
 
 her entertaining this passion, and I owe her the 
 only reparation that can be made. Yet, Elea- 
 nor, I cannot reflect " He paused, he 
 
 seemed to think that he was going to say too 
 much : then looking earnestly at Eleanor for a 
 few minutes; — " But," he continued, *"' can 
 you, Eleanor, who have hitherto been the first 
 object of all my thoughts, of all my solicit 
 tudes, — can you reconcile yourself to the idea 
 of experiencing henceforward only such a por- 
 tion of them as will be consistent with the su- 
 perior duties I shall owe to a wife and family? 
 — shall you have no fears of the brother being 
 lost in the husband ?" ' 
 
 " Let no such ideas trouble you, my dearest 
 brother/' interrupted Eleanor eagerly. She 
 then proceeded to relate what had just passed 
 between Lawrence Middleton and herself, and 
 concluded with saying : '^ Thus you see, my 
 dear Bernard, that all anxiety on my account 
 is obviated ; and the same happiness which I 
 would confer on Sophia, by giving her to the 
 man whom her heart has long in secret adored, 
 I shall experience as the wife of one v;hom I 
 have every reason to believe worthy of the ut- 
 most affection I can show him.'* 
 
 " You have then given a decided answer te> 
 Mr. Middleton? — you have given a positive 
 promise to be his?"
 
 64 
 
 " I have indeed, Bernard. But do not con- 
 demn me, or think that I have been wanting in 
 the deference which I ought to pay to your 
 opinion, and which I certainly feel for it, that 
 I did not wait to consult with you before my 
 word was irrevocably passed. 1 own that I 
 have been hasty, perhaps it may be thought 
 rather more so than is consistent even with 
 strict decorum ; but my mind was fully de- 
 cided, my heart pleaded for Lawrence, he was 
 the brother of my friend, and a man of whom 
 I had ofcen heard you express a very favour- 
 able opinion. All these things concurring, I 
 really knew not how to affect a hesitation which 
 I did not feel: — besides, I always thought that 
 there was something contemptible in that spirit 
 of coquetry which makes a woman think it ne- 
 cessary to^ trifle and dally awhile with a lover*s 
 passion before she yields to it." 
 
 "Eleanor, we shall both marry in haste; — 
 may we neither of us repent at leisure! But 
 hasten to your friend, do not tell her what has 
 passed, only carry her the offer of my hand and 
 all my worldly property." 
 
 These last words sunk deep into Eleanor's 
 soul. " fVe shall both marry in haste; — may 
 neither repent at leisure ! ^* Her brother had 
 besides talked only of the path of duty, of 
 making the proper reparation to her friend u —
 
 65 
 
 he had only commissioned her to make Sophia 
 the offer of his hand and property, he had 
 said nothing which implied attachment to her, 
 he had made no ofFer of his heart. Would his 
 heart then not accompany his band ? — this was 
 a cruel reflection. Had she, through her in- 
 discreet zeal, or worse, through her unwar- 
 rantable presumption in pretending to be a 
 better judge than himself how his happiness 
 was to be promoted, betrayed him into the cruel 
 situation of taking a wife only from compassion, 
 not from affection ? These ideas so harassed 
 her mind as she walked towards Ambresbury 
 for the purpose of execudng her brother's 
 commission, that she had more than once 
 nearly resolved not to execute it, persuading 
 herself that the same influence which had been 
 exerted to induce her brother to make the offer, 
 ought now to be employed in engaging him to 
 recall it. Yet when she reflected upon his dis- 
 position, upon that tenderness and kindness of 
 heart which felt so deeply for every species of 
 suffering among his fellow creatures, and was 
 always anxious if possible to relieve it, — when 
 she applied this general disposition to the par- 
 ticular case in question, and considered that he 
 must regard himselt as the author of Sophia's 
 sufferings, and the step he was taking as the 
 only one by which they were to be allayed j—
 
 66 
 
 when she reflected on these things, she fell: 
 assured that he would now make it a point o£ 
 conscience to offer his hand to Sophia, nor 
 would be deterred from it by any arguments 
 that she could urge ) — that therefore it were 
 useless for her to hesitate in carrying the pro- 
 posals to her friend, since if she refused to be 
 the bearer of them they would undoubtedly be 
 sent through some other channeL 
 
 Yet her Uiind was wrought up to such a state 
 of agitation by the time she arrived at Am- 
 bresbury, that she coula not speak to Sophia 
 herself, she was forced to enploy an interme- 
 diate agent : and as she had arrived at the vi- 
 carage unknown to herfiieiidy she imparted 
 her errand to Mrs. Middleton, leaving her to 
 communicate the joyful tidings to her daugh- 
 ter : she even quitted the house without its be- 
 ing kr.ovvn to any one but Mrs. Middleton 
 that she had been there. 
 
 The next day the overjoyed mother arrived 
 very early at Langham to report the event of 
 her mission. It was what might be expected, 
 that Sophia was at first nearly overcome with 
 the prospect of happiness so unhoped for, but 
 was now composed, and ready to receive Mr. 
 Armstrong with transport and affection as her 
 future husband. 
 
 To Sophia this change in her prospects was
 
 67 
 
 happiness unallayed. To Eleanor, the situa« 
 tion both of herself and her brother was far 
 from communicating equal sensations of un- 
 mingled delight. The prospect of rendering 
 an important service to her brother had in- 
 duced her to accept Lawrence Middleton's of- 
 fers* without hesitation, or pausing a moment to 
 investigate the real sentiments of her heart to- 
 wards him. Her mind was then in such a state 
 as to be incapable of admitting any ideas uncon- 
 nected with the leading object by which it was 
 occupied ; and in the eagerness with which she 
 acceded to his proposals, she never considered 
 them in any other point of view than as they 
 had a reference to relieving her brother from 
 a charge now become burdensome to him. 
 Possibly, if the effect with regard to him had 
 been such as she flattered herself, in her sa- 
 tisfaction at hav'ng attained this object, no 
 considerations oi-iginating in her own feelings 
 would have intervened to damp her joy, or 
 throw a gloom over her future prospects. But 
 the sacrihce which seemed sweet while her bro- 
 ther's happiness was, as she conceived, to be 
 promoted by it, assumed a very different aspect 
 when her mistake was made manifest ; and it 
 appeared that she had rather been doing hinx 
 an injury than rendering him a service. 
 
 Thus the merits of Lawrence, who, under
 
 68 
 
 the first impressions vvhich accompanied her 
 acceptance of his proposals, appeared every 
 thing she could wish in a husband, wei 'j now 
 more severely scrutinized. She recollected 
 that when first there appeared reason to su- 
 spect his attachment to her, she had asked her- 
 self whether he was one whom she thought 
 she could love — to whom she could think vi^th 
 pleasure of uniting herself, — and the result had 
 been, that she thought she could not ; — ^that 
 while she saw in him many good qualities to 
 which she could not refuse her respect and 
 esteem, there was yet a something, she could 
 not tell what, that it seemed as if respect and 
 esteem were all that she ever could feel for 
 him : — if she had not therefore positively dis- 
 couraged him when he seemed endeavouring 
 to recommend himself to her favour, she had 
 yet avoided giving him encouragement. She 
 even thought, in reflecting upon his manner 
 when he made his proposals, that it was with 
 a diffidence which evinced no sanguine hopes 
 of success ; and that he seemed rather sur- 
 prised, and for a moment even almost con- 
 founded, at the readiness with which they were 
 accepted ; that he was more prepared to have 
 found them rejected. 
 
 But then it might be asked, whether she 
 could give a good reason for her indifference
 
 69 
 
 to Lawrence ? and this she was forced to con- 
 fess to herself she could not. She thought, 
 therefore, she had been to blame in regarding 
 his attachment with so much coldness ; that, 
 considering her own situation^ it was perhaps as 
 good a match as she had any reason to expect, 
 and in this point of view, therefore, not to be 
 rejected. Then Sophia had always spoken of 
 him as a very kind brother, and his parents as 
 a very good son ; there was therefore sufficient 
 reason to hope that he would make a good 
 husband : — so that, on the summing up of the 
 whole, she pronounced her former decision in 
 his disfavour wrong, and the contrary determi- 
 nation, which she had now made, right. 
 
 Still there was another thing which must be 
 considered, and this was, whether in fact it was 
 strictly honourable in a woman to marry a man 
 with the indifference which she could not disguise 
 to herself she felt for Lawrence. Yet as she had 
 no positive dislike to him, she thought some 
 allowance might be made for her very peculiar 
 situation, and that the deed might be excused 
 for the motive's sake. Besides, she was re- 
 solved faithfully to fulfil the duties of a wife, 
 and never by her conduct to give her husband 
 reason to suspect that he w^as not beloved by 
 her. Indeed, since her heart was free, since 
 she had no other attachment, and respected
 
 70 ^ 
 
 him highly, it seemed not mireasonable to 
 hope, nor was the thing improbable, that living 
 constantly with him, the constant object of his 
 affectionate attention, she should finally, from 
 habit, love him very sincerely. Thus were her 
 scruples on this head laid asleep, and a negative 
 put upon the question sometimes started in her 
 mind, whether she ought to proceed in this 
 business, and was not rather bound in honour 
 to Lawrence himself, to lay open her heart to 
 him, and entreat him to release her from her 
 promise, since love had no share in her giving 
 it ; — and after well weighing the matter, she 
 determined to fulfil her engagement. 
 
 The two weddings were fixed to take place 
 on the same day at Ambresbury, the ceremony 
 in both instances being performed by Mr. Mid- 
 dleton, and the brides being given away by 
 their respective brothers. Of the four persons 
 who were on this occasion made Jiappy^ ac- 
 cording to the usual phraseology, it was pro- 
 bable that Sophia was the only one who tasted 
 pure unmixed felicity. Mr. Armstrong could 
 not help feeling that the act he was performing 
 was prompted by compassion alone; and though 
 in poetry it sounds well to say that 
 
 *^ Pity melts the soul to love," 
 yet his conscious bosom rejected the plausible 
 fiction, too deeply impressed with this sad re-
 
 71 
 
 ality, — that the passion which is founded on 
 pity alone, leaves a listless vacuum in the 
 heart, and that something more is requisite to 
 compose that feeling from which alone tfue 
 wadded happiness can result, — the feeling that 
 the object to whom our faith is piighted is all 
 in all to us. Eleanor's sensations could as 
 little be those of bliss without allay : — enter- 
 taining only the hope that she should at last 
 love her husband, not feeling that she actually 
 did love him, while she tried to convince her- 
 self that she was not doing wrong, she yet could 
 not entirely banish the intruder self- reproach 
 from her bosom. And as to Lawrence, he 
 was not without his apprehensions, though he 
 sought to disguise them to himself, that he had 
 been accepted rather because Eleanor wished 
 to be no longer burdensome to her brother, 
 than from strong attachment to him. 
 
 The sequel of Sophia's story is soon told : 
 the compassion which was desirous of healing 
 the wounds of her mind, and of restoring by 
 these means her body to health and vigour, 
 was roused too late. Her frame was already 
 injured beyond the possibility of a cure, and in 
 a year and half after her husband led her to 
 the altar he followed her to the grave. She 
 had previously presented him with a son, who 
 was baptized by the name of Walter.
 
 72 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A pedigree. — Ingenious conjecture concetnijig the 
 origin of the author'' s family. — Opinions of the 
 author* s ancestors for three generations back.---' 
 The modern David. — The professions of divinity 
 and physic compared. — Hopes long disappointed 
 at length fulfilled. — The merits of various iiames 
 discussed, — A promotion and a christening. 
 
 And this is what you call writing your own 
 history ? Here is a long preamble about the 
 Rev. Mr. Armstrong and his sisters, and So- 
 phia, and nobody knows who, but not even the 
 name of Danville mentioned. — Patience, cour- 
 teous reader ! — it is not good to introduce the 
 hero of the story too soon upon the tapis ; he 
 comgs forth with vastly more importance when 
 expectation has been for some time on the rack 
 for his appearance ; and as I wish to present 
 myself before you with every possible advan- 
 tage, so I have thought it most advisable to re- 
 main awhile in the back ground, till you were 
 wound up to the proper pitch of impatience 
 for my coming forward. Besides, as in po- 
 liteness bound, I judged it proper to give my 
 friend the pas ; and, though in fact he did not 
 come into the world tiW a year after me, to let
 
 hiin be introduced to the reader before me. 
 But having done this^ I now advert to myself. 
 
 And first, as to my pedigree. I presume, 
 did I but know where to search for it, that I 
 should find it might be traced up to one of the 
 sons of Noah, — most probably to his eldest son 
 Japhet. According to some great investigators 
 of the antiquities of the British isles, it v^as by 
 the descendants of Magog and Gomer^ the sons 
 of Japhet, that these isles were first peopled y 
 and since I have no reason to suppose that I can 
 boast of numbering among my ancestors any of 
 those illustrious personages, who, coming over in 
 the trainsof their different conquerors, whether 
 Danish, Saxon, or Norman, founded almost all 
 the distinguished families in tl:e country ; — as 
 I have no reason, I say, to suppose myself de- 
 scended from any of these, 'tis probably among 
 the aborigines of the soil, who have lived on 
 in an uninterrupted obscurity, without their 
 blood being contaminated by foreign alliances, 
 that my ancestors must be sought. 
 
 Some persons will, however, insist upon it 
 that our family must be of French extraction, 
 and suppose it to have come over among some 
 of the tribes of refugees that have at difterent 
 times settled here. This they say is evident 
 from the name 5 since, though we now write 
 it Danville, it must originally have been written 
 
 VOL. I. *
 
 74 
 
 with an elision, D'Anville, which plainly points 
 to a French origin. This derivation I will not 
 pretend to dispute. Neither will I dispute an- 
 other, if any one should be roguishly inclined 
 to impute it to us, and say, that if originally 
 written with an elision, it had rather a reference 
 to the profession followed by the family, than 
 to the country whence it came : — deprived of 
 the two last letters, the name would certainly 
 bear such an interpretation. 
 
 I am sorry that it is not in my power more 
 fully to elucidate this matter ; but since the 
 truth is, that I never heard of any pedigree be- 
 ing preserved in the family, and have little hope 
 of finding one if 1 should apply at the Herald's 
 office, I must leave speculators to speculate in 
 any way that m^ay best amuse them, and con- 
 tent myself with going no further back than 
 the fourth generation, my great-grandfather 
 being the first of the family respecting whom 
 I have been able to obtain any certain informa- 
 tion. It is possible that through him we might 
 claim a very distinguished origin ; that he 
 — fell from heaven, thrown by angry Jove 
 Sheer o'er the crystal battleiDents ;— from morn 
 To noon he iell, from noon to dewy eve', 
 A summer's day ; — and with the setting sun 
 Dropt from the zenith like a falling star 
 On Britain's isle. 
 
 Milton.
 
 It is possible, I say, that he was thus intro- 
 duced into the island of Great Britain, as the 
 founder of his profession was of old into that of 
 Lemnos : but of this we really have no tradi- 
 tion in the family ; we only know that he and 
 my grandfather carried on successively the trade 
 of blacksmiths in the very same parish of Lang- 
 ham of which the reader has already heard so 
 much. They were universally allowed to be 
 excellent workmen in their way, but this was 
 all the distinction that they could boast ; we 
 cannot even find that either ever arrived at any 
 parish honours, — the chronicles of the village 
 do not authorize the supposition that they did: 
 — one at least, it may fairly be presumed, was 
 never conferred upon them, the office of con- 
 stable ; since it is well known that they were 
 both strong, able-bodied men, and that office is 
 commonly reserved for such as have some cor- 
 poreal infirmity. Indeed, during the whole 
 course of their lives they were always heard to 
 deprecate, rather than court, distinction, and to 
 express gratitude to Providence that he had 
 never called them into any situation which 
 would have obliged them to relax in their assi- 
 duities at the forge and the anvil. 
 
 My father was of a much more aspiring ge- 
 nius. No sooner had he seen the remains of 
 my grandfather quietly deposited in the earth, 
 £2
 
 76 
 
 and taken possession of his paternal inheritance, 
 being then just twenty-two years of age, than 
 he felt his heart expand at the idea of having 
 become his own master at this early period, 
 and his soul was fired with the ambition of 
 raising his family from the humble station in 
 which it had hitherto moved, if not in his own 
 person, at least in that of his descendants. 
 
 As a means of promoting his views, he re- 
 volved in his mind the expediency of contract- 
 ing some great alliance. He was a man of 
 some reading; and in particular had studied the 
 Scriptures, young as he then was, with consi- 
 derable assiduity ; and he found several persons 
 recorded there, as having raised themselves ex- 
 ceedingly in life through the matrimiOnial con- 
 nections they had formed. Casting his eyes 
 then around among the young women who 
 he conceived might be within his reach, he 
 first thought of paying his court to one of two 
 daughters of a farmer in the parish. They be- 
 ing coheiresses, it seemed no irrational expecta- 
 tion that at the death of the father the husband 
 of one of the daughters might succeed to the 
 farm ; and here would be a great point gained 
 in paving the way to the aggrandisement of the 
 Danville family. But before he ha'd determined 
 which of the two ladies should be honoured 
 %uh his addresses, or had arranged his plans
 
 77 
 
 for endeavouring to render himself agreeable to 
 either, one of them, unknown to her father, be- 
 stowed her hand upon the son of a tradesman in 
 the neighbouring town of Ambresbury ; and the 
 other wasj with her father's consent, made the 
 happy bride of a young farmer in the parish. 
 Disappointed in this plan, my father next turned 
 his attention to Hannah Gregory, only daughter 
 of the village shopkeeper, whose hand he ob- 
 tained without difficulty, and with it a fortune 
 of a hundred pounds. This marriage foUowed 
 so closely on the appointment of Mr. Arm- 
 strong to the curacy of Langham, that the so- 
 lemnization of it v/as the first piece K)f profes- 
 sional duty which he performed after his arrival 
 there. 
 
 In what way the fortune he received with 
 his wife might be employed to the best advan- 
 tage, became now an important subject of deli- 
 beration wuth my father, and he soon deter- 
 mined that a part of it, at least, could never 
 be devoted to a better purpose than procuring 
 some instruction in ihe great science of physic^ 
 as he expressed himself; that is, he placed him- 
 self under the tuition of a celebrated horse and 
 cow doctor at Ambresbury, who was advancino- 
 in years, and likely soon to retire from practice. 
 I'hus, on his retirement he succeeded, as he 
 planned within himself, to liis business, and
 
 78 
 
 added to his profession of making shoes for 
 horses^ that of curing them of their ailments. 
 
 But his acquisitions did not stop here. There 
 was an itinerant musician, who used frequent- 
 ly in the course of his rambles to stroll into 
 the village of Langham, and through his in- 
 struction my father soon acquired a smattering 
 of musical knowledge, of which he was not 
 a little proud. He could niake out a tune on 
 the clarinet tolerably well ; and having a pow- 
 erful as well as a not-inharmonious voice, he 
 soon became decidedly the first musical per- 
 former in the parish, vocal as well as instru- 
 mental. He was therefore a very important 
 personage at the village feasts, particularly at 
 the harvest homes, to all which he was regu- 
 larly invited; and here his cheerfulness and 
 hilarity of temper, united with his musical ta- 
 lents, rendered him so entertaining a guest, 
 that he was even a greater favourite with the 
 lasses, though a married man, than most of the 
 unmarried youths : — his society was indeed 
 universally courted. 
 
 But however gratifying he found this distinc- 
 tion, it was not of a nature sufficient wholly to 
 satisfy his ambition : his bosom scon began to 
 burn with a nobler ardour, — he soon began to 
 aspire at honours of a much higher nature. 
 The clerk of the parish was far advanced in
 
 79 
 
 years : he had always been a very indiiFerent 
 performer in psalmody, and his voice was now 
 so much broken, that his attempts to sing were 
 almost ludicrous. My father therefore thought 
 of associating together a number of the village 
 youths, and training the;n as a band to supply 
 his place. This idea, when mentioned to Mr. 
 Armstrong, rect^ived from him the warmest 
 encouragement. As the worthy curate was 
 extremely anxious that all parts of the church 
 service should be performed with the utmost 
 solemnity and decorum, and particularly that 
 every thing should be avoided which had the 
 remotest tendency to the burlesque ; so this 
 affair of thL- singing had given him real uneasi- 
 ness ev'in from his first coming to the parish, 
 and he had frequently revolved in his mind 
 plani for doing more honour to Sternhold and 
 Hopkins. The proposal, therefore, now sub- 
 mitted by my father to his approbadon, was 
 not ordy received without hesitation, but with 
 expressions of the highest satisfaction, and the 
 very next Sunday the band took the station al- 
 lotted them in the church, and entered upon 
 their new office. In this they acquitted*them- 
 selves so well, that they soon acquired a high 
 reputation ; nor were there, for a great many 
 miles round, any persons that could at all rival 
 them for plain CQunterpoint, fugue, and anthem j
 
 80 
 
 SO that people frequently came even from a con- 
 siderable distance, to Langham church, for 
 the sake of the singing. This was a distinction 
 not a little gratifying to the leader of the band. 
 
 Wheii first my father took to the sLuchj of 
 physic^ for so he was pleased to tenn the 
 knowledge he had acquired in x\-\e veterinary 
 art, he was disposed to consider a physician as 
 the first of all professions, and resolved that it 
 should be that of his eldest son : but after- 
 wards, on acquiring this distinction in the 
 church, he began to think a clergyman a still 
 greater man than even a physician, and, chang- 
 ing his purpose, determined upon educadng 
 his eldest son for holy orders, 
 
 " A physician," he would say, ** is indeed 
 a great man, he teaches you the art of keeping 
 your body in health ; but what is that to the 
 clergyman, who teaches you to guide your 
 heart and mind in the right path, who points 
 out the way to rise to immortal glory and 
 happiness in heaven, which that is the greatest 
 thing that a man can possibly do ? When he 
 gets into the pulpit, the eyes of the whole con- 
 gregation are upon him, eager to catch every 
 sentence, every word, that flows from his lips; 
 and to be sure there cannot be any thing 
 more noble than the idea that the attention of 
 such a number of persons at once, is turned to
 
 Si 
 
 you alone. There may be professions in which 
 a man may get more money ; but what is that 
 to thinking that you are able to teach thou- 
 sands the proper path to distinction, since we 
 all know that virtue is the oiily true nobility ? 
 The physician may be, nay must be, a man of 
 learning ; but then nobody sees it, or knows it, 
 except they may happen to want his advice ; 
 which then to be sure he may talk them over 
 and show his learning, but 'tis only the rich 
 that can afford to pay them and hear them 
 talk. With the clergyman the case is quite 
 different ; every body hears him, every body 
 knows that he is a man of learning 5 — yes, my 
 eldest son must be a clergyman." 
 
 It is probable that the notice which my fa- 
 ther always received from Mr. Armstrong, 
 even from the first of his coming to the curacy, 
 contributed not a little to fixing in his mind 
 this strong deference for the clerical profession ; 
 and indeed the curate's ov*'n character was 
 such, that it was really flattering to any one 
 to be distuiguished by him. But my father 
 was a man of an extremely good natural un- 
 derstandmg, though sometimes led away into 
 visions bordering on enthusiasm, upon his 
 favourite subject of aggrandising his family. 
 He was besides a perfectly moral and religious 
 man, and his introduction of the new systeai 
 E 5
 
 82 
 
 of psalmody, so soon after Mr. Armstrong 
 became curate, led almost unavoidably to his 
 noticing him particularly. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding his general enthusiasm 
 for the church, there were moments when he 
 hesitated about the degree of honour to be 
 conferred upon it, in the placing out his chil- 
 dren : — this was when, in the course of his 
 medical practice, he had performed some won- 
 derful cure upon a patient, whether horse or 
 cow. At such times he became so exceedingly 
 impressed with the vast importance of the me- 
 dical science, not only to mankind, but even 
 to the brute creation, that respect for physic 
 would even gain the ascendancy in his mind 
 over reverence for divinity. Then would he 
 expatiate to my mother, with an irresistible flow 
 of eloquence, upon the immense utility a man 
 was of, by devoting himself to the study of 
 physic, and conclude with resolving, spite of 
 what he had said at other times, that his eldest 
 son must be a physician. Yet even then the 
 ambition of seeing a son in the pulpit was not 
 relinquished ; and though the eldest was other- 
 wise disposed of, the second should most de- 
 cidedly be in the church. 
 
 All this time, however, there was one ob- 
 stacle to the realisation of his plans, on which 
 he had never thought of calculating, and this
 
 S3 
 
 was, that no child was yet born to him. Year 
 after year passed on, in the vain hope that 
 though the past had not been propitious, an- 
 other might be more fortunate; but another still 
 succeeded, and left him still in expectation. 
 Yet the formation of his projects was not on 
 this account interrupted, nor could repeated 
 disappointment wholly deprive him of hope. 
 " He knew," he said, " that he must wait 
 God's good time for every thing, which that 
 is what every body must do ; and since he 
 was resolved to be a kind father, he could not 
 help thinking that it would please God some 
 time or oiher to send him children. Even 
 among those distinguished personages in Scrip- 
 ture who had been the most highly favoured 
 by the Lord, it was not till late in life that 
 posterity was granted to some of them, par- 
 ticularly in the instances of Abraham, and 
 Zacharias father of John the Baptist. Each 
 of these had a son born to him after all hope 
 of having children had ceased : and though 
 he was not p;"esumptuous enough to think of 
 sharing a proportionate degree of favour with 
 the Almighty ; yet as long as neither he nor his 
 wife were sufficiently advanced in years to pre- 
 clude the hope of descendants without the 
 intervention of a miracle, he saw no good 
 reason for not cherishing hope." He still
 
 84 
 
 continued, therefore, to frame his projects ; 
 and the discussion of them was the general to- 
 pic of all his tete-a-tete conversations with my 
 mother. 
 
 She, though not less ardent in her wishes to 
 be the mother of a child who should in future 
 be a great man, was less sanguine in her hopes, 
 and would sometimes check my father, saying 
 that it was quite useless •to form so many 
 schemes ; — perhaps his presum.ption in dc'ing 
 so, was the very reason why it had pleased 
 God to withhold children from them. To 
 this he would reply, that if at last Providence 
 was not pleased to send him a child of his own, 
 he did not doubt but that any of his neigh- 
 bours who had a large family would willingly 
 spare him one of theirs, whom he could adopt; 
 and since he was not a great man, the rhild 
 might take the name of Danville without be- 
 ing obliged to ask his majesty's royal license 
 and authority. "And who knows/* he would 
 add, " whether he may not one day be made 
 physician to his majesty, and receive the ho- 
 nour of knighthood ? — ^Then he would be call* 
 ed Sir James, or Sir John, or Sir Matthew 
 Danville ; which would be great indeed : or, 
 if he should be a clergyman, then he might 
 become a bishop, and be called My lord; 
 which would be still greater. He would wait/'
 
 85 
 
 he said, " till he was forty; and if by that time 
 he had not a child of his own, he would begin 
 to think of adopting one." 
 
 But after ten years passed in fruitless ex- 
 pectation, when hope was almost at an end, my 
 mother actually became pregnant, and in due 
 time I, the only fruit of their marriage, came in- 
 to the world. How many anxious moments 
 respecting the sex of the child did my father 
 pass from the time my m.other's pregnancy 
 was certain, till her delivery ! — " If, after all," 
 he would sometimes say, '• this child should 
 prove a daughter, which that would be very 
 unfortunate indeed, what then could be done? — 
 She could not be either a clergyman or a phy- 
 sician, the family could never be aggrandised 
 through her. It was possible to be sure that 
 she might marry greatly, — she might prove 
 very handsome, and the squire's son might 
 fall in love with her : ^uch things had happen- 
 ed, and might happen again; which that would 
 be a great thing for her, but then the name of 
 Danville would not be aggrandised ; — for since 
 she would be elevated by her alliance with the 
 young squire, not the squire by his alliance 
 with her, he could never insist on her hus- 
 band's taking her name, she must take that of 
 her husband."— On the whole, if the offspring 
 had proved a daughter, I am afraid she would
 
 86 
 
 have met with rather a cold welcome into the 
 world, on the paternal side, at least, however 
 kindly she might have been received by the 
 mother. 
 
 But to this trial my father was not put. Af- 
 ter some hours spent in a state of anxiety 
 tvhich has perhaps never been exceeded, and 
 not often been equalled, even when a large 
 property depended upon the sex of the infant 
 about to make its appearance ; at length, just 
 as the clock struck twelve at noon, one of the 
 gossips of the village, who was in attendance 
 above stairs, descended, with a countenance 
 fully expressive of the joyful tidings she had to 
 communicate, and congratulated him upon the 
 birth of af very fine boy. The first burst of 
 transport at this happy event had but just be- 
 gun to subside, when, as if to render his hap- 
 piness as complete as possible, another suc- 
 ceeded scarcely less transporting. A rap was 
 heard at the door of his house ; which being 
 opened, the rector presented himself 'before 
 him, to announce that he had made choice of 
 him as successor to the clerk of the parish, 
 who had only two days before paid the great 
 debt of nature. To find himself the father of 
 a Very tine and promising boy, in whom pro- 
 bably he then beheld nothing less than a future 
 archbishop of Canterbury, while at the same
 
 87 
 
 moment he was himself raised to so higrh a 
 distinction in the parish, was such a tide of 
 transport, that, quite overpowered, he could 
 scarcely make due acknowledgements to the 
 rector for the favour conferred upon him ; but 
 stammering out a few incoherent words, he 
 ended by falling upon his knees, and fervently 
 praying that heaven would enable him to bear 
 with moderation and equanimity of temper 
 such a vast accession of good fortune. 
 
 He now considered himself as very decidedly 
 the third person in the parish ; there could be 
 only two superior to himself, the squire and 
 the rector. Between these two he could.never 
 positively decide to which the priority of rank 
 ought to be assigned : the squire, as the great 
 landholder, it could not be denied, had no 
 slight claim to be considered as the first per- 
 son ; but so profound was my father's respect 
 for the church, that he could hardly allow 
 even the squire to be a greater man than the 
 rector. Yet, whichever way this question 
 might be decided, of his own rai 'k there could 
 be no doubt: — if the clergyman in his pulpit 
 and desk was a person of such immense im- 
 portance, he could not consider the clerk, 
 whose office it was to echo with an Amen all 
 the fine things he uttered, as any other than a 
 humble participator in his greatness. If he
 
 88 
 
 regarded the minister as the sun which diffuses 
 light and radiance all around, — as the meteor 
 to whom his flock ought to look up as the first 
 object of their respect among created things, — 
 he could not consider the clerk as any thing 
 less than the moon shining with his borrowed 
 light. Judge then what must have been his 
 transport on finding himself beaming with the 
 effulgence of this subordinate luminary, while 
 he had at the same time a son born \Thom he 
 hoped to see one day adorned with all the lus- 
 tre of the superior one ! 
 
 A very important point now came into deli- 
 beration, and that was by what name I should 
 be called. It was one of my father's axioms, 
 that every person destined to the service of the 
 church, or in any way connected with the 
 church, should have a Scripture name, though 
 he was not particular whether it should be ta- 
 ken from the Old or New Testament. Since 
 then, in consequence of his closer connection 
 with the church from the new honours con- 
 ferred upon him, I was irrevocably destined 
 to the clerical profession, it was beyond all dis- 
 pute that I must have a Scripture name : the 
 only difficulty was to determine, among the 
 number that presented themselves to his choice, 
 which it should be. 
 
 At first he thought of naming me after one
 
 59 
 
 of the Evangelists, and among thetn he pre- 
 ferred Luke to the others, because he consi- 
 dered that saint as the greatest of the four, 
 since he had not only written one of th\? Go- 
 spels, but also tlie Acts of the Apostles. He 
 was besides a physician ; and should any thing 
 occur hereafter to make him alter his mind, 
 and not educate me to the church, though he 
 could scarcely conceive that to be possible, yet 
 if it should so happen, as I should then cer- 
 tainly be devoted to the study of physic, my 
 name would still be appropriate to rny profes- 
 sion. Sometimes he was more disposed to 
 Paul, since he was so celebrated a preacher, 
 and considering the number of Epistles written 
 by him, he must be acknowledged a scarcely 
 less voluminous writer than Saint Luke. James 
 had also his moments of preference, because 
 the Epistle of James was one of my father's 
 most favourite portions of the sacred writings. 
 Though a very religious man, he was no en- 
 thusiast, — he considered faith without works 
 as wholly unavailing, and was consequently a 
 great disciple of the apostle who contends so 
 strenuously for w^orks, and for the inefficiency 
 of faith alone, independent of them. 
 
 At other times he was altogether for recur- 
 ring to the Old Testament, and baptizing me 
 after some of the great Hebrew priests or pro-
 
 90 
 
 phets, Daniel was a character he particularly 
 admired; and as he had escar-^d in safety 
 from the lions' den, so he hc-.ed his son 
 might pass in safety through the snares and 
 temptations of "the world, of whici] the lions 
 might not improperly be considered as a type. 
 His love of psalmody inclined him frequently 
 towards David; — then he thought of Abra- 
 ham, as he intended me to be the rounder of 
 a great family. At length all these were re- 
 jected, and the name of Samuel, for several 
 important reasons, was determined on. In the 
 first place, I was born after many years of un- 
 fruitful marriage; — in the next place, I was 
 destined, like Samuel, to minister at the altar 
 of ihe Lord ; — in the third place, as Samuel 
 became high priest of the Jews, so he hoped 
 that I should rise to the highest honours in the 
 Christian church ; — and lastly, my mother's 
 name was Hannah, which seemed to point out 
 that of Samuel as particularly appropriate for 
 her son. It was totally out of the question to 
 give me his own name, since he had the mis- 
 fortune to be called Robert, a name nowhere 
 to be found in Scripture. 
 
 My mother had sometimes suggested giving 
 me three or four names, that I might have the 
 better chance of following some one or other 
 of the great men after whom I should be call-
 
 91 
 
 ed : — besides, she said, it was quite the fashion 
 to have several names, your great folks always 
 have three or four at least. To this my father 
 positively refused his assent. As to fashion, 
 he said, he did not care a rush for it in com- 
 parison with Scripture ; and as to great men 
 having always several names, that was quite a 
 mistake, for he could cite a hundred arch- 
 bishops and bishops, aye, and a great many 
 learned physicians too, who had only one. But 
 what was more than all, he did not recollect a 
 single instance where the servants of the Lord 
 mentioned in the sacred writings, whether 
 priest or prophet, whether apostle or evange- 
 list, had above one name, and it w^as therefore 
 peremptorily resolved that the same rule should 
 be observed in baptizing his son. 1 was ac- 
 cordingly baptized by the name of Samuel, 
 and by that name only, two days after my 
 birth. 
 
 My baptism took place at this early period, 
 because it was my father's earnest wish that his 
 own entrance upon his new office should be 
 distinguished by so remarkable a circumstance, 
 as his officiating for the first time at the bap- 
 tism of his first-born son ; — and as the remains 
 of his predecessor in office were to be consign- 
 ed the next day to the earth, there was no al- 
 ternative, but either to forgo this satisfaction^
 
 02 
 
 or to have me baptized when I was only two- 
 days old. My mother was extremely averse to 
 her infant's running such a risk as being car- 
 ried to church so soon, and suggested, that as 
 the rector was very good-natured, he would 
 perhaps come and name the child privately, 
 and then my father could say his Amen just 
 the same as if he were in church. But this 
 would not do : — my father would scarcely 
 have considered his Amen as an Amen pro- 
 nounced any where but in the church ; and he 
 said moreover that he knew enough of physic 
 to be sure that there v/as no such mighty dan- 
 ger in carrying his child to church, particu- 
 larly as it was then the month of July, and 
 Very warm weather: — besides, it was a part 
 of his medical as well as clerical creed, that 
 nobody ever did catch cold in a churcL He 
 observed too tiiatl was a brave chopping hearty 
 boy as any that had been born since he had 
 known the parish ; and if he did not think that 
 I should be just as safe in the church as stiving 
 up in my mother's room, he who had long 
 wished so earnestly for a son would be the 
 last person in the world to think of such Sl 
 thing. 
 
 These reasonings, and still more his per- 
 emptory decision that it should be so, deter- 
 mined the question -, I was carried to church.
 
 93 
 
 and he said his Amen with an emphasis and 
 audibility proportioned to the satisfaction he 
 felt, and never I suppose on any occasion was 
 satisfaction more complete. To croun all, he 
 had afterwards the honour of entertaining the 
 rector himself at his humble habitation. Mr. 
 Armstrong very good-naturedly accompanied 
 him home when the ceremony was over, to 
 eat a piece of cake, and drink a glass of cur- 
 rant wine of his own making. Still further to 
 add to the joy of the day, permission had been 
 given by him, for my father to bring his whole 
 band of vocal performers to the christening, 
 and to conclude the ceremony with an anthem 
 from that part of the tenth chapter of St. Mark 
 v;hich is read in the baptismal service.
 
 94 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 New means devised of raising a for tune. — Media' 
 nical, medical, and musical studies and experi^ 
 ments, with iheir successes and failures. — The 
 best intentions do not always lead to the lest re- 
 sults, — Practical illustration of this truism. 
 
 It is not my intention to enter upon a very 
 minute detail of the occurrences and adven- 
 tures of my earliest years, since I never could 
 find that there was any thing in them very asto- 
 nishing, very extraordinary, or much out of the 
 common course of infantine biography. It is 
 certain that none were deemed sufficiently di- 
 stinguished to entitle them to a place among 
 the Memoirs of celebrated Children*^ since I 
 will own that I have looked in vain all over 
 that book for the name of Samuel Danville. 
 Indeed I must acknowledge, though to the mor- 
 tification of my own vanity, that I cannot dis- 
 cover the least traces amid all the most authen- 
 tic information I have been able to obtain upon 
 the subject, of my having at that period of my 
 life appeared a prodigy in any eyes but those 
 of my father and mother. 
 
 In short, and it is a very hard thing for the 
 hero of his own tale to be obliged to confess, 
 
 * A work in one large volume 12mo.
 
 95 
 
 my infant years passed only after the usual 
 manner of those of my predecessors and con- 
 temporaries in the parish of Langham. I cut 
 my teeth at the usual time ; I was able to walk 
 sooner than many children, for I was always 
 remarkably strong and healthy : I had my full 
 portion of those hair-breadth scapes which are 
 generally more or less the lot of all children ; 
 for I was exceedingly apt to get into mischief, and 
 ere yet my third year was fully completed,! had 
 twice had a handsome ducking in a little brook 
 that ran at the bottom of our garden ; — a duck- 
 ing I may truly call it, since it was in running 
 after the young ducks that the misadventure 
 happened The greatest reflection ever cast upon 
 my infantine prowess was, that my mother used 
 to complain of my being extremely backward 
 with my tongue, from which she drew a me- 
 lancholy augur that I should grow up very dull 
 and stupid. Perhaps her impatience to hear 
 little Sammy lisp accents which would no doubt 
 sound more than commonly melodious to her 
 ear, led her ir^advertently to cast aspersions 
 upon my character which the real fact would 
 not justify. 
 
 However this might be, her conclusion was 
 one in which my father could never by any 
 means concur ; he regarded the matter in a very 
 different light. " If Sam be so very backward
 
 56 
 
 with his tongue," he would say, " which in- 
 deed I do not see it, that is by no means to be 
 regretted, since it is a proof that he will never 
 be a silly idle babbler, but will rather be of a 
 serious contemplative turn, fit for an archbi- 
 shop, or a king's physician ; that he will al- 
 ways reason before he speaks, which that is 
 what a man of sense ought to do, and not be 
 prattling nonsense without reflection, as you 
 know, Hannah, must always be the case with 
 your people who are for ever talking: who 
 knows what may be passing in his little head 
 even at this moment r " The speculadon was 
 ingenious, no doubt; but I do suppose that my 
 reasonings and reflections before I could speak 
 were not very deep, or upon very abstruse 
 points. 
 
 From the instant of my coming into the 
 world, my father became more and more assi- 
 duous every day in his endeavours to increase 
 his means of getting money, that he might 
 have the more to bestow upon my education. 
 I5is exertions at the forge and anvil were no 
 longer confined to supplying the cavalry of 
 Langham and the adjacent villages with shoes ; 
 he enlarged his sphere of action to every branch 
 of the smith's art, whether blacksmith, white- 
 smith, or locksmith. Nay, he even proceeded 
 a step further, and ventured to make an essay
 
 97. 
 
 at infringing upon the business of the clock- 
 maker. Having in quality of his ofEce of clerk 
 ready access to the church clock, he studied 
 the mechanism of it with so much assiduity, 
 and gained by that means such a thorough ac- 
 quaintance with all its component parts, that he 
 was after a while more successful in correcting 
 what was amiss in it, than the clockmaker at 
 Ambresbury, who had hitherto been the admi- 
 nistrator to its wants. 
 
 Of the latter, indeed, it is recorded among 
 the chronicles handed down by oral tradition 
 in the village, that once when sent for to ad- 
 minister to some irregularities in the kitchen 
 clock at the Hall, the now Mr. Conway, being 
 then a roguish youth of about fourteen, came 
 to contemplate the progress of his operations, 
 when he took an opportunity of slily conveying 
 one of the wheels into his own pocket. The 
 operator, however, never perceived his loss, but 
 very composedly put the clock together again 
 without it, and departed ; when, to the no 
 small amazement of the servants in the kitch- 
 en, the next time that in the revolution o£ 
 things the moment was come about for it to 
 strike, instead of pausing at the eleventh stroke 
 as it ought to have done, it proceeded on and 
 on to another' and another, till it had attained 
 the complete number of twenty-three. Mas- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 
 
 ter Conway was happily within hearing of this 
 notable feat, and almost in fits with laughter 
 produced the wheel, and generously made the 
 whole kitchen partakers in the joke ; for which 
 they were all exceedingly grateful, and joined 
 in the laugh with equal heartiness. 
 
 But such a casualty could never have hap- 
 pened to my father; for he knew so exactly the 
 precise number of wheels, springs, and other 
 instruments of motion of which every clock 
 with which he ever had any concern was com- 
 posed, and was so methodical in his arrange- 
 ment of them round him, whenever he set 
 about a dissection of this kind, that it was im- 
 possible for him to have been deprived of the 
 smallest particle without its being immediately 
 missed. I never got into greater disgrace du- 
 ring my infancy, than once when he being 
 called away was obliged to stop in the midst of 
 his operations : his whole apparatus was how- 
 ever left upon the table, arranged in the most 
 exact order, so that he reckoned upon resu- 
 ming them at his return with as much facility as 
 if hey had never been interrupted. Alas, how 
 great was his error I I in the mean time, true 
 to that propensity to mischief at which I have 
 already hinted, seeing such an assemblage of 
 amusing interesting objects within my reach, 
 could not forbear climbing upon a chair and
 
 99 
 
 occupymg myself with them, deranging and 
 transposing the order of them, now here now 
 there, till his return, which was a full quarter 
 of an hour ; by which time the whole system 
 of the thing was so completely destroyed, that 
 the table presented nothing but a chaotic heap 
 of unarranged elements which called almost 
 for a new creation. 
 
 My father surveyed the scene of ruin and 
 confusion with grief and dismay, and I was 
 sent into the corner in a state of the utmost 
 disgrace, nor suffered to emerge from it again 
 without an ample confession that I had been 
 very naughty, and receiving severe denuncia* 
 tions of the much heavier punishments that 
 awaited me, if ever again I should meddle with 
 any thing upon which I saw him employed. 
 Indeed, the confusion into which the whole ap- 
 paratus had thus been thrown, was a source of 
 perplexity to him which endangered the total 
 overthrow of all the reputation he had acquired 
 in his new art. The system upon which he 
 proceeded being entirely of his own forming, 
 such an interruption of it was fatal to him, nor 
 did he find it possible by any means to restore 
 that order among his elements which I had so 
 fatally destroyed : the consequence was, that in 
 putting the chronicler of time together again, 
 he made so great a mistake in the place he as- 
 F 2
 
 100 
 
 signed to the balance-wheel, that the hand took 
 two turns round the circle of the dial within the 
 hour, instead of one. But as this small mistake 
 was corrected before the clock returned to its 
 own lodgings again, the disaster was never 
 publicly known : it was not corrected, how- 
 ever, till after several new experiments upon 
 placing the wheel had been unsuccessfully 
 made, and he had been obliged at last to have 
 recourse to dissecting his own clock, to assure 
 himself of the precise place which it ought to 
 occupy. This important secret was, however, 
 for the moment confined entirely to himself and 
 his Kannah ; it was only divulged in private 
 once to me, when in my maturer years my 
 good parent was entertaining me, as good pa- 
 rents are very generally fond of entertaining 
 their grown-up children, with the simplicities 
 and lapses of my childhood. 
 
 All this, however, is digression. I now re- 
 sume my regular narrative. My father, having 
 succeeded so well in the essay of his talents 
 which he made upon the church clock, found 
 such encouragement to proceed, that he next 
 applied himself to that which ticked behind the 
 door in his own kitchen ; when he met wiih 
 equal success. These, however, were trifles; 
 nor, though many compliments were paid by 
 the neighbours to his ingenuity, was he at all
 
 101 
 
 elated by them. But when at length recourse 
 was had to him for the correction of some wan- 
 derings and irregularities in the clock at the 
 rectory, then indeed he began to consider his 
 talents as of some value ; it was plain then that 
 they were held in some esteem by Mr. Arm- 
 strong, and that was a thing of v»'hich there was 
 good reason to be proud. 
 
 Nor in another of his favourite branches of 
 science, the study of physic, did he remain 
 stationary. His medical practice was no longer 
 confined to the brute creation, he learned to 
 breathe a vein in the human arm^ and to extract 
 a rebel tooth ; — in the latter operation he soon 
 became so great an adept, that he v/as seldom 
 known to exceed two pulls, never thre-j. I'lc; 
 besides took upon himself to prescribe, or, as 
 he commonly termed it, subscribe, for different 
 diseases, and was much consulted not only by 
 the labouring class, but even by the farmers of 
 the parish. He was in general a fortunate prac- 
 titioner ; and it is probable that one advantage 
 was derived by his patients from consulting 
 him rather than persons regularly trained to the 
 profession, that the operations of nature were 
 less impeded by his remedies than they might 
 have been by those prescribed scientifically. 
 Not that he had studied Galen and Hippocra- 
 tes, or was even deeply read in Buckans Do*
 
 102 
 
 mestic Medicine ; he never pretended to any 
 other knowledge than what was drawn from 
 observation and experience ; and though no- 
 body-j he would say, " had a greater respect 
 for learning, which to be sure they must be 
 fools indeed that despised it, yet he could not 
 help thinking that, experience without learning 
 was of more value than learning without expe- 
 rience ; at least he might congratulate himself 
 that he had never done any harm by his pre- 
 scriptions ; and that was more than every body 
 could say." His grand specific was a dose of 
 jalap, on the virtues of which he would often 
 expatiate very learnedly, affirming that he be- 
 lieved more good was done by thirty or forty 
 grains of this simple powder, than by all the 
 concoctions ever made up, of all the things 
 with hard names that the apothecary's shop 
 could furnish. 
 
 His musical talents too were further exerted, 
 that no source from whence there appeared a 
 chance of any emolument being derived might 
 be neglected. He established a school for the 
 instruction of young people in psalmody, which 
 was held on a Sunday evening during the sum- 
 mer months; and he had so many scholars, both 
 from his own and several of the neighbouring 
 parishes, that he actually made it more profitable 
 than could possibly have been imagined.
 
 103 
 
 Nor was my mother, who in her eager wishes 
 to see her son a great man was no way behind- 
 hand with my father, less ardent in her exer- 
 tions to procure the means of making him so. 
 
 On her father's death, which happened very 
 soon after my birth, the shop devolved to her, 
 and it became a primary object with her to ren- 
 der it as advantageous as possible. For this 
 purpose she immediately made new arrange- 
 ments for stocking it; and whereas her father 
 had always purchased his wares at Ambres- 
 bury, she settled correspondences: with London 
 dealers, and had them all at the first hand, be- 
 sides increasing very considerably the variety of 
 articles in which she dealt. The consequence 
 was, that her shop soon became vastly superior 
 to those usually found in country villages, and 
 even rivalled the very best shops at Ambres- 
 bury; so that the farmers' wives who had been 
 accustomed to send thither for their tea and su- 
 gar, now dealt entirely with Hannah Danville. 
 Her choice of ribbands too was so exceedingly 
 improved, that the farmers' daughters conde- 
 scended to supply themselves from her stock, 
 and even to appear on a Sunday at church in 
 hats and bonnets ornamented with purchases 
 from it. 
 
 To the medical science also, she, no less 
 than my father^ turned her attention; and
 
 104^ 
 
 when old Ruth Morden, who had long been 
 accoucheuse to the parish, became from in- 
 creasing years unable to continue her practice, 
 my mother, who had long been her pupil, rose 
 to be her successor. 
 
 But there was still another object from which 
 she derived great profit, and on which she 
 piqued herself exceedingly, because it spread 
 her fame much further and wider than either 
 of the others could do; — this was the bringing- 
 up poultry. She always furnished the London 
 market with some of the earliest spring chick- 
 ens and turkey-poults, ducklings, and green- 
 geese that were brought to it, and the higgler 
 flattered her with the assurance that he could 
 always get a higher price from the London 
 dealers for whatever poultry he carried to them, 
 if he could assure them it was Hannah Dan- 
 ville's feeding. Besides, it was an agreement 
 between them, that on her engaging never to 
 let any body but himself have her poultry, he 
 was to bring the goods for her shop, as back 
 carriage from London, by his cart, at a cheaper 
 rate than she must have paid by the stage wag- 
 gon. Sometimes, indeed, this branch of her 
 industry would occasion little altercations be- 
 tween her and my father ; for, if the weather 
 happened to be very cold early in the spring 
 when she had any young broods, they then
 
 wanted the best place at the fire, ^and he was 
 turned out of the chimney corner, where only 
 he could smoke his pipe in comfort: and even 
 the apology that it was all done for Sam's be- 
 nefit, which my mother thought quite suffi- 
 cient, and which my father would have thought 
 so in any other case, hardly passed current in 
 this. 
 
 It has been stated that my father's first Amen 
 was said at my baptism, and the second at the. 
 funeral of his predecessor in office. The mar- 
 riages of Mr. Armstrong and his sister Eleanor 
 had taken place in the intermediate day be- 
 tween the death of the old clerk and the ap- 
 pointment of the new one; and it was probably 
 owing to the manner in which the rector was 
 occupied just at this moment, that he delayed 
 for so long a time as two days communicating 
 to my father his intentions with regard to him, 
 since he must be well av/are that the intelligence 
 would give him particular satisfaction. The 
 first Sunday^ therefore, of the new clerk's of^ 
 ficiating, was rendered almost as remarkable as 
 the first occasion of it, since it was that of the 
 bride's, as well as the clerk's, first appearance 
 in their new seats at church. On this occasion, 
 my father, who never" passed over any opportu- 
 nity of bringing forward the talents of. his 
 vocal band into, particular notice, obtained 
 
 F5 
 
 V
 
 106 
 
 leave of t? e rector, as the most appropriate 
 manner in which such an event as the bride's 
 appearance could be celebrated, to perform an 
 anthem from the 128th psalm, which consti- 
 tutes a part of the matrimonial service. Just 
 a year after, the clerk had the inexpressible 
 pleasure of officiating at the baptism of Mr. 
 Armstrong's first and only child, Walter. 
 
 But the satisfaction derived by Mr. Arm- 
 strong from the birth of this child, was soon 
 damped by the state of his mother's health, 
 which began evidently to be such as to give the 
 most serious cause of alarm ro all her connec- 
 tions. During the time of her pregnancy she 
 had appeared in a very precarious state ; but 
 hopes were always entertained that her com- 
 plaints were only incidental to her situation, 
 and that when her confinement was over her 
 health would be gradually restored. These 
 flattering ideas, however, soon vanished before 
 the sad reality ; and in a short time it became 
 obvious to every body but herself, that her 
 mortal career was drawing rapidly to a close. 
 Her own insensibility to her situation was in- 
 deed to others only a fatal confirmation of the 
 hopelessness of her case. 
 
 Poor Eleanor heard with an almost broken 
 heart of her friend's approaching fate. Her 
 own imprudent precipitation, which had led her
 
 107 
 
 brother into adopting a measure neither con- 
 genial to his wishes, nor wholly sanctioned by 
 his judgement, while it had proved ineffectual 
 to save her friend, now presented itself to her 
 mind with increased feelings of regret and self- 
 reproach. She was herself recently become a 
 mother, having brought into the world a very 
 fine little girl ^ and as soon as she was reco- 
 vered from her confinement she obtained the 
 consent of her husband to go and attend upon 
 her dying friend, and administer what conso- 
 lation she was able to her brother in the di- 
 stressing situation into which she herself had 
 brought him. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong's conduct as a husband had 
 been, as in every other social relarion in which 
 he had been tried, most exemplary. His uni- 
 form endeavour had been to conceal from So- 
 phia the motives which led to his making her 
 his wife — to prevent her entertaining any idea 
 that she v\as not the decided object of his choice. 
 He conceived that if this should be suspected 
 by her, the sacrifice he had made would be 
 wholly unavailing ; that he should even have 
 given her a source of more poignant distress 
 than that which he had sought to relieve. 
 
 While somedmes willing to flatter himself 
 with hopes that his endeavours were crowned 
 with success, yet at others he could not banish 
 from his mind apprehensions that they were not
 
 108 
 
 so. As far, however, as words could confirm 
 his hopes, Sophia gave him every reason to be- 
 lieve that they were not ill-founded. To him 
 she had no power of uttering her feelings ; but 
 in her letters to Eleanor she spoke of the hap- 
 piness she enjoyed as a wife, with an ardour bor- 
 dering on enthusiasm. Never, she said, she 
 believed, was happiness so pure, so without al- 
 loy, enjoyed by any woman ; never was any one 
 blessed with so kind, so affectionate a husband ; 
 every day inspired her with new admiration of 
 his character, for every day brought forth fresh 
 instances of a thousand amiable and excellent 
 qualities only to be thoroughly known in so 
 near and dear a connection. Tributes such as 
 these Eleanor knew would be so grateful to her 
 brother, that she never failed to communicate 
 them ; but that he did not derive entire satis- 
 faction from them, he was afterwards obliged 
 to acknowledge to her. He was afraid, he said, 
 that Sophia only deceived herself into a belief 
 that such wer^ her feelings ; he could not but 
 apprehend, that notwithstanding the caution 
 with which he sought to maintain a delusion 
 necessary to her repose, and her willingness to 
 be deluded, latent suspicions of the truth would 
 sometimes involuntarily intrude themselves 
 upon her mind. He even thought there was 
 reason to fear that the intrusion of such su- 
 spicions, and her endeavours to combat them.
 
 109 
 
 and persuade herself that they were unreason- 
 able, had an influence in preventing the resto- 
 ration of her heahh. How far these ideas might 
 be well or ill founded could not be decided, the 
 object who alone could confirm or confute them 
 being no more. 
 
 Nor were any other means neglected by Mr. 
 Armstrong which might afford a prospect of 
 saving her from her impending fate ; he had 
 recourse to the best medical advice, and even 
 proposed to the physicians, as the only remain- 
 ing hope, her being carried to a warmer climate. 
 They candidly owned that this could be of no 
 avail ; and advised, as the kindest thing to be 
 done in her situadon, that she should remain 
 quietly at home for the short period she could 
 sdll have to live. Had she been more sensible 
 of her own danger, perhaps something might 
 have transpired to confirm or confute Mr. Arm- 
 strong's apprehensions ; some look, some word 
 might have escaped, by which the state of her 
 mind might have been more certainly indicated. 
 But to the last she considered her illness as 
 only temporary, and expired in the arms of her 
 husband, while laying plans with him for many 
 things to be done when she was recovered. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong was deeply affected at her 
 fate : it was impossible that a heart like his 
 should not be so, knowing that he was himself 
 the occasion, though innocently, of her being
 
 J 10 
 
 cut off even in the meridian of life. But lic 
 was a man ;nul a Christian, and he bore his 
 aflliction as such. If he compassionated her 
 ialc, and experienced deep regrets at the cause 
 of it, the separation froui her could not be a 
 stroke of equal anguish to what would have 
 been felt iiad the union been of his own seek- 
 ing, — had it been one that he himself ardently 
 desired : and he had this reflection to console 
 him, that no sooner was he aware of the un- 
 intentional injury she had received, than every 
 thing in his power was done to repair it. His 
 blindness in not discerning more readily the 
 impression he had made, could not be imputed 
 to him as a fault ; it rather showed the humility 
 of his mind as to his own endowments, — the 
 total absence of that vanity not unfrequent even 
 among sensible men, which fancies that to be 
 known and to be loved by a woman is almost 
 the same thing. 
 
 He had as severe, perhaps a severer pang to 
 experience, when about three weeks after the 
 death of Sophia he was to be separated from 
 Eleanor. He had already been indulged with 
 her company even longer than it was perhaps 
 reasonable to expect her husband to spare her, 
 and both agreed that it would be unpardonable 
 to think of trespassing further upon his indul- 
 gence. It was now that they felt in its whole 
 extent to how many remote causes of sorrow
 
 Ill 
 
 one hasty step may lead. What would not 
 both have given that Eleanor had been still at 
 liberty ! — that now, as heretofore, there had 
 been no tie so binding upon her as to admi- 
 nister to the comforts and happiness of a bro- 
 ther, who had not thought any sacrifice too 
 great to promote hers. But the thing was past 
 remedy, — Eleanor was a wife, and had duties 
 to perform as such, which were paramount to 
 every other consideration. She had, besides, 
 really much cause of gratitude to her husband, 
 and to this she was not insensible ; though in ex- 
 amining her heart, as little could she be insen- 
 sible, that it was much more devoted to sisterly 
 than to conjugal affection. 
 
 She had found Lawrence Middleton, as she 
 had every reason to expect, a worthy, an ho- 
 nest, and an industrious man in the most ex- 
 tended sense of these words, and as such she 
 respected him ; but her sensations towards him 
 could never go further than respect : — that 
 nameless something which inspires affection we 
 know not why, which we can feel much better 
 than we can describe, she looked for in vain. 
 She could not be unhappy ; for she saw her 
 husband free from even the remotest tendency 
 to vice, anxious to please her, solicitous to 
 promote her happiness, and to procure her 
 every comfort consistent with his fortune and
 
 112 
 
 situation : — ^yet when she compared him with 
 her brother, (and this she sometimes caught 
 herself doing involuntarily, ) she could not dis- 
 guise to herself how much the latter was his 
 superior ; nor could she feel it without sensa- 
 tions of mortification and regret. 
 
 But these feelings were confined to her owa 
 bosom : to her brother she was eager in dis- 
 playing Lawrence's good qualities ; nor ever 
 spoke but with warm expressions of gratitude 
 of his affectionate conduct towards her. If Mr. 
 Armstrong was afraid she did not experience 
 all the happiness in her marriage that a wedded 
 life is capable of affording, this apprehension 
 w^as entirely the result of his own observations; 
 it did not proceed from any thing he had ever 
 heard drop from her even inadvertently. Yet the 
 mere suspicion that this was so, occasioned him 
 much additional regret at parting with her ; 
 while she was far from quitting him with satis- 
 fied feelings, when she reflected that she was 
 now separating herself from the dearest object 
 she had on earth, though but a brother, and 
 was going to join one who had but a subordi- 
 nate place in her affections, — yet that one was 
 her husband.
 
 115 
 
 CHAPTER Vir. 
 
 More odd notions enteflained ly a young divine up- 
 on a variety of topics, — Delicate questions con" 
 cerning education ingeniously discussed, and sa- 
 gaciously resolved, — J profound argument held 
 upon the important question, whether a Christian 
 can conscientiously learn the Greek language, 
 
 Mr. Armstrong's first cares were now to 
 take a new direction : — he was a father, and to 
 form the mind of his child to the pursuit of vir- 
 tue here, that he might have a prospect of en- 
 joying eternal happiness hereafter, was become 
 his primary, his most important duty. Anxious 
 as he had ever been faithfully to discharge every 
 trust that devolved upon him, he felt that he 
 had never yet been engaged in one equally ar- 
 duous ; in one that involved a greater variety 
 of duties ; that demanded such unwearied, such 
 unabated attention. While the world in general 
 is prone to dwell upon the great duties owed by 
 children to their parents, upon the great obli- 
 gations they are under to them, he always dwelt 
 rather upon the duties of parents to their chil- 
 dren, which he considered as of a nature much 
 more urgent, much more binding. 
 
 The very existence of a child he could not 
 but feel is not a matter of his own choice \ it
 
 114 
 
 has been Imposed upon him without any con- 
 sent of his own; and nothing, therefore, can be 
 more arbitrary, more unjust, than to consider 
 a child as subjected to duties, by an act which 
 it remains for subsequent circumstances to de- 
 termine whether it shall be a blessing or a curse 
 to him. But a parent stands in a very different 
 situation ; he has voluntarily subjected himself 
 to the duties which he knows to be annexed to 
 the character he is assuming ; and in assuming 
 it he enters into a tacit but most solemn en- 
 gagement, not only with the being which he 
 brings into the world, but with the greatest of 
 ail beings, punctually and consciendously to 
 fulfil these duties. He is well aware what the 
 duties are ; that they extend alike to forming 
 the mind and the body of the child ; to restrain- 
 ing him from vice, and instructing him in the 
 ways of virtue : — that the being towards whom 
 they are incurred, is one who from its very na- 
 ture requires, during its infancy, its childhood, 
 and even till some years past what is termed 
 manhood, an attention which can admit of no 
 relaxation. He is perfectly sensible that pa- 
 rental duties cannot be performed by fits and 
 starts ; now practised, now laid aside ; that 
 they must be regularly, uniformly, steadily ad- 
 hered to. All this he knows before he becomes 
 a parent -, and all this he engages himself to
 
 115 
 
 perform. 'Tis only when these duties have 
 been faithfully discharged that a parent has 
 indeed conferred obligations upon his chil- 
 dren ; that he has a right to consider them as 
 bound in strong duties towards him : and it is 
 rarely that a child who has experienced such 
 kindness, such affection, so many benefits 
 from a parent, will be found wanting in the 
 return that he owes for them. But what ob- 
 ligation has a child to its parents for merely 
 giving it existence, if after it be come into the 
 world they have not done all in their power to 
 render that existence a blessing ? 
 
 Far from coinciding with the general opinion, 
 that nothing more is necessary for a mere in- 
 fant than to be properly fed and clothed, and 
 to be kept clean, and that a parent's duty is 
 sufficiently performed in seeing that these things 
 are properly attended to by the nurse to whose 
 hired services the care of the child is delegated; 
 — so far was Mr. Armstrong from regarding 
 these attentions, though of great importance, 
 as all that an infant requires ; he considered 
 the early years of infancy as a period when 
 some of the strongest impressions are made 
 upon the mind, — some of those which contri- 
 bute essentially to forming the future character; 
 — and he thought it of intinite importance that 
 children should be then, as much as at any pe-
 
 116 
 
 nod of their lives, immediately, and constantly 
 under the eye of their parents. 
 
 It was to him inconceivable, how any man, 
 one professing Christianity in particular, pro- 
 fessing to believe in a future state of eternal 
 happiness or misery, could support the idea of 
 having forced into existence a being, who, per- 
 haps through his inattention and mismanage- 
 ment during its infancy, had in maturer years 
 pursued that course of liTe which was to doom 
 him at last to an eternity of misery. — To an 
 eternity of misery ! — or if not absolutely to an 
 eternity, at least to long, long ^ges of misery ! 
 —Tremendous idea ! — What an awful respon- 
 sibility then does a man take upon himself in 
 becoming a parent ! — and how can parents de- 
 lude themselves so far as to suppose that they 
 are fulfilling the sacred trust they have taken 
 upon themselves, when they leave their infants 
 to the care of a heedless nurse, or an ignorant 
 negligent school-mistress, (in whose hands they 
 are perhaps to receive those first impressions 
 which will fix for ever their future character,) 
 merely to relieve themselves from the trouble- 
 some attention that infancy requires ? 
 
 Mr. Armstrong, upon the death of his wife, 
 consented, at Mrs. Middleton's earnest request, 
 and on her engaging to attend to the child 
 herself, and not leave him to servants, that she
 
 117 
 
 should have the care of Walter till he was two 
 years old : the father was nevertheless a daily- 
 visitor at Ambresbury, to see that the child was 
 not spoiled by that excess of diseased fondness 
 which a grandfather and grandmother are too 
 apt to lavish upon their grandchildren. But 
 the two years expired, Walter was taken 
 home, and from that time was scarcely ever 
 out of his father's sight. Mr. Armstrong was 
 himself his sole instructor, and he saw with 
 pleasure that there was every appearance of the 
 utmost sweetness of temper in his child ; he 
 was only concerned to perceive, that though 
 he learnt every thing with facility, yet no im- 
 pression seemed permanent on his mind ; 
 things were scarcely sooner learned than for- 
 gmten. He hoped, however, that this was 
 only the effect of infantine inattention, and, as 
 his temper was docile and tractable, that greater 
 steadiness would come in time. 
 
 Whether he should educate his son entirely 
 himself, or send him in due time to a public 
 school, was a point upon which he found it 
 extremely difficult to decide. He thought that 
 in some respects there were manifest advan- 
 tages to boys in a public education j in parti- 
 cular it seemed somewhat desirable, as they 
 must unavoidably sooner or later come to a 
 knowledge of the world, and of the vices and
 
 lis 
 
 follies with which it abounds, that they should 
 rather arrive at this knowledge in the gradual 
 way it is attained mingled amongst a large so- 
 ciety of youths of different ages and disposi- 
 tions, than that they should be plunged into 
 so trying a scene all at once, at that dangerous 
 period of life when the season of childhood is 
 past, and that of manhood is approaching. He 
 thought that the illusory attractions of the 
 world were more seductive to one who then 
 became suddenly acquainted with them, than 
 to those whose experience had been more gra- 
 dually acquired. 
 
 On the other hand, he had objections to a 
 public school which were almost insurmount- 
 able. He detested the system which punishes 
 in an equal manner an error in grammar, and 
 a transgression against the laws of religion and 
 morality. This he conceived to be such a 
 perversion of all ideas of right and wrong in 
 the youthful mind, that scarcely any of the 
 advantages presented could counterbalance it. 
 He thought that if a child was once taught to 
 regard the making a false concord in his Latin 
 exercise as an offence deserving equal severity 
 of punishment with a violation of truth, or any 
 other act of deceit or dishonesty, he was in 
 great danger of ceasing ultimately to regard a 
 strict adherence to truth and honour as virtues
 
 119 
 
 of the highest importance ; — that he was little 
 likely to entertain that veneration for them ne- 
 cessary to constitute the character which we 
 are taught to consider as the noblest work of 
 the Creator, an honest man. 
 
 Another very important objection, in his 
 opinion, to public schools was, the perpetual 
 recourse had in them to corporal punishment. 
 This was a mode of correction which he held 
 in the most determined detestation. He con- 
 sidered it as debasing to the mind, and believed 
 that whatever might be gained from admini- 
 stering it on the score of advancement in learn- 
 ing, was lost in lessening the feeling of moral 
 principle. Besides, that after being repeatedly 
 administered, the children become hardened 
 to it, and it ceases to be a punishment. When 
 they know that a neglect of their studies, a 
 deviation from the rules of the school, or even 
 a dereliction of the moral precepts inculcated 
 upon them in their daily attendance upon the 
 appointed religious exercises, are any, and all 
 of them, to be compromised with only a flog- 
 ging, they will rather submit to a transient 
 bodily uneasiness ^'hich habit has taught them 
 to brave, than restrain themselves in any irre- 
 gularity into which they may be impelled by 
 the ardour of youth and the intemperance of 
 the passions. Nay, it is well known, that if
 
 120 
 
 a boy supports the correction heroically, it is 
 considered among his schoolfellows rather as 
 a matter of triumph than of disgrace ; — in their 
 ideas, it is not the having deserved correction 
 that degrades, it is only the having shrunk 
 from it with cowardice when it was to be un- 
 dergone. 
 
 Another very material objection to a public 
 school, in Mr. Armstrong's opinion, was, that 
 though among a large number of boys there 
 must be a great diversity of talents and dispo- 
 sitions, yet these could never be considered, 
 and taught to take the direction for which they 
 seemed more particularly adapted ; the same 
 course of study must necessarily be pursued 
 by all. No difference even could be made in 
 the task assigned to the boy who had such a 
 quickness of parts that he seemed to imbibe 
 his learning almost intuitively, and him whose 
 less lively powers could acquire nothing with- 
 out intense toil and application. In a private 
 education regard might be had to the genius and 
 turn of each child, and their studies might be 
 accordingly directed to the objects best suited to 
 their talents. 
 
 But in Walter's case there was another very 
 important consideration. It was early evident 
 that the declining state of his mother's health 
 during the whole time of her pregnancy had
 
 vn 
 
 influenced that of her offspring, and it appeared 
 but too plain, that without great attention to 
 this point there was little chance of his reach- 
 ing the age of manhood. If, as he advanced 
 in life, these apprehensions should be con- 
 firmed, there could then be no doubt that he 
 must remain where paternal anxiety would 
 give every requisite attention to his health, not 
 be sent where he must undergo hardships ill 
 suited to a delicate frame. Since, however, 
 it was decided that in any case he should not 
 go to school before he was eleven or twelve 
 years of age, it was not necessary till then to 
 settle the important question of whether he 
 should go at all : that must indeed be unavoid- 
 ably determined by the circumstances that 
 might arise in the interval, and exist at that 
 moment. 
 
 I was not less, as will be supposed, the ob- 
 ject of my father's most anxious cares and soli- 
 citudes. Impressed as he was with the pro- 
 foundest respect for learning, he had taken 
 infinite pains to acquire a facility of reading, 
 and he did indeed read with a fluency and cor- 
 rectness very rare in a person in his situation. 
 As he had often heard Mr. Armstrong, who 
 was his oracle in almost every thing, deprecate 
 the little schools to which children are usually 
 sent, ( for it must be remembered that at this 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 
 
 time the Lancasterian system of instruction had 
 not started into existence J and saw that he was 
 himself the instructor of his son, he deter- 
 mined to follow his example, and be my in- 
 structor. In this undertaking he succeeded so 
 well, that by the time I was five years old I 
 could read my Testament, or indeed any Eng- 
 lish book, very fluently, even more so than the 
 young rector. This was matter of no small 
 exultation to my father. " It was true that I 
 was a year older than master Walter," he 
 would say, " which at our ages that was cer- 
 tainly a good deal of difference ; but then Mr. 
 Armstrong was a man of so much more learn- 
 ing than himself, that it was natural to expect 
 the son of the one to be as good a scholar at 
 four years old, as the son of the other at five.'* 
 In one respect indeed I was much Walter's 
 superior, that I took more pains to retain in 
 my mind whatever I learnt than he did ; and 
 while he would repeat a lesson one day very 
 perfectly, without omitting a word, but the 
 next had entirely forgotten it, — I, though I 
 learnt less rapidly, never forgot any thing in 
 which I had once been perfect. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong observing the pains bestow- 
 ed on my education by my father, and seeing 
 that I had none of the coarse rustic habits com- 
 men among children in a country village, so
 
 123 
 
 that there was no danger of Walter's imbibing 
 impressions from an acquaintance with me 
 which he would wish avoided, allowed me 
 from a very early period to visit at the rectory 
 as the companion and playfellow of his son, to 
 our mutual satisfaction and delight. 
 
 Encouraged by this flattering distinction, 
 my father after awhile ventured to disclose to 
 the rector his views with regard to me, and 
 his great ambition to see me a minister of the 
 church of England, requesting his opinion 
 upon the plan, and, if it met with his appro- 
 bation, his advice how it might best be pro- 
 secuted. Mr, Armstrong said he saw no ob- 
 jection whatever to the idea in itself; the 
 only question was, whether it was within the 
 compass of my father's means to incur so great 
 an expense as he must be at in educating me 
 for this profession, — but of that he was himself 
 the best judge. However, he suggested that 
 some assistance towards my education might 
 be procured in ways perfectly creditable and 
 respectable, and particularly he mentioned the 
 getting me into Christ's Hospital. Here the 
 expenses of supporting me would be much 
 smaller than at any other school, at the same 
 time that I should be perfectly well educated, 
 and assistance would likewise be afforded, on 
 my quitting the school, towards maintaining 
 o 2
 
 124 
 
 me at college. He the rather recommended 
 this plan, he said, as he had himself some in- 
 terest among the governors of the institution, 
 and thought that through their means he could 
 get my name put upon the list for admission 
 when I should be arrived at the proper age. 
 This proposal my father accepted with the ut- 
 most gratitude, and I was accordingly put upon 
 the list, being then in my sixth year. 
 
 Another very important matter was now to 
 come under consideration. Destined to the 
 church, it was necessary that I should acquire 
 a knowledge of the learned languages, and 
 how was that to be obtained ? It was true that 
 I should be instructed in them at Christ's Hos- 
 pital: but my father was not satisfied with this; 
 he was desirous, both for my credit and his 
 own, that before my admission there I should 
 attain as competent a knowledge of them as 
 could be expected for my years. He once 
 revolved in his mind the idea of procuring in- 
 struction in Greek and Latin himself, that he 
 might be qualified afterwards to instruct me in 
 them ; but on further consideration this plan 
 was rejected. It was very essential to the rea- 
 lisation of his projects for my future aggran- 
 disement, that his time should be almost en- 
 tirely devoted to getting money ; and if he 
 should apply himself to study, the fprge must
 
 125 
 
 be neglected. This would never do; — for 
 though the imagination of my father with re- 
 gard to the future greatness of his family soar- 
 ed somewhat above the regions of this world 
 below, and ascended into those of the air, yet 
 he was not devoid of common sense ; and he 
 had sufficient to see that the neglect of the 
 forge, whence the largest proportion of the 
 funds necessary for realising his plans was de- 
 rived, would be the means of overthrowing 
 them all. He therefore wisely resolved ra- 
 ther to make the forge perform a double duty 
 and pay for my education, than hazard, by 
 attempting too much, the destruction of all his 
 hopes. 
 
 Respecting the propriety of my being in- 
 structed in one of the learned languages, the 
 Greek, he sometimes had his doubts. From 
 certain expressions in some parts of the Scrip- 
 tures it appeared to him as if the learning 
 of the Greeks was considered by the sacred 
 writers as mere foolishness. Now if so, surely 
 that was a language which no Christian 
 divine ought to think of studying. Yet he 
 recollected that all the great divines of the 
 Anglican church were acquainted with it ; he 
 had even heard that in their examination for 
 orders they were expected to read, and ex- 
 pound, a part of the Greek Testament. How
 
 126 
 
 were these seeming contradictions to be recon- 
 ciled? — After having perplexed himself for 
 some time upon the subject, he recollected 
 that he had sometimes heard preachers from 
 the pulpit cite instances of mistranslation in 
 our English version of the sacred writings, and 
 he determined that all passages which seemed 
 to disparage the learning of the Greeks must 
 be mistranslations, or else it was impossible 
 that any Christian divine could study Greek. 
 
 He once thought of laying his doubts before 
 Mr. Armstrong, and consulting him whether 
 there could be any thing unscriptural in my 
 being taught this language. But the idea was 
 soon rejected. He knew that the rector himself 
 was a very good Greek scholar ; and to start a 
 doubt to him upon the propriety of a clergy- 
 man's understanding Greek, would be a sort 
 of implied reflection upon him. Besides, seeing 
 him such a perfect pattern of what he thought 
 a minister of the Gospel ought to be, he 
 could not conceive that this branch of learning 
 could be really injurious to a person's morals ; 
 — and recurring again to his favourite idea of 
 mistranslation, he satisfied himself that he had 
 found the true solution of this great difficulty, 
 and concluded with hoping to see me, in due 
 time, as good a Greek scholar as the rector 
 himself.
 
 127 
 
 But though he thought that he could not 
 consistently with good manners consult his 
 oracle upon the propriety of my entering on 
 the study in question ; yet when he had satis- 
 fied himself that his doubts upon the subject 
 were unfounded, and determined upon my 
 learning my alpha beta, there seemed no im- 
 propriety whatever in consulting him upon 
 the means of commencing the study. On the 
 contrary, this seemed but a proper compliment 
 to his superior judgement and understanding ; 
 and he might be able to recommend some eli- 
 gible school where a good foundation might be 
 laid, so that I might appear with credit when 
 removed to the Hospital. Perhaps my father 
 was not without a secret hope that, since I was 
 a great favourite at the rectory, I might be in- 
 vited to become the sharer of the young rec- 
 tor's studies, as I was already of his sports and 
 amusements; — that the rector would himself 
 undertake to instruct me. If such were his 
 ideas, the event showed that he had not cal- 
 culated too largely on the extent of the rector's 
 kind dispositions towards me ; for the subject 
 was no sooner mentioned, than Mr. Armstrong 
 said that he would very gladly take me as a 
 pupil if my fattier hked it ; adding that, since 
 he had his own son to instruct, two scholars 
 would scarcely be more trouble than one. He
 
 l'J8 
 
 even anticipated, he was pleased to say, much 
 advantage to Walter, from having an associate 
 in his studies, as he had. generally observed 
 that a more rapid progress was made by chil- 
 dren where they had a competitor to excite 
 their emulation.
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 Steadiness and volatility. — Unfortunate juvenile 
 propensities, and curious ideas arising from 
 them. — A most disastrous mistake. — Mortifica' 
 tion occasioned and disgrace incurred ly it, 
 
 JlJehold me then no longer the associate only 
 of the young rector's idle hours, but become 
 equally the sharer of his studies. My father 
 had always taught me to consider the rector 
 as such a very great man, that I was not a 
 little proud of being his pupil, and was there- 
 fore extremely anxious to merit his approbation.- 
 I accordingly applied myself to my learning 
 with greater diligence than ever, and made 
 so rapid a progress that he would often hold 
 me up to Walter as a model for his imitation. 
 This was very gratifying to me, but infinitely 
 more so to my father : the prospect of my 
 being a better scholar than the son of the 
 clergyman, flattered beyond measure his wishes 
 of seeing the name of Danville rise to distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 It was not in the learned languages alone 
 that Mr. Armstrong undertook to be my in- 
 structor ; 1 was to participate in every thing 
 learnt by my young friend ; and there were 
 none of the various accomplishments possessed 
 G 5
 
 130 
 
 by the rector himself, that he did not propose 
 imparting to us. When we had made a tole- 
 rable progress in Greek and Latin, he intended 
 to instruct us also in French and Italian : my 
 removal to Christ's Hospital prevented my 
 making much proficiency in the tv^^o latter 
 languages under him ; the means aiForded me 
 subsequently of improving myself in them, 
 will appear in the proper place. Drawing is 
 an art in which children so early take delight, 
 and it was one in which Mr. Armstrong ex- 
 celled so much, that he gave us instruction in 
 it from the first of my becoming his pupil. 
 
 But carelessness arid thoughtlessness seemed 
 so much a part of Walter's nature, that it was 
 entirely out of his father's power to counteract 
 them: his advancement in age, far from render- 
 ing him more steady, seemed only to increase 
 this sole defect in his disposition. 1 say defect, 
 for such it really was, and nothing worse ; it 
 was not want of capacity, it was not wayward- 
 ness or perverseness ; he was ready at learning, 
 he was desirous of pleasing his father j but a 
 nameless something, easier comprehended than 
 defined, was always at variance with his wishes. 
 His head seemed like a filtering-stone, retain- 
 ing for a short time what was put into it, but 
 by little and little it was constantly oozing out : 
 it was only by repeatedly and repeatedly
 
 ISl 
 
 learning the same thing, that any part of it 
 remained impressed on his mind. And yet 
 there was in other respects no defect in his 
 memory : — at the same time that whatever he 
 learned by study was almost instantly forgotten, 
 events were remembered by him with perfect 
 accuracy, and very circumstantially, even some 
 that had passed when he was such a mere in- 
 fant that it could hardly be supposed he would 
 then have noticed them. 
 
 This disposition was seen by Mr. Armstrong 
 with constantly increasing uneasiness and ap- 
 prehension, and every means of correction 
 consistent with his id^as and principles was 
 tried by him, but tried in vain. He saw in it 
 the seeds of a thousand nameless ills ; — there 
 was no saying, in short, to what inconveniences, 
 to what errors, even to what vices, it might 
 not ultimately lead. From the rod he had as 
 yet abstained, determined not to have recourse 
 to an expedient so revolting to his mind, but 
 in the last extremity ; and he was very unwill- 
 ing to abandon all hope that the reformation 
 he was anxious to accomplish might not at 
 length be effected by gentler methods. 
 
 It was indeed his great desire to avoid 
 punishment at all ; he was solicitous to make 
 us both do whatever he required, from a 
 worthier principle than fear of punishment, —
 
 152 
 
 from a feeling that It was right It should be 
 done. He did not confine us to any specific 
 length of time for our studies ; we had no ex- 
 ercise given us one day which was to be done 
 by the next ; we always came to him at an ap- 
 pointed hour, when our task for the morning 
 was set, and we were not suffered to quit his 
 study till it was duly performed : we therefore 
 knew that we had no means of getting away 
 to our play, but learning our lessons diligently. 
 The same was repeated in the afternoon : at 
 a certain hour we were again summoned to 
 our tasks, and there was no hope of retiring 
 till they were properly finished. In writing, 
 if we had not done well, if we had hurried 
 over our allotted portion, under the idea of 
 being the sooner released, it was all to be done 
 over and over again till it met with our tutor's 
 approbation. With me this system was at- 
 tended with the happiest effect : once perfectly 
 convinced that no relaxation on this point was 
 to be expected, I ceased to think of it, and 
 never idled or loitered in the performance of 
 my task. 
 
 But with poor Walter the case was very 
 different. Though sometimes he would see 
 me, with tears in his eyes, quit the room to go 
 after my own inventions when he had still his 
 whole lesson to learn, he yet had not command
 
 133 
 
 enough of himself to profit by repeated warn- 
 ings ; but the same thing would recur again 
 and again ; nor could any experience of the 
 certainty that he would be detained, break him 
 of the propensity to be thinking of and attend- 
 ing to any thing rather than the proper busi- 
 ness of the moment. Still, this was his only 
 fault : he never sought by a falsehood or a 
 shuffling excuse to varnish over his negligence ; 
 he owned he had been naughty, and begged 
 his father to forgive him ; yet the same thing 
 recurred the very next day. 
 
 The only object to which he gave any thing 
 like serious and earnest attention was drawing : 
 with that he took great pains, and seemed to 
 have great delight in it. Often indeed, instead 
 of learning his lesson, he would amuse him- 
 self with sketching figures on the margin of 
 his book, and never seemed to recollect that 
 he had a lesson to learn till he saw me depart, 
 my task having been duly performed. He was 
 not, however, for these offences deprived of a 
 perxil given him by his father ; he was still 
 su^ected only to the same penalty, not being 
 suffered to stir till his allotted task was done. 
 Mr. Armstrong said he did not wish to de- 
 prive him of such a source of amusement ; he 
 only wished to make him sensible that there 
 were times when it was proper, and times
 
 1S4 
 
 when it was not proper, that it should be 
 used. 
 
 But though my father had every reason to 
 be satisfied with the diligence I showed in 
 pursuing my studies, and with the rapid pro- 
 gress I made in them ; — ^though he was often 
 gratified beyond measure at hearing the rector 
 express his approbation of my behaviour, and 
 commend the attention I showed to his instruc- 
 tions; — and that he was besides not a little 
 flattered at now and then receiving a compli- 
 ment himself upon his son's being such a good 
 boy, and doing his parents so much credit, 
 since it showed that he must have been well 
 trained from his infancy ; — notwithstanding the 
 gratification he received from these things, 
 there was yet one circumstance with regard to 
 me, which operated as a cruel allay to his sa- 
 tisfaction, and excited in him the most morti- 
 fying apprehensions. 
 
 Having always been considered by him as 
 so great a treasure, he thought that he never 
 could sufficiently testify his love and fondness 
 for me, tnat he never could have enough of 
 my company ; — and since his avocations pre- 
 cluded him from enjoying it at home, he often 
 used to carry me with him to his workshop 
 even when I was not more than four years old. 
 Here the wonderful effects which I saw pro-
 
 135 
 
 duced by his art, filled me with the deepest 
 admiration, till, from repeatedly contemplating 
 them, 1 was led at last to consider the trade of 
 a smith as^the perfection of human ingenuity. 
 But what I admired far beyond all other things 
 was the shoeing a horse. I knew by my 
 own experience, for in my propensity to mis- 
 chief 1 had once met with such a disaster, that a 
 nail being run into the foot of a human being 
 would hurt it exceedingly ; and my father, who 
 was himself of a very humane disposidon, and 
 wished to inspire me with humanity towards 
 animals, always inculcated upon me very 
 strongly that they could feel when they were 
 hurt, as much as we did. I was extremely 
 surprised, therefore, when first I saw him driv- 
 ing nails into the feet of horses, a thing which 
 seemed in direct contradiction to the precepts 
 1 had so often received from him, and could 
 not forbear expressing my astonishment that 
 he should be so cruel to the poor horses. To 
 this he replied by explaining that he could do 
 it without hurting them* ; and this I should 
 
 * My fatherhere spoke according to the common- 
 ly received notion, but it seems bv no means certain 
 that this notion is accurate ; on the contrary, many 
 persons conversant with horses, and accustomed 
 to see the operation of shoeing performed upon 
 them, are of opinion that the animal finds it a very 
 painful one.
 
 136 
 
 understand better when I became a man like 
 himself : but it would be very wrong in me to 
 think of driving a nail into an animal now, 
 since I was too little to know how to do it 
 properly. I was so exceedingly astonished at 
 what he told me, that I immediately considered 
 him as endowed with talents which, if I had 
 known then how to express myself, I should 
 have called super-human ; and from that time 
 it became with me the touchstone of a great 
 man, whether or not he could shoe horses. 
 
 Since, therefore, my father had always 
 taught me to consider the rector as a much 
 greater man than himself, and had often pro- 
 mised me that, if I was a good boy and attend- 
 ed well to my book, I should one day be as great a 
 man ashewas; so all the distinction which I could 
 possibly conceive him to have over others was, 
 that he must shoe a great many more horses. 
 Yet what perplexed me was, that I had never 
 seen a forge and workshop at the rectory, and 
 I could not imagine where the rector could 
 perform his exploits in the God Vulcan's art. 
 I was however so fully persuaded that such 
 exploits must be performed by him, that in the 
 simplicity of my heart, one day when Walter 
 and I had both been very good boys, and our 
 diligence at our lessons had been much com- 
 mended by our instructor, I could not refrain 
 
 ^m asking him whether, as we had been so
 
 137 
 
 good, henvould not show us his workshop, and 
 let us see him work the next time he had a 
 horse to shoe. 
 
 I have often heard him say that he was ex- 
 cessively surprised at this request, and could 
 not imagine what had prompted it, or led me 
 to suppose that he ever did shoe horses; nor 
 was he less amused when, on his inquiring into 
 the matter, I explained what was passing in 
 my mind, and expressed the utmost astonish- 
 ment at finding that he was totally ignorant of 
 my father's art. He very good-naturedly en- 
 deavoured to make me understand that different 
 people must be differently employed, and each 
 might be a great man in his way, although 
 their employments were dissimilar. That it 
 was my father's business to shoe horses, and 
 to do many other very useful things of the like 
 description, but that it would not be right for 
 every body to be employed in the same way. 
 That it was his business to pray to God, and to 
 teach people to be good that they might 
 deserve the favour of God, and of their fellow- 
 creatures ; and to write sermons, and instruct 
 young people as he did me and his son Walter. 
 . This explanation however did not satisfy 
 me: I still could not comprehend but that 
 a mechanical occupation, and above all that 
 which my father followed, must require talents
 
 138 
 
 far superior to those requisite for praying and 
 preaching, or for instructing children. A child, 
 I said, could learn Greek and Latin, but a 
 child could not shoe a horse ; — I therefore 
 inferred that the latter must be die more diffi- 
 cult, consequently the more manly occupation, 
 and sighed above all things for the time when 
 I should be a man, and able to work like my 
 father. I will own too, when I found that 
 the rector could not shoe a horse, his conse- 
 quence was for awhile somewhat diminished 
 in my eyes. Though I still attended diligently 
 to his instructions, and received them even with 
 pleasure ; yet the idea of learning my father's 
 employment was that on which my imagina- 
 tion dwelt with far greater complacency, as an 
 object much more worthy of ambition, than 
 making sermons and preaching them in the 
 pulpit. 
 
 That I was destined to do the latter, never 
 indeed entered my head ; till having repeatedly 
 asked my father when 1 should be old enough to 
 shoe a horse, he told me that this was not to 
 be aiy occupation ; that I was to hz a rector like 
 Mr, Armstrong, and preach and pray like him. 
 I felt extremely mortified, even to shedding 
 tears. " Yes/' I said, *' so I would preach 
 and pray if he desired it ; but do, father, let 
 me learn besides to shoe horses!" On this
 
 139 
 
 subject I had importuned biin so often, that at 
 length, to satisfy me, he said that I must not 
 expect it till I had" learned all my Greek and 
 Latin books ; and when I could read them well, 
 and Mr. Armstrong had nothing more to teach 
 me, then I should be instructed in his trade. 
 
 1 had often given Walter a verv fine and 
 elaborate description of the wonderful feats 
 performed by my father, and excited in him 
 so large a proportion of the admiration which 
 I felt myself at his talents, that he had some- 
 times been permitted, as a treat, to accompany 
 me to the workshop that he might see and 
 admire what was going forward there. I had 
 no sooner received my father's promise, for 
 such I regarded it, that I should one day be 
 initiated into these great mysteries, than I 
 hastened to communicate the joyful tidings to 
 my friend. Walter, on whom every new idea 
 made a strong impression, was so much struck 
 with this, that nothing could satisfy him but 
 that he also must go through the same course 
 of instruction ; and he begged me to ask 
 whether my father would not take him as a 
 pupil, if he should become a good boy and 
 learn his book well. 
 
 I delivered his message very faithfully, urging 
 to my father, that since Mr. Armstrong was so 
 good as to teach me Latin and Greek, it was
 
 140 
 
 but reasonable that he in return should instruct 
 my young friend in his art. He declared his 
 willingness to teach master Walter any thing 
 he might wish to learn ; but that it must not be 
 thought of unless approved by his papa, for 
 little boys should never think of doing any 
 thing without the permission of their parents. 
 I imparted with joy to Walter, that my father 
 was very ready to comply with his wishes, if his 
 papa's consent could be obtained ; and it had 
 actually so much influence upon him, that for 
 several days he was more attentive to his book, 
 in hopes of entitling himself to the reward 
 which he intended to claim. The first impression 
 however worn off, the effect ceased, and his 
 natural thoughtlessness and inattention returned 
 with as much force as ever. His father was 
 much delighted with his diligence while it 
 lasted ; but it was not till long after, in conver- 
 sation with me, that he became sensible of 
 'what had occasioned it : he was amused with 
 the idea, and regretted that the effect it had pro- 
 duced was not more lasting. 
 
 My unfortunate inclinations were a source 
 of the deepest chagrin to my father ; and he 
 often lamented to my mother, with expressions 
 of severe disappointment, the solid reasons there 
 appeared for apprehending that the lowness of 
 my origin was too deeply implanted in my
 
 141 
 
 nature ever to be eradicated. His only hope was 
 that, when I should be removed wholly out of 
 the way of those mechanical employments to 
 which I had taken such an unaccountable fancy, 
 a happy change might be effected, and my mind 
 restored to its proper bias ; that I should soon 
 be convinced how vastly superior the profession 
 was to which he destined me, to that which I , 
 was disposed to consider with so much partiali- 
 ty. He therefore looked forward very eagerly 
 to my going to Christ's Hospital ; though 
 otherwise he would have regretted the ne- 
 cessity of my relinquishing the tuition of Mr. 
 Armstrong, under whom he considered me as 
 in the most promising road for becoming, what 
 he was so ambitious of seeing me, a distin- 
 guished scholar and divine. 
 
 1 cannot help noticing a very severe mor- 
 tification which his vanity in his child once 
 experienced, through that child's youthful pas- 
 sion for farriery. It was Mr. Armstrong's 
 practice occasionally to invite some of the farm- 
 ers of his parish to eat roast beef and plum- 
 pudding with him, after the good old English 
 fashion ; and my father, though not a farmer, 
 yet as parish-clerk, was invited in his turn to 
 these parties. At one of them, to which I had 
 been also invited as a visitor to Walter, as we 
 were sitting after dinner, the conversation taking
 
 J42 
 
 a turn which my father thought favourable to 
 showing off my learning, he asked me as a 
 question d-propos to what was passing, what 
 was Latin for a horse ? — I replied very coolly, 
 and not as if feeling the least distrust of being 
 right, Horsus. 
 
 I know not what evil daemon possessed me 
 at that moment ; I certainly knew the proper 
 word very well, if I had considered for only 
 half a second 5 but I was very much occupied 
 with a walnut which I was peeling, and pro- 
 bably thought more of that than of gratifying 
 my father's vanity ; so answered at random, 
 without bestowing a thought on what I said. 
 
 "Why, Samuel/' said Mr. Armstrong, "what 
 are you thinking of? 1 never knew you guilty 
 of such a mistake before : — recollect yourself.'* 
 I endeavoured to do so ; but shame at having 
 been wrong had seized upon me so forcibly 
 that I could not recover my error, or recall to 
 my mind the right word, till it was given me 
 by Mr. Armstrong. 
 
 " I dare say, however," says one of the com- 
 pany, " that he knows very well how many 
 nails are put into a horse's shoe." 
 
 To this I, thinking to retrieve my lost cre- 
 dit by the readiness and accuracy of my present 
 answer, replied without the least hesitation, 
 *' Eight in common^ sometimes ten, and if they
 
 143 
 
 want to put the shoe on very very fast, then 
 twelve." 
 
 " Aye, aye," said the honest farmer, I was 
 sure he could tell that." 
 
 I have often heard my father say that it was 
 impossible to express the mortification occasion- 
 ed him by what had passed. That I should be 
 more ready with answering how many nails 
 were put in a horse's shoe, than what was 
 Latin for a horse, appeared such a lamentable 
 proof, how much more likely I was to make a 
 great blacksmith than a great divine, that he 
 almost despaired of seeing his family, through 
 me at least, taken out of their original grovel- 
 ing situation. One useful lesson, however, he 
 was taught by the disgrace I had incurred, and 
 that was, never again to attempt showing off 
 my learning before my neighbours.
 
 144- 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Endeavours to repair injustice,— A great change of 
 situation.— New victims to mortality,— Embar- 
 rassments occasioned by it, — Extraoi'dinary pro- 
 ject formed by a woman. 
 
 In mentioning Eleanor's visit to her brother 
 on occasion of the illness and death of Sophia, 
 it has appeared that, in her union with Lawrence 
 Middleton, negative happiness was the utmost 
 which she could be said to experience. 
 
 The doubts which had arisen in her mind, 
 even before the solemnization of her marriage, 
 whether. she was acting a strictly honourable 
 part towards Lawrence in accepting his hand, 
 though lulled asleep at the moment by the su- 
 perior motive which urged her not to recede, 
 subsequent reflection convinced her had not 
 been allowed their full weight. On a more ample 
 and impartial investigation of her conduct, after 
 the hurry and agitation necessarily attendant 
 upon so important a change in her situation had 
 somewhat subsided, she felt that, in her former 
 examination of the question, she had confined 
 herself too much to considering it only as it re- 
 garded herself, that she had not suiHciently 
 considered how her future husband was to be 
 affected by it. The nice sense of right and
 
 145 
 
 wrong, which it was scarcely possible not to 
 have acquired in living ten years with her bro- 
 ther, now made her regard the act of which 
 she had been guilty, as one of great injustice 
 towards her husband : it taught her, that if she 
 was authorized to sacrifice herself to her bro- 
 ther's happiness, she was not equally authorized 
 to make another person the sacrifice to it ; and 
 that in giving him a wife whose heart and af- 
 fections were not wholly his, she actually had 
 done so. 
 
 To recall what was done was, however, out of 
 her power ; the only question that remained 
 was to make him the best atonement which the 
 nature of her offence would admit of, and this 
 she resolved to do by performing with the ut- 
 most punctuality every thing v hich the duty of 
 a wife required of her, and by concealing from 
 him as much as possible how little her heart 
 was really his. All this she had done : — her 
 attention to her domestic concerns was unwea- 
 ried, — no man*s house was managed in a more 
 orderly and regular manner, — there was no 
 department of the household oeconomy which 
 she did not herself superintend. She studied 
 her husband's tastes in every respect, alike with 
 regard to the arrangement of her table, the 
 furniture of the house, or her own dress, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 
 
 and all things were ordered in exact confor- 
 mity with them in a manner equally remote 
 from extravagance and meanness. 
 
 She was far from being a tyrant and virago 
 among her servants ; yet she maintained that 
 watchful observance of their proceedings, which 
 was the best security both for herself and them, 
 against their deviating from the fidelity and 
 diligence required by their stations. As she 
 knew exactly wha*" ought fairly to be used of 
 every article intrusted to their care, so they 
 were soon made sensible that she would not 
 suffer herself to be imposed upon ; and if upon 
 first entering into her service they showed 
 a disposition to be wasteful, or to appropriate 
 any thing improperly to their own use, even in 
 such a way as servants are apt to consider as 
 lawful perquisites, they were soon taught 
 that either these practices must be laid aside, or 
 their places would be forfeited. At the same 
 time she was never unreasonable in expecting 
 more of them than might fairly be required, 
 and was always willing to allow them ail proper 
 relaxation from work, and time sufficient to 
 pay due attention to their own little concerns. 
 She made a point of being at home herself on 
 a Sunday, unless on any very extraordinary 
 occasion, that they might always by turns have
 
 147 
 that day for recreation and for seeing their 
 friends ; only that they were not allowed to 
 stay out later than nine o'clock. 
 
 Nor were the accomplishments she had ac- 
 quired forgotten or neglected amid her house- 
 hold cares. Though her husband had not 
 received what comes under the description 
 of a polished education, nor ever had sufficient 
 leisure from business to acquire any merely 
 ornamental arts, yet he had a mind well stored 
 with the literature of his own country, and 
 having a good natural understanding, he was a 
 sensible and rational companion. He had no 
 further knowledge of music than what was 
 derived from a good ear, and the habit of oc- 
 casionally attending musical perfcrmances at 
 the theatre : — but he was fond of it ; and as 
 Eleanor had been taught music before she came 
 to live with her brother, and he had encouraged 
 her keeping up what knowledge she had in 
 it, she could both play and sing in such a 
 manner as to render her musical talents a source 
 of amusement to her husband, when he came 
 home in the evening, after the business of the 
 day was over. '' She did not indeed sing with 
 the science and graces of a professor : but she 
 had a pleasing voice ; and never aiming at any 
 thing beyond sweetness and simplicity, every 
 lover of simple melody might have heard her 
 h2
 
 148 
 
 t^'ith pleasure. But it was for her husband 
 alone that her talents were exerted ; or, if they 
 were displayed to others, it was only to oblige 
 him, and at his particular request. 
 
 Of all these attentions, both to support his 
 interest, and to render his home comfortable 
 and happy, he was so sensible, that he would 
 often pour out his soul in expressions of grate- 
 ful affection, and declare that he beheved never 
 man was more blessed in his conjugal ties than 
 he was. Many a time has he brought tears 
 into her eyes when he thus expressed him- 
 self: — he thought them tears of affection; 
 but they were tears of self-reproach, that these 
 expressions were not sufficiently merited on her 
 part ; — they were excited by her inwardly ar- 
 raigning herself for not loving such a man ; — 
 they were the efiusions of a heart filled with re- 
 gret, from the consciousness that it was a sense 
 of duty alone, not of love for her husband, 
 which influenced all her actions ; — they were a 
 painful manifestation of a powerful feeling, that 
 it would have been with infinitely greater de- 
 light, with infinitely more cheerfulness, these 
 exertions would have been made to promote 
 the happiness and comfort of her brother than 
 of her husband. 
 
 If there was any thing in her conduct which 
 Lawrence could have wished to see otherwise,
 
 149 
 
 it was a certain degree of coldness, amouniing 
 sometimes almost to an appearance of inhospi- 
 tality, in receiving the visitors who came to the 
 house, particularly single gentlemen : — her 
 manner to them on more than one occasion he 
 had even thought repulsive. He was sensible, 
 however, that perfection is not to be expected 
 in any one ; and he thought that the man who 
 had nothing else to complain of in a wife had 
 every reason to be thankful for his lot. Could 
 he have read the heart of Eleanor, he would 
 have found that this apparent shade in her cha- 
 racter was, equally wdth every other part of her 
 conduct, the result of a strong sense of duty. 
 Conscious how little her affections were her 
 husband's, she dreaded nothing so much as the 
 idea of any other object becoming interesting 
 to them ; and under the influence of that dr£2.d, 
 she contracted this distance of manner and be- 
 haviour, as deeming it the best security to her 
 heart. In this point she afterwards relaxed very 
 much; when having been for some time a mo- 
 ther, and having objects so dear as her children 
 to interest her affections, she had more confi- 
 dence in herself, and thought that her maternal 
 cares would occupy her heart sufficiently to 
 render it callous to tlie danger she had once 
 apprehended. 
 
 Eleanor was for the same reason backward
 
 150 
 
 in vibiting at Langbam, though Lawrence al- 
 ways professed himself ready to spare her, 
 whenever she or Mr. Armstrong wished it. But 
 she was unwilling to throw herself in the way 
 of maldng comparisons between what her situ- 
 ation was, and \\hat it might have been had 
 she been less hasty and unthinking in forming 
 marriages both for herself and her brother. 
 She knew that she never could compare her 
 husband with her brother, without feeling the 
 latter's superiority ; and she wished her hus- 
 band to be raised, not depreciated, in her esteem. 
 She was, in short, desirous of avoiding as much 
 as possible all society except his and her chil- 
 dren's ; well knowing the force of habit, and 
 that nothing v/as so likely as being constantly 
 with them, to make her feel that she could not 
 live without them. 
 
 She was only twice down at the rectory be- 
 tween the death of Sophia and my removal to 
 Christ's Hospital, and in neither instance merely 
 for her own gratification ; her object both times 
 was to accompany her husband. Country air 
 and exercise had been recommended on account 
 of his health, which was evidently suffering 
 from the confinement and sedentary habits at- 
 tendant on his occupation. The first of these 
 visits was made before 1 had become Mr. Arm- 
 strong's pupil. She had then, in addition to
 
 lol 
 
 the daughter ah-eady mentioned, who was just 
 ' Walter's age, a sen two years younger. At the 
 time of her second visit I was just nine years old, 
 and had been for three years the fellow student 
 of her nephew. Lawrence's health was at that 
 time so indifferent, that great reason appeared 
 to apprehend him in a confirmed decline ; and 
 though he recovered much on coming into the 
 country, he was warned, that if he should re- 
 turn into the same confined and sedentary way of 
 Ijfe, the worst consequences must be expected. 
 
 This was to him a most cruel stroke. la 
 relinquishing his employment he was giving up 
 the only means he possessed of maintaining his 
 wife and family ; yet if his life should be sacri- 
 fxed in an useless endeavour to retain his em- 
 ployment, their situation would be still worse, 
 since not only the income would be lost, but they 
 would be deprived of the person whose duty it 
 was to seek them some other means of support. 
 It seemed therefore b-tter, on their account, 
 that he should endeavour to procure employ- 
 ment in soma other way, than, by pertinaciously 
 adhering to what he then had, in order to avoid 
 a temporary defalcation of income, run the ha- 
 zard of subjecting them to a loss which would 
 be irreparable. On quitting London, there- 
 fore, to go down to Lan^ham, he resigned his 
 place in the banking-house, and came to seek
 
 152 
 
 health, a prey to the anxiety of not knowing 
 "whither to direct his thoughts towards forming 
 a new establishment for his wife and family ; 
 every way he saw himself surrounded with 
 difficulties ; and this idea, incessantly corroding 
 his mind, contributed towards further wearing 
 out a body already so much enfeebled and de- 
 bilitated. Mr. Armstrong kindly offered them 
 all an asylum at the rectory till some new esta- 
 blishment should be formed ; and Lawrence 
 left it in charge with several friends in London 
 to inquire out some situation for him, not Hable 
 to the same objections as that which he had been 
 so reluctantly compelled to relinquish. 
 
 Poor Eleanor saw in their present embarrass- 
 ment an additional reason to condemn her own 
 precipitation in marrying Lawrence. It was 
 true, that at the time of their marriage he had 
 an income fully competent to the maintenance 
 of a family ; but it was now evident that she 
 ousht to have looked further than to what his 
 situation was at the moment. She ought to 
 have reflected that his was not even a certain 
 life income ; it was one subjected to a variety 
 of contingencies ; and if any thing should hap- 
 pen to deprive him of that, where were she and 
 her children to look for support ? Some diffe- 
 rence might arise between her husband and 
 his employers, and he might be discarded their
 
 3 53 
 
 service; — or those employers might meet 
 with misfortunes, and fail in business, and in 
 that way he might be left destitute; — or he 
 might be, as was now actually the case, from 
 ill health unable to continue in the business. 
 All these things she saw when it was too late ; 
 — she saw that she ought to have considered 
 them before she accepted his proposals ; and she 
 thought herself not only culpable towards her 
 brother and her husband, but equally so to- 
 wards her children. 
 
 In the course of the summer, however, both 
 her mind and Lawrence's were greatly relieved 
 from his receiving an offer, through the media- 
 tion of a friend, of superintending at Wands- 
 worth a branch established there of the business 
 of Mr. Carberry, one of the greatest coal-dealers 
 in London. Here his employment would be 
 almost entirely of an active nature ; and living 
 in the country, it was hoped that the ill effects 
 of his former too confined and sedentary Hfe 
 would be effectually counteracted. A good 
 salary was annexed to the situation, with a pro- 
 spect, if his conduct should be approved, of 
 being at a future period admitted to a partner- 
 ship in Mr. Carberry's verv profitable business, 
 without any deposit of capital. Such an offer 
 was the most salutary medicine that could have 
 been administered to Lawrence j — it was em- 
 
 H 5
 
 braced by him with eagerness ; and this amend- 
 ment in his prospects soon brought with it a 
 visible amendment in his health. As he was 
 not to enter upon his new office till the autumn, 
 he remained with his family the whole summer, 
 partly at Langham, partly at his father's, and 
 at the appointed time removed to his new resi- 
 dence at Wandsworth. 
 
 Very sanguine hopes were for a while enter- 
 tainecJ, that this change of situation would be 
 attended with the happiest effects, and that 
 Lawrence's health would in time be perfectly 
 restored.' But alas ! before the expiration of 
 a year the fallacy of these hopes began to be 
 manifest, and the return of all the former sym- 
 ptoms of decline occasioned more cruel cause 
 of alarm than before. Recourse was had to 
 the best medical advice which could be pro- 
 cured, and Eleanor was unwearied in her cares 
 and attendance upon him : yet, spite of all, it 
 soon became obvious that his case was hopeless. 
 He lingered on for another year, and then ex- 
 pired in the arms of his wife, blessing her with 
 his latest breath, and leaving her and her brother 
 the united guardians of his now fatherless chil- 
 dren. 
 
 The charge of maintaining these children, 
 of completing their education, and of providing 
 for their establishment in the world, now de-
 
 155 
 
 volved upon Eleanor alone ; and she saw herself 
 in a situation which necessarily called forth into 
 active exertion all the energy of mind which the 
 various circumstances of her life had led to her 
 endeavouring to acquire. It was a situation by 
 so much worse than that in which she was left 
 at her father's death, since though a thousand 
 pounds was then all that she had in the world, 
 yet she had no one but herself to think of; 
 whereas now she had upon her hands the 
 charge of two beings whom she had brought 
 into existence, and who had a right to expect 
 from her every sacrifice which she could pos- 
 sibly make to render them wise, virtuous, and 
 happy. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong, immediately on the death 
 of his brother-in-law, hastened to his sister, 
 to assist and support her under the manifold 
 distresses of her situation. He offered her and. 
 her children an asylum under his roof, pro- 
 mising to supply to them, as much as lay in 
 his power, the place of a father ; to assist her 
 in educating them ; and to contribute, as far as 
 his means would permit, consistently with the 
 justice v\hich he owed his own son, towards 
 providing for their future establish men j: in life. 
 Eleanor, though thoroughly sensible of her 
 brotaer's kindness, declined his offer, at least:
 
 156 
 
 any further than as a measure of temporary as- 
 sistance ; but for a permahence she felt it her 
 duty to seek out some way of life which would 
 enable her to afford her children a good edu- 
 cation, with the means of making a future cre- 
 ditable appearance in the world. 
 
 For two years she had been in the habit of 
 contemplating, in idea, the probability of be- 
 ing left a widow ^ and her thoughts had been 
 directed towards the means of providing for 
 herself and her children supposing her appre- 
 hensions to be realized. The stroke did not 
 therefore come upon her totally unprepared to 
 receive it, nor were her thoughts then first to 
 be turned towards the consideration of what 
 duty to her children might require of her. 
 Contemplating the idea of being deprived of 
 her husband, she was also led to study minutely, 
 and with diligence, the nature of his employ- 
 ment. She saw that his place was a very de- 
 sirable one to retain, — that to be admitted into 
 a share of the business on the terms held out 
 to her husband would be a thing so extremely 
 advantageous to her son, that she was reluctant 
 to relinquish the prospect of it ; — and if any 
 Other connection should be formed by Mr. 
 Carberry, it was scarcely possible that such a 
 prospect should be realized. She had seen
 
 157 
 
 nothing in her husband's employment which 
 she did not think perfectly within the powers 
 and capacity of a woman to perform ; and she 
 thought that in the case of her husband's death 
 she could very well supply his place, provided 
 the merchant's consent to it could be obtained. 
 She now imparted her idea to her brother, and 
 consulted him upon the expediency of prose- 
 cuting it. He thought the undertaking neither 
 beyond her capacity, nor of that merely mascu- 
 line nature as to be inconsistent with, or de- 
 grading to, the female character ; and strongly 
 encouraged her to prosecute the plan, as a 
 laudable effort for the support and advantage 
 of her children. She therefore lost no time, 
 but wrote immediately to Mr. Carberry, so- 
 liciting him to continue her in her husband's 
 place. 
 
 The merchant was in the utmost astonish- 
 ment when he received the application. The 
 idea of such a business being carried on by a 
 woman was so new to him, that at first he was 
 disposed to treat it with ridicule and contempt ; 
 but when he came to reflect more coolly 
 upon the matter, it did not appear altogether 
 so strange and wild a scheme as at the first 
 glance, and he determined at least to see the 
 applicant before he gave a decided negative to 
 the application. He read her letter over se-
 
 158 
 
 veral times : — it was written in that style of 
 plain and simple eloquence which always pleads 
 the most forcibly to a plain and unsophisticated 
 understanding. It represented, in strong but 
 natural and artless terms, the desolate situation 
 into which she and her children would be 
 thrown should her petition be rejected ; and 
 explained at the same time, with so much cor- 
 rectness and precision, her ideas of the duties 
 belonging to the situation, as to assure him that 
 they were clearly and perfectly understood by 
 her. After weighing well all these things,. 
 Mr. Carberry wrote her for answer, that he 
 had a very great respect for the memory of 
 her husband, and was very desirous of doing 
 any. thing in his pov\er for the service of his 
 widow and children, and would certainly not 
 appoint any other successor till he had seen 
 and talked with her upon the subject : at the 
 same time he must acknowledge, that the idea 
 of such a charge being consigned to a woman 
 was so new, that he could not determine hastily 
 upon it. He would, however, see her as soon- 
 after the funeral of her husband as she could 
 find herself composed enough to receive his 
 visit. ' 
 
 Accordingly, three days after the remains 
 of poor Lawrence were consigned to the earth- 
 this visit was made 5 when, after a long coa^
 
 159 
 
 versatlon, the widow had insinuated herself so 
 far into the merchant's good graces, that his 
 doubts respecting her capacity for what she 
 desired to undertake were greatly diminished, 
 and he consented to her remaining in his ser- 
 vice.
 
 160 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A reciprocal second marriage. — Practice not always 
 conformable to precept. — A disclosure of a very 
 astonishing and unexpected nature. — Mutual for- 
 giveness. 
 
 I N this service^ however, Eleanor did not very 
 long continue. Mr. Carberry, though he con- 
 sented to her wishes, still had for a while great 
 difficulty to persuade himself that all things could 
 go on right under female management only. 
 He went frequently, therefore, down to Wands- 
 worth, to assure himself that his affairs were 
 not suffering from an act of compliance which 
 his friends in general complimented by con- 
 sidering as that of a man rapidly hastening 
 into dotage. But at every visit he made he 
 was more and more satisfied with what he had 
 done ; he was more and more convinced that 
 his affairs could not be in better hands; and he 
 often told the fair widow that she had given 
 him new ideas with regard to the compass and 
 powers of the'female mind. 
 
 Mr. Carberry's concerns in trade were very 
 extensive : besides his wharf at Wandsworth, 
 he had one at Deptford, and one in London ; 
 and as he had always been extremely attentive 
 to his business, he was known to have accu-»
 
 161 
 
 mulated a very considerable fortune. Some 
 years before he had lost a wife of whom he 
 was extremely fond ; and having lived ever 
 since nearly in a state of seclusion from society, 
 it was agreed on all hands that he certainly 
 never would marry again : a son, therefore, 
 the only one of several children who survived 
 his mother, was considered as the sole heir to 
 his ample possessions. 
 
 But it appeared in the end, that all calcula- 
 tions made upon the idea of either widow or 
 widower not marrjdng again are very fallacious. 
 The increased respect for female talents with 
 which Eleanor's conduct early began to impress 
 the mind of Mr, Carberry soon produced a 
 further effect. Witnessing so repeatedly the 
 many excellent qualities which she displayed, 
 both of heart and understanding, — her un- 
 wearied attention to the numerous cares she 
 had upon her, to the management of his busi- 
 ness, to the education of her children, to her 
 household oeconomy, — seeing her, in short, 
 fulfil with so much punctuality every duty at- 
 tendant on her situation, he began to think 
 that he had found a treasure which he could 
 not do better than appropriate to himself. Yet 
 towards one who was so recently a widow de- 
 cency forbade bis acting with precipitation ; 
 and it was not till she had entered the third
 
 162 
 
 year of her widowhood that he ventured to 
 open his suit in due form. He then made his 
 proposals on terms the most liberal for herself 
 and her children, ofiering to adopt them both 
 as his own, and to consider them exactly on 
 the same footing with any children they might 
 have if united. 
 
 Had there been no other person's interest 
 but her own in-'olved in these proposals, Elea- 
 nor would scarcely have hesitated a moment in 
 rejecting them. She had experienced such' a 
 negative kind of happiness in her first marriage, 
 that for herself alone she found little inclina- 
 tion to enter a second time into that state ; but 
 such a prospect was here opened for her chil- 
 dren, that she could not feel herself justified 
 towards them in giving her answer hastily. To 
 preserve an interest for her son with Mr. Car- 
 berry had been her principal object in seeking 
 the situation which had led to this offer ; and 
 by the rejection of it the merchant might per- 
 haps be so much piqued, that the protection 
 he had hitherto extended to her and her family 
 might be withdrawn ; and would not her chil- 
 dren, in such a case, have great reason here- 
 after to reproach her with having missed so fa- 
 vourable an opportunity of procuring them a 
 comfortable and respectable establishment in 
 the world I
 
 163 
 
 Yet, on the other hand, she had so often 
 conderaned herself, in her former marriage, for 
 having engaged in it from other motives than 
 attachment to the n^ian, and had felt the duties 
 annexed to her situation so much more a task 
 than a pleasure, wanting the affection she 
 ought to have had for her husband, that it 
 seemed wholly inexcusable to form a second 
 marriage upon grounds not very dissimilar. 
 Her first was formed under the idea of serving 
 her brother, and to attain that object she had 
 not considered that she was doing an injusdce to 
 the man she married. If she should accept the 
 proposals now made to her, it would be more 
 on account of the advantages they held out to 
 her children, thaa from personal attachment to 
 Mr. Carberry, and she should perhaps be guilty 
 of equal injustice. 
 
 It might be said that there were circum- 
 stances in the present case, which made an es- 
 sential difference between that and the former. 
 When she married Lawrence Middleton, they 
 were both young, both at an age when the 
 heart and affections are warm, and when that 
 kind of ardour in the feelings of two persons 
 towards each other which we call love is ex- 
 pected to be most awake in the bosom. It was 
 this feeling which Lawrence Middletcn had a 
 right to expect in the woman who united her-
 
 164 
 
 self to him ; and It was this which Eleanor ve- 
 proached herself with never experiencing to- 
 wards him. But both Mr. Carberry and her- 
 self were now past the age when any thing like 
 enthusiastic attachment is to be expected. The 
 motives of his proposals probably were, that 
 he thought her a woman likely to make a re- 
 spectable mistress of a family, one who would 
 attend duly to all his household concerns, and 
 be a friend to whom he could look with con- 
 fidence, as the prudent sharer of his prosperity, 
 or his comfort and support in case of adversity. 
 If such were his ideas, she had sufficient esteem 
 and respect for his character, to assure herself 
 that she could act conformably to them, could 
 fulfil all his expectations, — and that she might 
 therefore, without self-reproach, accept a situ- 
 ation, to which, for the sake of her children, 
 she felt very much inclined. 
 
 But in the present instance there w^as not 
 the same objection, as in the former, against 
 her having recourse to the advice which she 
 alv/ays wished to have on every occasion. She 
 therefore wrote to her brother, expressing an 
 earnest desire to consult him upon a subject of 
 great importance to herself and her children, 
 and requested, if he could spare her the time, 
 that he would come up to talk it over with 
 her j — it would be much more satisfactory to
 
 165 
 
 her, she said, if they could discuss the matter 
 together in a friendly conversation, than to 
 mention it to him by letter. Mr. Armstrong 
 lost no time in obeying the summons, and 
 arrived a few days after at Wandsworth. 
 
 It was now that Eleanor first laid open to 
 her brother every secret of her heart, that she 
 made him a frank confession of the motives 
 by which her conduct with respect to both 
 their marriages was influenced; — it was now 
 that he first learned from her own mouth, that 
 she had rather been not unhappy than happy 
 in her marriage, that he was assured by her- 
 self that her principal motive for accepting 
 Lawrence Middleton was the hope of render- 
 ing him a service which would in some small 
 degree repay the obligations she owed him. 
 
 When he had heard her story : — " Eleanor," 
 he said, " I have often in my conversations 
 with you, while I considered you yet as a child 
 under my care, whose mind I was to form 
 and direct to the practice of virtue, — I have 
 often on these occasions inculcated upon you, 
 as one of your great leading principles of ac- 
 tion, to be open and sincere in your dealings 
 with your fellow-creatures^ and above all care- 
 fully to avoid dissimulation towards those with 
 whom you were the most closely connected. 
 There is nothing more dangerous to domestic
 
 166 
 
 peace and happiness, than to act,- even from 
 the best motives, underhand, or vi'ith disguise, 
 towards those for whom we entertain a regard. 
 Through mistaken ideas of delicacy we often 
 give deep and lasting wounds to our best 
 friends, when we were perhaps endeavouring 
 the most strenuously to avoid it ; — whereas by 
 a well-timed sincerity the wound might have 
 been wholly avoided ; or, if not, at least have 
 been inflicted in such a manner as to give com- 
 paratively little pain ; and even that little might 
 have been more easily assuaged, and much 
 sooner recovered. 
 
 " I have always thought that the closer the 
 connection, the more dangerous was disguise, 
 and I have found it practically so : — for, Elea- 
 nor, it is now my turn to confess, that while 
 inculcating sincerity so strongly upon you, I 
 was myself, like too many preachers, acting 
 in direct contradiction to my own precepts. 
 The whole affair to w^hich you have alluded, 
 was a too sad illustration of the truth of what I 
 have advanced ; — we were each striving who 
 should act with the greatest delicacy towards 
 the other, and we refined till we all acted in a 
 manner little conducive to the happiness of 
 any of us : whereas, if we had had resolution 
 enough to take sincerity only as our guide, 
 much of the uneasiness we have since suffered
 
 167 
 
 from the want of it might have been avoided. 
 — Now listen to my story. 
 
 '* When yoa first disclosed to me poor So- 
 phia's secret attachment, I think I quitted you 
 with this exclamation, — Eleanor^ you know 
 not how muck you have distressed me I — I say 
 that I think chese were my words, for I cannot 
 be sure of them, — my heart was so oppressed 
 that 1 scarcely knew what I said. I was not 
 indeed suiFering in my health, as poor Sophia 
 was, from an unfortunate attachment ; but I 
 had been for some days labouring under a se- 
 cret uneasiness of mind, which I was afraid you 
 must have discovered notwithstanding all the 
 pains I took to conceal it ; — which 1 think you 
 certainly would have penetrated, but that your 
 mind was so entirely occupied at that time by 
 another idea, that it was for the moment 
 blinded to every thing else. Yes, Eleanor, 
 my heart had been very long engaged, though 
 from motives of delicacy to you and your sis- 
 ters I had kept my attachment a secret from 
 you. 
 
 " You probably remember seeing Mr. An- 
 derson v;hen he came to Langham with the 
 funeral of his relation Mr. Worledge, my pre- 
 decessor in that rectory ; and you have often 
 heard me say how much he had been my friend 
 while I was at collccre. At his earnest invi-
 
 168 
 
 tation I had passed the whole vacation with 
 him, at the house of his mother near Ludlow, 
 the summer before my father died, and had 
 gone thither again the next summer with the 
 same intention ; when the death of my father, 
 very soon after my arrival at Mrs. Anderson's, 
 carried me away to Winstanton in a hurry, 
 whence, after a fortnight's stay there, I re- 
 turned to college. 
 
 " While under the hospitable roof of Mrs. 
 Anderson, I became acquainted with a lady 
 whose beauty was the subject of universal ad- 
 miration in the neighbourhood; but the accom- 
 plishments of her heart and mind were to me 
 far more attractive than even those of her per- 
 son. 'Tis useless, however, to dwell on ei- 
 ther ; it is sufficient to say that my heart was 
 very soon wholly captivated by them, and I 
 thought there appeared good reason to hope 
 that I was not disagreeable to h'^r. Yet it 
 seemed out of the question immediately to dis- 
 close my sentiments ; I was young, and my 
 prospect of being able to fulfil any engage- 
 ment I might enter into, not very flattering. 
 I know not, however, what might have been 
 the consequence, if I had stayed out a second 
 summer, in the habit of seeing her as frequent- 
 ly as the former. But the same occurrence 
 which shortened my stay at Mrs. Ajiderson's,
 
 169 
 
 altered my situation essentially, and led to my 
 entering into a fixed determination not to think 
 of forming any matrimonial connection while 
 my sisters had no other protector but myself. 
 My conscience would eternally have reproach- 
 ed me, if I had suffered selfish feelings to gain 
 such an ascendancy in my mind, as to hurry 
 me into a measure which would have deprived 
 me of the power of discharging duties to which 
 I seemed called by the voice of Heaven itself; 
 — duties to which inclination moreover urged 
 me in no slight degree, though perhaps truth 
 demands the acknowledgement, that the other 
 inclination had then the more powerful sway 
 over my bosom. 
 
 " Thus circumstanced, I could not think of 
 proposing to tie the object of my affections by 
 an engagement which there was so little hope 
 of fulfillmg, and I therefore never opened my 
 heart to her. I wished to leave her free, — I 
 wished the sentiiuents which we entertained 
 for each other, and which I certainly flattered 
 myself were reciprocal, to be the only tie be- 
 tv\een us, that, if any alteration in the senti- 
 ments of either should take place, there mjght 
 be no danger of our coming together at last 
 with alienated hearts. Yet at the same time I 
 must own, that 1 thought my sentiments to- 
 wards her were too obvious to be mistaken, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 
 
 and that hers were sufficiently responsive to 
 prevent her hastily entering into any other en- 
 gagement ; and I could scarcely suffer myself 
 to entertain a doubt that, whenever I should be 
 able to open my mind to her more explicitly, 
 I should find her still unshackled, still dis- 
 posed to give a favourable answer. I only 
 imparted my secret wishes to a friend, the near 
 neighbour of the lady, begging him to let me 
 hear of her frequently through him, as long as 
 I should find it neces;^ry to suspend making 
 my proposals in due form. These things, 
 however, I resolved never to communicate to 
 my sisters, because I wished to spare them the 
 mornfication which 1 thought they would feel 
 if they considered themselves as obstacles in 
 the way of my happiness ; — the something like 
 a humiliating situation in which they would be 
 placed, if they should be suffered to appear in 
 their own eyes as objects of toleration only to 
 their brother, standing in the way of his views, 
 yet whom from compassion he would not re- 
 mcTve. 
 
 " As long as the friend whom I had com- 
 missioned to write to me remained in that 
 part of the world, he was punctual in keeping 
 up the correspondence, and I had the satis- 
 factirn of hearing from him that the lady still 
 remained at liberty ; that she had even, to
 
 171 
 
 the great surprise of the neighbourhood, re- 
 fused several offers which were considered as 
 very advantageous ones ; and that every body 
 speculated very much what could occasion 
 such a fine young woman to take the strange 
 resolution, as she apparently had done, never 
 to marry. To me this intelligence was highly 
 gratifying ; I saw in it additional reason to flat- 
 ter myself that we understood each other, and 
 that every thing would end at last according to 
 my wishes. 
 
 " But after awhile this friend, taking a sud- 
 den inclination to go into the army, purchased 
 a commission in a regiment which was soon 
 after sent abroad, and thus I lost the means of 
 hearing of the lady through him. Still, how- 
 ever, 1 had occasional opportunities of hearing 
 of her, and knowing that she remained single, 
 — I had even heard so but a very short time 
 before the marriage of cur eldest sister. That 
 event, and the death of poor Fanny, made so 
 great a change in my situation, that my fra- 
 ternal duties now appeared no longer incom- 
 parible with following the inclination of my 
 heart. Since you, Eleanor, were become my 
 only remaining charge, I thought that I could, 
 consistently with the attention still due to you, 
 take other ties upon me ; that it was a very 
 different thing, one sister remaining with me as 
 I 2
 
 172 
 
 a married man, and three : — I only wished to 
 be assured that the lady was still at liberty, 
 before I mentioned the subject to you, and 
 declared mvself in form to her. 
 
 *' This intelligence I thought I could pro' 
 ture by means of a channel through which 
 important reasons had hitherto prevented my 
 seeking it ; but these reasons subsisting no 
 longer, I was resolved to avail myself of it. I 
 had indeed actually begun writing the letter 
 which I considered as the first step towards 
 the completion of my happiness, when all my 
 hopes were in a moment blasted by reading in 
 the newspaper the marriage of this very lady 
 with a gentleman of large fortune in the neigh- 
 bourhood, whose name, though not his per- 
 son, was very well known to me. Fain would 
 I have persuaded myself, when first the dread- 
 ful news met my eyes, that it could not be true; 
 I read it over and over again, half hoping that 
 I must have deceived myself: but the more I 
 examined it the more reason I found to enter- 
 tain no doubt upon the subject; the paragraph 
 was inserted in a manner so circumstantial, that 
 2t was evident it must have been sent by the 
 parties themselves. 
 
 '' O Eleanor! how rejoiced was I, amid the 
 shock I rectrivcd on this occasion, that you j 
 were then spending the day at Ambresbury, so
 
 173 
 
 that I might have some hours to recover my- 
 self before I was to see you again ! Yet, not- 
 ithstanding all the pains I took to varnish 
 over the chagrin and micasiness which I felt 
 inwardly preying upon me, I was afraid that 
 it was impossible you should not perceive some 
 traces of it on my countenance, and anxiously 
 inquire concerning the cause. Happy was I 
 to find myself a better dissembler than I had 
 hoped, to find no such inquiries made, for 
 the cause I was resolved not to disclose ; — I 
 could not bear the idea of wounding you by a 
 recical from vvlilch it would appear that you, in 
 conjunction with your sisters, had been the oc- 
 casion of a disappointment which I felt so 
 cruelly. 
 
 " My first Impulse on reading this intelli- 
 gence was to have written the lady a letter full 
 of reproaches ; but as I revolved in my mind 
 the situation in which we stood towards each 
 other, this idea was immediately checked ; for 
 how could I consider myself authorized to 
 make her conduct, whatever it might be, the 
 subject of my reproaches ? I wished to leave 
 her free. I had done so ; and in the step she 
 had taken, she had only availed herself of the 
 freedom which I had studiously reserved to 
 her, to follow her own inclinations. If they 
 were adverse to my happiness, this might be a.
 
 174 
 
 sufficient cause of regret to me, but it was no 
 just subject of reproach to her. 
 
 " A very few days only had passed after I 
 received this severe mortification, when you 
 opened your heart to me on the subject of your 
 friend's attachment, and sufferings from it. 
 Judge what a state my mind was in for listening 
 to such a disclosure! ju ige what a conflict, 
 under the circum.stances in which I was then 
 placed, it must necessarily raise in my bosom ! 
 Scarcely breathing from the first shock of a 
 disappointment which came upon me the more 
 severely after having been for so many years 
 buoyed up by hope, what a moment was this 
 to listen to suggestions of engaging myself in 
 other ties ! Eleanor, you cannot wonder that 
 my heart was too much overpowered to enter 
 further on the subject at that moment, or that 
 I was unable even to remain with you. I felt 
 almost suffocated between the emotions strug- 
 gling in my bosom, and my endeavours to 
 suppress them, and could only be relieved by 
 being left awhile wholly to myself. Taking my 
 hat therefore I went our, hardly knowing at 
 first whither my steps were directed, or what 
 I was seeking ; — yet under the open canopy of 
 heaven I seemed to breathe more freely; it seem- 
 ed a relief to me to ily from the society of others, 
 and commune with my own heart only. When
 
 175 
 
 I was sufficiently removed from observation, I 
 fell on my knees and implored the Almighty 
 Being who knew my heart, and how much I 
 wished to act in all things conformably to his 
 will, that he would be pleased to assist me in 
 the decision I had now to make, that he would 
 direct me how to regulate my conduct under 
 circumstances the most embarrassing in which 
 I had ever been placed ! and I felt my bosom 
 relieved by the ejaculation. 
 
 '' It is certain that the idea of forming any 
 matrimonial connection was at that moment 
 revolting to me. Of the woman who alone 
 had ever possessed my affections I was de- 
 prived ; — deprived too at the very moment 
 when I had first dared to hope that my wishes 
 were likely to be. speedily accomplished : but 
 my heart, y^t unalienated from her, shrunk 
 from the very idea of another occupying the 
 place which she had held in it. Yet you had 
 presented apicture to my imagination from which 
 1 almost equally shrunk, — that of Sophia 
 falling a victim to an ill-fated attachment to me ; 
 could 1, ought I to suffer this ? But what 
 then ? should I not render myself even more 
 culpable by engaging njy faith to her as a 
 husband, while my heart was so estranged 
 from her, than by leaving her to sink into the 
 grave, when the receiving that plighted faith
 
 176 
 
 could alone rescue her from it ? Besides, 
 Eleanor, I will freely own, that having been 
 her instructor, having seen her always as the 
 intimate friend of my sister, I had been accus- 
 tomed to consider her so much in the light of 
 a sister too, that the idea of becoming her 
 husband presented itself al first to my imagina- 
 tion, alm»ostin the light of an unlawful con- 
 nection. Yet this could be only the passing 
 idea of the moment, one which was dismissed 
 almost as soon as entertained, by a few mo- 
 ments of cool reasoning and sober rcfiection. 
 
 " It is needless to dwell at large upon the de- 
 bate, the conflict, which took place in my bosom 
 between disinclination to the union which 
 had been suggested to me, on the one side, 
 and the horror I felt on the other at being the 
 occasion of misery to any human being ; — and 
 misery I supposed, from w^hat I had just heard, 
 poor Sophia had long suffered, and was still 
 sutlering, on my account. It is sufficient to 
 turn our retrospect to the result; — that, Elea- 
 nor, is well known to you ; — compassion was 
 victorious over every other feeling ; and having 
 determined from motives of compassion to 
 make Sophia my wife, the sam.e motives deter- 
 mined me never, during her life at least, to re- 
 veal the sentiments I had entertained for an- 
 other J — and this, Eleanor, is the first time I
 
 177 
 
 ever have mentioned them. It seemed necessary 
 to her repose, that she should be encouraged 
 in the belief, that if she had not deeply in- 
 terested my heart, yet that at least that heart 
 was free from any other attachment j — and this 
 delusion I ever sought to cherish. Yet I anx 
 afraid even here that my false delicacy failed of 
 attaining the desired end. Whether the idea 
 was only suggested by my own consciousness 
 of the true sxate of my heart, or whether it 
 was really well founded, it is impossible now to 
 determine ; but I was always haunted with the 
 apprehension that she was not altogether satis- 
 fied upon the subject, and feared that she was 
 not so dear to me as she wished,, and as every 
 wife ought to be to her husband : — nay, 1 have 
 more than once suspected that these fears 
 preyed upon her health after marriage, as much 
 as hopeless attachment had previously done. 
 
 "Oh, how often, Eleanor! have I, in re- 
 flecting upon these things, been induced to 
 think that, even with I'egard to her, as well as 
 ourselves, the result might have been hap- 
 pier, had we all acted with more openness 
 and sincerity! If I had explicitly declared my 
 sentiments and wishes to the lady who had en- 
 gaged my affections, and opened my heart 
 freely to my sisters, it is probable that the one 
 I 5
 
 178 , 
 
 might readily have consented to wait for the 
 completion of our union till I found myself 
 more at liberty from other ties ; and that the 
 others would have been reasonable enough to 
 make themselves easy in their situation, till 
 some favourable opportunity of changing it 
 might be presented. At least I have very 
 good reason to suppose that the lady would 
 have consented, as far as she was concerned, 
 to wait for more propitious circumstances, as I 
 have been informed that she rather accepted 
 the man to whom she was united, from being 
 overpersuaded to it by her relations, than from 
 any apparent inclination of her own ; and it is 
 certain that he had been before repeatedly re- 
 fused by her. However this may be, the mar- 
 riage has turned our, as I am well informed, a 
 most unfortunate one to her ; and this has only 
 aggravated the uneasiness and self-reproach 
 which have ever attended my reflections upon 
 my own conduct throughout this unhappy af- 
 fair. To Sophia, the knowledge that her passion 
 was lavished upon an object by whom it could 
 never be returned, might have operated as an 
 incitement to exert her resolution in combating 
 it ; while you, Eleanor, understanding the true 
 state of my heart, wou'd not so rashly have 
 engaged yourself to Mr. Middleton, under the
 
 179 
 
 idea of relieving me from a charge with which 
 I found myself embarrassed. 
 
 " Nay, who can say whether another effect 
 that has arisen from this unfortunate affair, one 
 at least that I know not how to ascribe to any- 
 other cause, might not then have been prevent- 
 ed? I cannot but fear that it was this which 
 lost me the regard of one of the best friends I 
 ever had in the world ; — he doubtless considers 
 my conduct as having been faulty towards this 
 lady, and no longer feels the same esteem for 
 me that he once had : — but if he knew my 
 heart, he would see that it is my judgement only 
 which has erred, — that I may have been mis- 
 taken in the course which I pursued, but that my 
 intentions were never otherwise than honour- 
 able towards her/' 
 
 Eleanor listened with profound astonishment 
 to the confession here made by her brother. 
 Though always but too well avssured that his 
 affection for Sophia was far from being equal to 
 hers for him, yet that he had any other attach- 
 ment, was an idea of which she had never en- 
 tertained the remotest suspicion. Here was in- 
 deed a most fatal illustration of the danger of 
 acting with disguise towards our friends, even 
 from tne purest motives, — such an one as she 
 never dreamt of hearing from her brother, yet 
 such an one as scarcely any body but himself
 
 180 
 
 could have given, for scarcely any other per- 
 son would have thought of making the sacri- 
 fice which had occasioned it. 
 
 While she could not but lament and regret 
 the effect, as little could she withhold her ad- 
 miration from the motive ; and looking ear- 
 nestly at him she exclaimed, " Oh, my bro- 
 ther ! what is it you tell me 1 — Yes, indeed, we 
 have all been justly punished for our want of 
 ingenuousness towards each other ! — Why am 
 I forced in admiring to condemn you, in ac- 
 knowledging — with feelings of the utmost gra- 
 titude acknowledging — your kindness, to call 
 you still unkind ? But say, Bernard, — incul- 
 cating upon me in the strong terms you so 
 frequently used, the importance of acting with 
 sincerity towards all mankind, particularly to- 
 wards those with whom I was the most nearly 
 connected, — inculcating these precepts so 
 strongly upon me, — was it possible for me to 
 suppose that you were acting with any reserve 
 towards us? — My dear, dear Bernard, excuse 
 me if I observe, that since I saw in every other 
 instance such an exact conforniity between 
 your precepts and your practice, — since I saw 
 your conduct such a remarkable illustration of 
 the virtues you recommended, — it was the 
 more difficult for me to conceive that in a single 
 instance they could be at variance. In any other
 
 181 
 
 than yourself, I might have been led to attri- 
 bute your coldness with regard to so amiable a 
 girl as Sophia, to attachment to another wo- 
 man. But it was too gratifying to my vanity 
 to suppose myself the confident of your inmost 
 thoughts, for the idea ever to obtrude itself, 
 that you could permit me to be an obstacle to 
 the completion of any wish of yours, yet suf- 
 fer me to remain wholly ignorant that such was 
 my actual situation." 
 
 " Eleanor, 1 acknowledge the justice of your 
 reproach, and believe me that my conduct in 
 this instance has been the source of greater 
 self-condemnation to me than almost cnuj other ^ 
 — I believe I might say positively than any 
 other act of my life. The man who falls into 
 error from the absence of right principles, I 
 consider as far less deserving of censure, than 
 he who, entertaining right principles, acts in 
 opposition to them. Of this oiFence, — an of- 
 fence equally against God and my fellow-crea- 
 tures, — I feel that I v/as guilty, and I have been 
 justly punished for it. It has been the occasion 
 of my being condemned to see the womanT I 
 loved, and by whom I was beloved, rashly throw 
 herself away upon a man whom subsequent 
 events have shown totally undeserving of her ; 
 and a sister, than whom none was ever dearer to 
 a brother, if not absolutely throw herself away.
 
 182 
 
 yet marry in a manner little conformable to her 
 inclinations. But if my error was great, so 
 have been my sufferings and repentance : — may 
 this satisfy the Fountain of all justice ! may it 
 have atoned my errors in this world! may they 
 not be remembered against m*e in the next ! — 
 And now, Eleanor, can you forgive me?'* 
 
 Never had Eleanor's heart been so touched 
 before. There was something in the confession 
 she had heard from one so adored, so revered, 
 — in the seeing how little even the best of hu- 
 man beings are exempted from the errors and 
 failings of our nature, — which affected her be- 
 yond measmre. But if the finding that this 
 revered object was but a human being sunk 
 deeply into her soul, his contrition and self- 
 condemnation for a fault, which to the world, 
 where disguise and insincerity often pass rather 
 for virtues than for failings, will appear very 
 venial ; — his deep contrition for this error, 
 rendered him still dearer to her, since it unfold- 
 ed a virtue, of which otherwise she might never 
 have been sensible. She now saw that while 
 no one was more lenient, — showed more can- 
 dour towards the errors and failings of others, — 
 the errors ^ud failings let it be understood, not 
 the confirm<-d vices and depravities^ — while to 
 those of others he extended the utmost can- 
 dour, it was his own errors alone that he con.
 
 183 
 
 demned with severity. While he severely ar- 
 raigned himself, he spared any remarks upon 
 her conduct, though that had not been marked 
 with all the sincerity towards him that it ought 
 to have been. 
 
 " Forgive you, Bernard ! '* she exclaimed : 
 '' could my own errors ever hope for forgive- 
 ness, — could I ever dare to ask it of the Power 
 by whom we are all to b» judged, — if from my 
 soul I did not forgive you ? — if my heart could 
 feel any alteration in the sentiments it has al- 
 ways cherished towards you ? — We have all 
 erred ; — I have as much reason to ask forgive- 
 ness of the shade of my departed husband, if 
 such a being may be supposed to exist in a state 
 sensible to what is passing here below, as you 
 have to ask forgiveness of me. — Nay, I have as 
 much reason to ask forgiveness of you too, — 
 for what right had I to think of imposing a 
 wife upon you ? I had seen enough to have con- 
 vinced me that Sophia could not be the woman 
 of your choice : your behaviour to her was in- 
 deed always like a brother, not as if you could 
 ever feel for her more than fraternal friendship. 
 But, Bernard, I acted under an infatuation; my 
 mind was possessed but with one idea, that you 
 and Sophia must be happy together ; nor did it 
 ever enter into my head to ask myself whether it 
 was not possible that you might have some
 
 184 
 
 other attadiment. In short, I was exactly in that 
 state of mind that I could not persuade myself, 
 even when I saw how much you seemed to re- 
 volt from an union with Sophia, that you really 
 could feel repugnance to it ; the infatuation I 
 was under deprived me absolutely of the use of 
 my senses." 
 
 They both paused, their hearts were both 
 overcome j — Eleanor first resumed the power 
 of speech. — " But," she said, " let not the 
 lesson we have had, be thrown away upon 
 us : — we all acted too disingenuously ; let us 
 take warning from the consequences to avoid 
 such false ideas of delicacy in tuture ! — I now 
 see plainly the path which 1 ought to pursue 
 in the present case, and it shall be pursued. 
 I will not trifle with Mr. Carberry as 1 did 
 with poor Lawrence ; — he shaU not be made 
 a sacrifice to the convenience of one whom he 
 has honoured with such particular distinction, 
 or be wedded, by me at leasu from other 
 motives than those which a husband has a 
 right to expect from a wife. I know that 
 prudential motives alone would influence me 
 to marry Mr. Carberry : I will not be a second 
 time guilty of such an act of injustice, but 
 will without delay return a negative answer to 
 his proposals." 
 
 " Not so, Eleanor : this were again to act with
 
 185 
 
 too much precipitation. — I will see him, will 
 talk with him ; he shall be made thoroughly 
 acquainted with your situation ; and if he 
 should then persist in his offers and you should 
 still be disposed to accept them, here v^ill be 
 no deception, nor can any valid objection be 
 urged against their being accepted." 
 
 Eleanor saw the justice of this reasoning, 
 and assented to the proposal. Mr. Armstrong 
 accordingly waited upon Mr. Carberry ; when 
 every thing being duly explained, the mer- 
 chant bestowed the highest compliments upon 
 the honourable manner in which both the 
 brother and the sister had acted, and persisting 
 in his suit his hand was in a very short time 
 after united with that of Eleanor. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Middleton were reasonable 
 enough to see with pleasure the new connec* 
 tion formed by their daughter-in-law, and, 
 instead of regarding it as any slight to the me- 
 mory of their son, felt grateful at the sacrifice 
 she had made to promote the welfare and hap- 
 piness of their grandchildren. They neither 
 of them, however, hved to see the whole effect 
 produced by this change in her condition ; 
 Mr. Middli^ton died within a year after Elea- 
 nor's marriage, and Mrs. Middleton survived 
 her husband barely two years.
 
 186 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Consolatory views opened after long sustained 
 apprehensions. — Grateful achnoudedgements of 
 kindnesses received. — Mercantile virtues and fol- 
 lies, — New figures of oratory . — Oljects of pater- 
 rial solicitude. — The juvenile visitor. — Terrors of 
 a country ivalk. 
 
 After having been kept on the rack for 
 three or four years, by the bitterest apprehen- 
 sions that my ideas would never rise above 
 the low station in which I was born, my father 
 at length had the satisfaction of seeing more 
 consolatory views open upon him. A gradual 
 change of sentiment had been evidently for 
 some time stealing over my mind, — it appeared 
 obvious that I was beginning to entertain more 
 accurate and gentlemanlike notions respecting 
 the difference between the learned professions 
 and mere mechanical occupations. I had no 
 longer the same pleasure in attending at the 
 shop when he was at work ; I no longer en- 
 treated permission, as I had often done in 
 my days of devotion to his art, to come and 
 blow the bellows, as a prelude towards being 
 admitted into the sanctum sanctorum of the 
 mysteries. To have been deprived of my
 
 187 
 
 company upon any less important considera- 
 tion, highly as he had always valued it, would 
 have been to him a very sensible mortification: 
 but now he even rejoiced in it, considering it 
 as a happy earnest oF my mind being in a pro- 
 sperous train towards casting the slough by 
 which it had been so long dimmed and dis- 
 guised, and being about to come forth with 
 that bright lustre and polish which had ever 
 been the object of his most ardent wishes. 
 
 Indeed, as the delight I received from the 
 society of Mr. Armstrong and Walter daily 
 increased, — as I was daily more and more en- 
 raptured with the knowledge I imbibed under 
 the tuition of the former, — all other propensities 
 were proportionably weakened in my mind ; — 
 to enjoy their society became, insensibly, all in 
 all to me. Admiration of the man, and of the 
 extent and variety of his attainments, the latter 
 of which I could every day more duly appre- 
 ciate, as he was every day imparting some por- 
 tion of them to me, naturally led to emulation ; 
 and even before I went to Christ's Hospital I 
 was fully convinced that greater talents were 
 requisite to make a sermon than to shoe a 
 horse, and grew more ambitious of emulating 
 the achievements of Mr. Armstrong than those 
 of my father. 
 
 It was just before I completed my twelfth
 
 188 
 
 year that I was removed to the Hospital. Ele- 
 anor had then been a widow about half a year. 
 She was no stranger to the kindness shown me 
 by her brother, and to his anxiety that I should 
 not disappoint my father's expecfations, — so that 
 she knew her taking notice of me v/ould be 
 satisfactory to him: she therefore gave me a 
 general invitation to spend the day with her at 
 Wandsworth, whenever I had a- holiday and 
 could obtain leave to come so far. Of this 
 invitation 1 availed myself on every possible 
 opportunity; and I often look back to the 
 happy hours I spent there, with feelings of 
 minified gratitude and delight. I soon grew 
 extremely fond of both her children ; but it 
 was the society of Katherine her daughter, who 
 was the older of the two, and just a year 
 younger than myself, that was always more 
 particularly gratifying to me. She w^as lively 
 and animated, and enjoyed an occasional gam*e 
 at romps as much as most girls of her age: but 
 at the same time she had a great desire of in- 
 struction, and was extremely fond of reading ; 
 so that we alternately read and played together 
 as the fancy of the moment inspired us. Ber- 
 nardj the son, had a far less active mind ; — he 
 was sweet tempered, but did not enter with the 
 same ardour as Katherine, either into our sports 
 or studies.
 
 189 
 
 I was not a less welcome guest at the house 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Carberry after Eleanor be- 
 came a second time a wife, than I had been at 
 that of Mrs. Lawrence Middleton during the 
 time of her widowhood ; while I as gladly em- 
 braced every possible opportunity of visiting at 
 her new residence in Chatham Place, Black 
 Friars, as I had done at her old residence at 
 Wandsworth. It was Mr. Carberry's particu- 
 lar wish and desire that his wife should 
 please herself entirely both in keeping up her 
 old connections and in forming new ones; 
 and if I did not find the instruction in his 
 society that I did in that of Eleanor and her 
 brother, I had always much reason to be 
 grateful for the notice he took of me, and for 
 the frequent little pecuniary donations with 
 which it was accompanied. 
 
 He was indeed in all respects a kind-hearted, 
 friendly, and hospitable man. He had always 
 been indefatigable in his attention to his busi- 
 ness, or he had never accumulated the large 
 fortune of which he was now the possessor ; — 
 vet this attention to his concerns was maintain- 
 ed without its ever being permitted to degene- 
 rate into meanness or avarice. His expenses 
 were proportioned to his means ; he was li- 
 beral, but not extravagant ; — he had a hand- 
 some house, and every thing about it substan-
 
 190 
 
 tial and good without being showy, or affecting 
 to follow all the reigning whims and fashions of 
 the day; — he had servants enough to do the 
 business of the house properly, but kept none 
 for idleness or ostentation ; — his table was al- 
 ways plentifully served with every thing good 
 of its kind, without running into foolish ex- 
 penses for the purchase of dainties; and he 
 aimed rather at having a moderate display of 
 wines of the very best quality, than at having a 
 great variety of them ; he was kind in all his 
 domestic relations, hospitable to his guests, 
 charitable and benevolent to the poor, and to 
 all who were in any way dependent upon him. 
 For all these good qualities it was impossible 
 not to respect him ; but it was equally impos- 
 sible to pass over unnoticed one foible which, 
 amid them all, was perpetually obtruding itself 
 upon the view of every body who was much in 
 his society. He was a most profound politi- 
 cian, nor was there perhaps throughout the 
 whole city of London a more assiduous stu- 
 dier of the daily papers ; and this was a period 
 of our history at which they were particularly 
 interesting, since it was now the year J 796. I 
 verily believe that he would even sooner have 
 omitted his weekly examination of his books, 
 and they were always laid be'ore him on a 
 Monday morning, and regularly examined by
 
 191 
 
 him ; — but I verily believe he would even 
 sooner have waved this ceremony, than have 
 passed over a single syllable in the proceedings 
 of the House of Commons during the time of 
 their sitting. No man was more profuse in 
 his offers of assistance to His Majesty's mini- 
 sters in settling the affairs of the nation, whe- 
 ther the question was of conducting a debate in 
 parliament, or of planning and directing any 
 of the formidable expeditions undertaken by 
 them, either by sea or land. He could always 
 point out the spot against which their exertions 
 could be the most effectually directed ; — he 
 was always perfectly well acquainted with the 
 situation, strength, numbers, and resources of 
 the enemy, could always tell exactly where 
 they were the most vulnerable ; — and if mi- 
 nisters had but shown as much readiness in 
 taking his advice, as he in giving it, the nation 
 would not have had so often to lament the un- 
 fortunate failures which have attended our ef- 
 forts in this most just and necessary war. 
 
 Nor was he less hberal in his offers of as- 
 sistance to the commanders of the expeditions, 
 whether generals or admirals. Even though, 
 through the negligence of ministers in not 
 consulting him, their efforts were directed to 
 wrong points ; still, if the commanders would 
 have been more attentive to his advice, the
 
 192 
 
 errors of which they were guilty would have 
 been avoided ; and if the event had not been 
 completely successful, yet their failures would 
 have been attended with consequences less 
 calamitous. At least so he always assured those 
 from whom he could obtain a hearing. For no 
 sooner had an expedition failed of success, than 
 he was ready with his prophecy, observing that 
 he had always said this must be so, and he 
 could have convinced any body in few luords 
 that it was impossible such a plan should suc- 
 ceed; but if such and such measures' had been 
 pursued, which he had pointed out, the event 
 would have been very different. Or, in the case 
 of partial success, the commander, whether by 
 sea or land, might have done the business much 
 more effectually, if he would only have done so 
 and so, as he had proposed. 
 
 But v.oe unto any one who was doomed to 
 listen to the few words requisite for his con- 
 viction ! At these moments, the worthy mer- 
 chant, seated directly before the fire, with 
 both his feet upon thi: fender, and the poker in 
 his hand,— for the hearth and tire were always 
 his field of action, — would trace out his plan 
 of a campaign, draw up his armies for an en- 
 gagement, or arrange his ships in line of battle, 
 with so much ability, and fight with so much 
 obstinacy, that there was no possibility oi con- 
 
 J
 
 193 
 
 jecturing when the engagement might termi- 
 nace. It was well for him that he could con- 
 sume a large quantity of coals without feeling 
 the expense materially, for the fire was always 
 upon these occasions a severe sufferer. Was 
 he making an impetuous charge of cavalry, or 
 playing off a furious cannonade of artillery, — 
 was he rushing with irresistible force upon the 
 enemy with fixed bayonets, or pouring a broad- 
 side from the admiral's ship which was to sink 
 an opponent, — in whatever manoeuvre he was 
 engaged, the fire was to answer for every thing, 
 the coals were raked out of the grate as fast as 
 the artillery mowed down the ranks of the 
 enemy. 
 
 Was the arrangement of a debate in the 
 House of Commons the question, he fought 
 with no less eagerness the battles of theFoxites 
 and the Pittites than those of the armies of 
 France and England. He did not enforce his 
 arguments by similes, by tropes, by metaphors, 
 or any of those common-place ornaments of 
 rhetoric, — they were illustrated by emphatically 
 thrusting the poker into the fire, and stirring 
 out a volley of the luminous figures contained 
 in it. And when at length, by dint of raking 
 half the fire out, he had obtained a complete 
 victory over his opponent, (for he always ima- 
 gined what his antagonist would say, ' for the 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 
 
 pleasure of refuting him.) the victor}^ was cele- 
 brated by throwing a whole scuttle full of coals 
 upon the fire^ that he might be prepared with 
 a plentiful supply of ammunition to renew the 
 contest, in case he should find any fresh argu- 
 ment for his adversary to bring against him, or 
 should be able to raise a new army for the ene- 
 my to march into the field. 
 
 Some persons may perhaps be disposed to 
 call in question the patriotism of our merchant, 
 when they hear that he was not only always 
 ready to fight the battles of his own country, 
 but was equally alert in fighting those of her 
 enemies. He had as quick a foresight at the 
 failure of any plan of the ministers or generals 
 of another country, as of those of England, 
 and was no less hberal of his counsels how to 
 avoid like errors in future. He could equally 
 have instructed Djezzar Pasha and Sir Sidney 
 Smith how they might have destroyed Bona- 
 parte and his whole army in Syria, and have 
 instructed Bonaparte how he might have taken 
 St. Jean d'Acre; — nor was he less lavish in his 
 consumption of coals in the cause of an adver- 
 sary of Great Britain, than in that of her 
 closest and most faithful allies. Nay, he 
 would even go a step further in the service of 
 other countries : — since they are not so happy 
 as England in having a parliament wherein the
 
 195 
 
 measures of the unfortunate ministers and com- 
 manders may be canvassed and censured, and 
 those of the fortunate ones be honoured with 
 a vote of thanks, he kindly supplied the de- 
 ficiency by supposing what might be said 
 if they had parliaments. He furnished the 
 speakers on both sides with the most able 
 arguments that could hv brought in support of 
 their respective opinions ; and had not less 
 cause of triumph when he had silenced an ad- 
 versaiT in one of these imaginary parliaments, 
 than when he had disposed of imaginary argu- 
 ments in the real parliament of England. It 
 must however be confessed to his credit, that 
 while he loved to harangue, and was eager in 
 supporting his own views of all political ques- 
 tions, he never made a difference of opinion 
 a subject of quarrel with any one : — indeed, as 
 he seldom would allow an interval for any body 
 to put in a word after he had entered upon his 
 harangue, all disputes upon the matter were 
 effectually avoided. 
 
 It may perhaps be hence supposed that Mr. 
 Carberry was a great City orator, and a distin- 
 guished speaker whenever a question of im- 
 portance was agitated in a common hall, or a 
 meeting of the common council : — no such 
 thing. His oratory was confined entirely to 
 his own fire-side ; nor would it, I believe, have 
 
 K 2
 
 106 
 
 been possible for him to maintain an argiijuent 
 with any spirit without the poker in his hand. 
 So essential a figure of rhetoric did it indeed 
 seem to him, that even in summer time, when 
 there was no fire to rake, I have seen him, if 
 very earnest in debate, instinctively take up the 
 poker and run it between the bars of the grate, 
 with as much eagerness as if he could actually 
 have poured out a volley of hot balls upon the 
 enemy below in the hearth. 
 
 I have the rather dwelt upon this foible, be- 
 cause to that was probably to be ascribed an 
 error into which he fell, and which led to very 
 important consequences ; at least the one was 
 so intimately connected with the other, that 
 they form too much links of the same chain 
 for the notice of them to be dissevered ; and 
 both are too much connected with the present 
 history, to be passed over unnoticed. Ihough 
 he was contented that his own oratory should 
 be confined within the narrow liniits of his 
 fire side, and be listened to only by the little 
 circle of his private friends, it was far from 
 his intention that his son should remain in 
 a sphere equally circumscribed He was in- 
 deed, in regard to him, in the same situation 
 that my honoured sire was with respect to me. 
 The father of Maurice Carberry could as little 
 endure that the family name which he bore
 
 197 
 
 should be never known but as connected with 
 the coal trade, as the father of Samuel Danville 
 that his family name should be for ever attached 
 to the idea of the bellows and the, hammer. 
 Maurice must equally with myself be raised a 
 step above his ancestors ; — he must be made a 
 gentleman of independent fortune, ^nd a parli- 
 mentary orator ; and in this situation Mr. Car- 
 berry looked forward to the most important 
 services being rendered to the country by the 
 united efforts of his son and himself. The 
 latter could then communicate to the admiring 
 audience of St. Stephen's chapel all the bene- 
 ficial projects formed in behalf of Old England 
 by himself amid his daily lucubrations in Chat- 
 ham Place ; and persuasive as he was convinced 
 his son's eloquence must necessarily be, he had 
 no doubt that recommended by him they would 
 be adopted without hesitation. 
 
 Maurice Carberry had indeed been placed 
 at a school in the neighbourhood of London, 
 which was selected entirely with this view. It 
 was one which had the reputation of making 
 the pupils elegant classical scholars, of paying 
 particular attention to their learning to speak 
 and write English correctly, and to declaim 
 with ease and fluency. It was, in short, con- 
 sidered as one of the best seminaries of the 
 whole kingdom for educating youths of fortune
 
 198 
 
 to unite the characters of the orator, the scholar, 
 and the gentleman. Mr. Carberry at the time 
 of placing him there mide known his views, 
 and gave a particular charge that the utmost 
 attention should be paid in his education to 
 such objects as v\'ould best promote them. 
 
 At the time of his father's second marriage 
 Maurice was just sixteen years of age, having 
 been already eight years at school. As he was 
 well known in the school to be the only son 
 of a very rich man, he had been much courted 
 and flattered, — by nobody more than by the 
 master himself, who had a very profound re- 
 spect for wealth and distinction. He indeed 
 wrote such flourishing accounts of the progress 
 made by the youth in his studies, that Mr. Car- 
 berry, not without some reason, considered 
 his son almost as a prodigy. He might, per- 
 haps, not so easily have been the dupe of these 
 flattering expressions, but that, not being a man 
 of learning himself, he had no sufficient means 
 of forming an accurate judgement of their truth, 
 he was forced to take them entirely upon credit: 
 possibly he might, witli true paternal frailty, be 
 very ready to believe, without examination, 
 what accorded so well with his partialities and 
 his wishes. 
 
 In some of Mr. Carberry 's numerous visits to 
 Wandsworth, while his mind was not yet wholly
 
 199 
 
 satisfied that his concerns could be going on 
 well, superintended by a wonian only, and of 
 the not less numerous ones subsequently made 
 from the new motives for wishing to see Mrs. 
 Middleton, which arose out of the conviction 
 that the old ones were unfounded, — on several 
 occasions in the course of these visits he had, 
 in the pride of his heart, brought his son v.ith 
 him, very much I am afraid, if the truth is to 
 be confessed, for the sake of showing him off. 
 It so fell out that on one of these occasions I 
 happened to be spending the day there. It was 
 about a year after 1 first came to the hospital, 
 I being then thirteen and Maurice fifteen. 
 When Mr. Carberry and his son entered, I was 
 reading to Mrs. Middleton and Katherine as 
 they sat at work, and Bernard was finishing 
 his task of writing. Mr. Carberry had seen . 
 me before, and knew my history ; he wished, 
 I suppose, for a tete-a-tete with the widow, 
 for he had not been long seated before he re- 
 commended to the young people all to go and 
 take a walk. 1 saw Maurice eye me from head 
 to foot ; and had I known hijii as well then as I 
 knevir him afterwards, I should certainly have in- 
 terpreted his contemplations : — " What 1 walk 
 out with a blue-coat boy ! — must I be seen in 
 such company?" He eyed me, but stirred 
 not J on which Mr. Carberry repeated his re-
 
 200 
 
 coinmendaiion to us to take a walk ; when he 
 rose from his seat reluctantly, and with great 
 state, and taking his hat we ail sallied forth. 
 " Which way shall we go?" said Katherine. 
 " Any way you please. Miss Middleton," 
 said Maurice : " 1 don*t imagine there will be 
 time to take a long walk ; suppose we only 
 stroll a little about the yard ?** 
 
 " I think we shall be soon tired of that,'"* 
 said I, perfectly unconscious of Maurice's deli- 
 cate feelings on the subject of being seen in my 
 company ; while he, not caring to avow them 
 in plain and direct terms, could only repeat 
 that he thought his papa did not mean to stay 
 long, and we had better not be out of the way. 
 
 This objection, however, was overruled by 
 Katherine, who observed, " that as Mr. Car- 
 berry himself proposed our walking, it wasn't 
 likely he should be in a hurry ;" and pursuing 
 her way towards the gate of the yard, Maurice 
 saw no means of escaping the purgatory in store 
 for him, but was obliged to follow, and exhibit 
 himself in the public road with me by his side. 
 
 " Prav, sir, what may your name be?" he 
 said, addressing lumself to me. 
 
 " Danville, sir." 
 
 ^' Oh 1 — and I suppose, mester Denville, by 
 your dresSj that you are at Christ's hospital ?"■ 
 
 '' Yes, sir.''
 
 201 
 
 ^' 'TIs a mighty ugly dress, I must needs 
 think/' 
 
 *' Dear me !'' said Katherine, " I am quite 
 surprised, master Carberry, you should think 
 so: for my part, I think it uncommonly pretty, 
 and very becoming.'* 
 
 " You amaze me, Miss Middleton ; I can't 
 think you can be serious." 
 
 " O indeed I am quite serious.'* 
 
 " I must say, then, that I think you've a 
 vestly bad taste." Then addressing himself 
 again to me, "I've a notion, mester Denville/* 
 said he, " that there's a sad vulgar set of boys 
 at your hospital. Indeed who but vulgar people 
 could send their sons to a place where they 
 must wear such a dress?" 
 
 I never in my life felt more strongly disposed 
 to apply corporal correction, and that in a pretty 
 rough way, to the shoulders of either boy or man, 
 than I now did to those of Maurice Carberry for 
 his overbearing impeninence. I was indeed so 
 confounded, and so indignant, that no other 
 species of answer immediately presented itself 
 to my mind ; and not feeling myself wholly in 
 a situation to make this, vvhich I thought the 
 only proper reply, I merely looked him in the 
 face, — pretty significantly, as I hope and be- 
 lieve, — and was silent. Katherine did more : 
 she answered without hesitation, '' Oh dear, 
 K 5
 
 202 
 
 that's quite a mistake ; 'tis one of the gen- 
 teelest schools in all London : isn't it, Samuel?" 
 Maurice proceeded in his catechism : — " You 
 come out of the country, mester Denville, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 I was too much occupied with endeavouring 
 to digest the former observation to attend to the 
 present question, so left it to find an answer 
 where it could, and it found one again from 
 my champion Katherine. 
 
 *' Yes, Samuel was brought up by a brother 
 of mamma's." 
 
 " From charity, I suppose?" 
 
 " No : my uncle undertook his education 
 because he thought him so extremely clever 
 that he said it was really quite a pleasure to 
 instruct such a boy : — indeed, he always consi- 
 dered himself as extremely obliged to Samuel's 
 father for consenting to his son's being under 
 his care :" — and then she gave me a roguish 
 wink, as much as to say, " I think he is pretty 
 well answered now." 
 
 " Dear me 1 " said Maurice, " that was 
 vestly odd of your uncle. — But what a pity it 
 is, if mester Denville is so exceedingly clever, 
 that he is not sent to a better school. We have 
 such a number of clever boys at our school ! — 
 There's the Earl of Borrowdale, he's remarkably 
 clever, and he's my very particular friend : in-
 
 203 
 
 deed the school Is quite talked of for the num. 
 ber of clever boys." 
 
 " Tis a remarkable school for good man- 
 ners, too, isn't it ?" said Katherine. 
 
 - *' O dear me, yes indeed it is, Miss Middle- 
 ton," he replied : " you've no idea what a gen- 
 teel school it is, — not one vulgar boy there ; — 
 not one whose father isn't worth at least three 
 thousand a year. Then there's the Earl of Bor- 
 rovvdale : he has no father alive, but he is im- 
 mensely rich himself, and has such a very fine 
 house in the country ! He has often described 
 it to me, for he 's my most intimate friend ; 
 and he has invited me to come and visit him 
 when he's of age and lives there. And the 
 countess dowager his mamma is extremely 
 rich, and lives in a very fine house in Portman 
 Square, which will belong to the earl too when 
 he comes of age." Then, after a pause, re- 
 suming his examination into my history, " and 
 pray," said he, " what may mester Denville's 
 father be?" 
 
 " His father," said Katherine, " Oh, he's 
 a doctor." 
 
 " A doctor, dear me ! always meddling with- 
 nesty drugs." 
 
 Amid this agreeable kind of conversation we 
 had pursued our way for some time, when at 
 length we came to the entrance of a lane^ dowm
 
 which I proposed turning. '' O dear me, not 
 for the world," said Maurice. ^' The last 
 time I was here, a friend of mine, who -was 
 spending the holidays with me, and I walked 
 down that lane ; and there was such a fierce 
 duck in a pond which we passed, that I would 
 not upon any account go there again. I de- 
 clare I never was so fnghtened in my life." 
 
 " Indeed it was very frightful,'* said Ka- 
 tnerine, winking at me, while I was endeavour- 
 ing to stifle a laugh ; and Bernard, looked at 
 him with astonishment. " But which way, 
 then, shall w^e go?" Katherine added. 
 
 '' Oh, any way but that," said Maurice. 
 
 " Sister," said Bernard, '' cou'dn't we go 
 over the fields by Harris's farm, and home by 
 'the water side?" 
 
 ** Why, that's a very pleasant way," said 
 Katherine ; " but Tve heard that there's a very 
 fierce hen at that farm, and if she should fly 
 out at us! Besides, if we were to tumble into 
 the wat<?r as we walk by the side of it, what 
 could we do then ?" 
 
 " Aye, Miss Middleton's right," said Pvlau- 
 rice, " we shall be safer going home again by 
 the road : we might be stopped and robbed^ 
 too, in the fields ; and Fve got three or four 
 guineas in my pocket : that's a trifle to be sure, 
 but it is as well not to run the hazard of losing
 
 205 
 
 it. But Miss Middlcton and I can walk home 
 together, and mester Denville can go with 
 mester Middlcton whichever way he chooses. 
 I suppose, as mester Denville has been brought 
 up in the country, he has been so used to ducks 
 and hens that he doesn't see any thing to be 
 afraid of in them." 
 
 " No, indeed he does not/' said Katherine : 
 — '' nay, 1 declare 1 saw him go directly in the 
 way of ever so many geese, the other day, and 
 he didn*t seem the least afraid even of them, 
 though he frightened me out of my wits.*' 
 
 " I suppose that's because he's so extremely 
 clever,, he thinks he must not be afraid of any 
 thins:.''' 
 
 o 
 
 " Well," Said Katherine, '' I think master 
 Carberry 's right ; he and I had better go home 
 together, and you, Samuel, and Bernard, can 
 go by the farm, and I'll tell mamma that you'll 
 be at home presently." Thus we parted : — 
 never was I more glad of any thing in my life 
 than to be released from mester Carberry's 
 impertinence ; while he, I believe, was not 
 much less delighted at having shaken off a 
 companion so little to his taste. I made my 
 own remarks to myself in private upon all that 
 had passed, but they were not then communi- 
 cated to any body : 1 only assented very heartily 
 to the remark made by little Bernard Middle-
 
 206 
 
 ton, as we pursued our walk together, that he 
 never saw such a fool as master Carberry must 
 be, to be afraid of a duck ! 
 
 After Mr. Carberry and his son were gone, 
 Katherine and I discussed oUr walk together ; 
 when Katherine expressed a pretty considerable 
 degree of aversion to her late visitor, and said 
 she always contradicted him as much as possible 
 whenever she saw him, he was so disagreeable 
 and so impertinent ! This was the only time that 
 I ever saw Maurice before his father had been 
 guilty of a much worse offence than sending 
 him to walk with a blue-coat boy, in present- 
 ing him with a mother-in-law.
 
 J07 
 
 CHAPTER Xir. 
 
 First appearance of a new costume in a coiuitry 
 village. — A modest tribute of applause ivhere 
 applause ivas due. — Paternal delight. — A new 
 course of mutual instruction commenced. — Fond 
 ideas cruelly disappointed. — Character of an heir 
 apparent, — Delights of intimacy with the great. 
 
 I DID not find Maurice's animadversions upon 
 me and upon my dress very digestible. When 
 I first went up to enter upon my pupilage at 
 the hospital, it was without the least idea of 
 being to adopt any particular costume in my 
 new situation. I had not even any concep- 
 tion of it when I entered the precincts of the 
 hospital, and the costume was presented to my 
 contemplation. My kind benefactor , Mr. Arm- 
 strong, was then with me ; for, with his accus- 
 tomed benevolence, he even took the trouble • 
 of a journey to London upon the occasion to 
 settle me there, and recommend me particularly 
 to two of the governors with whom he was ac- 
 quainted. I could not help immediately ex- 
 claiming upon the singularity of the dress ; and 
 learned, not without a considerable degree of 
 discomposure, and even of mortification, that 
 it was what was worn by ajl the scholars , and 
 what I must wear during the whole time of my
 
 2CS 
 
 pupilage, whether residing at the hospital, or 
 visiting at home. However, I consoled myself 
 with the reflection, that, since it was worn by 
 all, no one could laugh at the other; and indeed 
 I found, after a little while, that the dress was 
 so familiar, not only in the school but where- 
 ever I went in London, that it was no subject 
 of remark, and 1 soon ceased to be at all dis- 
 turbed by it. But Maurice's remarks rather laid 
 open again the httle wound my vanity had re- 
 ceived, and I had no inconsiderable argumen- 
 tations with myself for three or four days, be- 
 fore a perfect reconciliation between me and 
 my parure could be established. 
 
 It was not very long after, that I went down 
 on a visit to my father, for the first time since 
 my removal to the hospital. The notice taken 
 of me at the rectory at Langham had always 
 excited among the other lads in the village that 
 kind of jealousy which is almost invariably felt, 
 particularly by uncultivated minds, at seeing 
 an equal in rank raised by adventitious circum- 
 stances very much above us. The consequence 
 was, that they had been exceedingly in the 
 habit of amusing themselves at my expense, — 
 that I was made the constant object of their ri- 
 dicule, — the mark at which their country wit 
 and rustic jokes were perpetually aimed ; — 
 they always called me in derision Master Dan*
 
 209 
 
 lille. But above all my pride, as it wavS 
 termed, which could find nobody in the parish 
 good enough to keep company with but the 
 parson and his son, was the subject of their 
 very severe animadversions. Not that they 
 ever ventured upon these remarks when they 
 met me in company with Mr. Armstrong and 
 Walter ; but they took every possible opportu- 
 nity of way- laying me when I was by myself, 
 and making me acquainted with their opinions. 
 In general I did not condescend to take further 
 notice of them than to draw up my nose into 
 a sneer expressive of very profound contempt, 
 and pass on. Once only was 1 roused into 
 expressing my feelings in a more active way. 
 Remarks upon myself were pretty indifferent 
 to me ; but when they presumed to say that it 
 must be a rum kind of parson indeed who 
 could take up with such trumpery as a black- 
 smith's son for his child's companion, my 
 choler could no longer be suppressed. This 
 oblique reflection upon my patron was past all 
 endurance ; and though the boy by whom it 
 was made was much older and stouter than 
 myself, indignation supplied all deficiencies of 
 strength, and I gave him as hearty a thrashing 
 as he ever had, or probably ever will have in. 
 the course of his life. This was a sufficient 
 hint to the vouths in general ; and though they
 
 2J0 
 
 did not the more spare me, I never heard a se- 
 cond reflection upon my benefactor. 
 
 But if it be clear from this, that among the 
 lads Mr. Armstrong's kindness to me was made 
 a subject of reflection upon him, it is but justice 
 due to the rest of the parish to observe, that these 
 kind of reflections were confined to the mere 
 lads only. Those who were arrived at years of 
 maturity, and were capable of duly appreciating 
 the character of their rector, always regarded it 
 with the veneration it deserved, nor ever thought 
 of mentioning it but in suitable terms. If the 
 distinction with which I was treated by him, so 
 far above what was shown to any other person 
 in the parish, did occasion any little feelings 
 of jealousy among them, and it was perhaps 
 scarcely possible that it should not, the odmni 
 fell entirely upon me, he was not less the object 
 of their sincere love and respect : — if they felt 
 somewhat mortified at the distance I observed 
 towards their children, though I might be ar- 
 raigned for it as too assuming, yet the notice 
 I received from him, which was in fact the oc- 
 casion of it, was never imputed to him as im- 
 proper condescension. Indeed, I have often 
 thought in my more reflecting years, that the 
 manner in which his notice of me was thus 
 passed over, since, perhaps, on viewing only 
 the surface of the thing, it might bear the in-
 
 211 
 
 terpretation of demonstrating rather an invi- 
 dious partiality, was a remarkable instance of 
 the great ascendancy which a clergyman may 
 obtain over the minds of his parishioners, 
 where his general conduct is such as to render 
 him truly respectable in their eyes ; — when by 
 a due discharge of his pastoral duties, and a 
 strict attention to his own morals, he convinces 
 them that religion is not with him a mere mat- 
 ter of outside* display, but is his constant and 
 steady rule of action. 
 
 But the sentiments of the younger gentry 
 being such as I have described, it was not to 
 be expected that so fine a subject of merriment 
 as my blue gown, black cap, and yellow stock- 
 ings could be passed over. Never had such 
 a costume been seen in the village before. It 
 was on a Saturday that I came down ; and not 
 arriving till after dark, I made my way to my 
 father's house wholly unobserved ; so that my 
 first public exhibition of myself was on the Sun- 
 day morning, when in my way to the rectory, 
 a little before church time, I passed throu ;h 
 the churchyard, where a number of the youths 
 were assembled. At first I was not recognised 
 by them ; but when they discovered this gro- 
 tesque figure, as I appeared to them, to be 
 master Danville^ never was there such a shout 
 as they all set up; there was no end of their jokes
 
 212 
 and sneers. — " So, little master was got back 
 into petticoats again ! — they thought that when 
 be went to Lunuun h^ was, to be made a great 
 man of, but now it seemed that 'twas no such- 
 thing, — the parson's fine scholar was but a mere 
 baby there : — they supposed that next time he 
 came down he'd have a leading-string, and be 
 put into his go-cart.'* To ail this I replied 
 only with my usual draw-up of my nose, and 
 pursued my route to the rectory very tranquilly, 
 in the full assurance that my reception there 
 would more ihan compensate to me the mockery 
 of the whole village, or indeed of that and se* 
 veral others united. However, even here I was 
 not wholly exempt from a little bit of mortifi- 
 cation at my unfortunate dress ; for it tickled 
 Walter's fancy so much, notwithstanding he 
 was in some sort prepared for it, that he could 
 not forbear bursting into a hearty laugh the 
 moment he saw me. I at first drew up my 
 head, and looked a little grave upon the matter; 
 but in a few minutes he irresistibly compelled 
 me to laugh as heartily as himself, and there 
 was an end of it. I do not recollect that the 
 blue gown ever after gave me a moment's un- 
 easiness. 
 
 In this, as indeed in all other visits which I 
 made to my father while I remained a student 
 at the hospital, I was received with the same
 
 213 
 
 klndncv^s, I may say affection, at the rectory 
 that I had experienced during the time when 
 I was more immediately under Mr. Armstrong's 
 tuition, and was permitted to come every day 
 and read with him. I was also as much as ever 
 the friend and associate of Walter : he had a 
 mind so perfectly free from pride, and so sweet 
 a temper, that he never entertained the idea of 
 shunning, as he grew up, the child who had 
 been the playmate of his infancy, though in a 
 rank of life so inferior to his own. 
 
 I shall only* say in general, with respect to 
 the years of my pupilage at the hospital, that 
 they passed with credit to myself ; and that I 
 had the satisfaction of finding my conduct meet 
 with the entire approbation of the senior part of 
 the community, while at the same time I lived 
 upon the most pleasant and amicable terms 
 with my schoolftllov/s. Let me not be ac- 
 cused of vanity in saying this : I claim less 
 merit to myself in it than I would give to Mr. 
 Armstrong. His excellent lessons and advice 
 were always accompanied with expressions of 
 so much kindness, uttered with such appearance 
 of real solicitude for my proving a respectable 
 and useful member of society, and rewarding 
 by a suitable return the exertions my father 
 had made for my education and advancement 
 in life, that I must have been insensible and
 
 214 
 
 ungrateful indeed if they had made no impres- 
 sion upon me. 
 
 My father contemplated the progress of my 
 education with a delight that knew no bounds. 
 '' Samuel, my dear Samuel/' he would some- 
 times say, " God has rewarded my diligence 
 and endeavours to render thee great and happy, 
 by making thee every thing that my heart could 
 wish ; which every night before I lie down in 
 my bed I thank, him with all my soul for it, 
 and for all his goodness and mercy that he has 
 blessed you, and made you so good and indus- 
 trious in your learning ; and I pray to him 
 daily that the duty you show me may, in his 
 good time, be equally rewarded by your hav- 
 ing a son like yourself, that you may experi- 
 ence all the transports which your good con- 
 duct has so often occasioned me. O, if it 
 should but please God to spare me, and let me 
 hear you the first time you preach, I shall .then 
 be willing to die whenever he thinks good to 
 call for me : I shall have nothing more left to 
 wish for on this side of the grave ; which, to be 
 sure, 1 think, considering that I am not now 
 old^ I may very fairly hope for." 
 
 A son who could have witnessed unmoved 
 the heart of a parent agitated with such emo- 
 tions as at these moments agitated my father's, 
 must have been very unworthy of witnessing
 
 215 
 
 them at all ; — he must Indeed have been com- 
 posed of materials which would bespeak him 
 worthy of any thing rather than of the com- 
 mendations and blessings bestowed upon him. 
 As I hope, that though much allowance was per- 
 haps to be made for his paternal partiality, yet 
 that I was not wholly unworthy of more quali- 
 fied commendations, so I could seldom witness 
 them without a deluge of tears, hiding my face 
 at the same time upon his knee ; and if the 
 rebel nature within us had ever urged me to 
 wander very widely from the strait path, I think 
 nothing would so soon have brought me back 
 to it as the witnessing one of these scenes. 
 I speak not of those numberless petty errors 
 to which the best among us are at every mo- 
 ment subject, and in which I undoubtedly 
 shared with the rest of my fellow- creatures ; 
 but i hope and trust that my heart has ever 
 been upright^ and irmocent from- great trans- 
 gressions. If I must soon confess a very severe 
 mortification which I once occasioned my fa- 
 ther, still I think I may say with confidence, 
 that it was the only serious subject of uneasi- 
 ness I ever gave him ; and that it arose from 
 circumstances which, if they could not wholly 
 justify, may at least be pleaded as a partial 
 extenuation of, my conduct. 
 
 I have spoken in these general terms of this
 
 216 
 
 period of my life, because the incidents which 
 intervened uorth recording are not sufficiently 
 numerous to be given in a regular detail. A 
 few desultory particulars only must be added, 
 partly relating to myself, partly to those with 
 whom I was principally connected, before I 
 proceed to the more important occurrences of 
 several succeeding years. 
 
 After Mrs. "Carberry's removal to Chatham 
 Place, I had more frequent opportunities of im- 
 proving the acquaintance between myself and 
 her children begun at Wandsworth ; since I 
 could many times obtain leave to go so far, when 
 to have thought of going to Wandsworth was 
 out of the question. Among other objects to 
 which the ardent desire of knowledge, already 
 mentioned as a distinguishing feature in Kathe- 
 rine Middleton's character, led, was an extreme 
 wish of becoming acquainted with the Greek and 
 Latin languages. In French and Italian she had 
 been early instructed by her mother, and could 
 already read them with fluency ; and in conse- 
 quence of Mr. Carberry's desire that she might 
 have the best instruction which could be pro- 
 cured in any accomplishments which her mo- 
 ther wished her to acquire, she was placed 
 under masters to perfect her in both languages. 
 Having communicated to me in private her 
 wish of learning Latin and Greek, I offered to
 
 217 
 
 instruct her in them ; and having obtained her 
 mother's consent, the study was immediately 
 commenced. 1 on the other hand regretting one 
 day to her that I had very little opportunity at 
 the hospital of keeping up my French and Ita- 
 lian^ which I had begun to learn under Mr. 
 Armstrong, she ofi'ered to be my tutor in them ; 
 and thenceforward the greatest part of our time, 
 during any visits that I made in Chatham Place, 
 was devoted by her and myself to mutually 
 giving and receiving instruction. With these 
 lectures I was more and more delighted every 
 time they took place ; and I still look back to 
 them as among the happiest moments of my 
 life. 
 
 As to Mrs. Carberry herself, it seemed as if 
 all her endeavours to promote the welfare of 
 those with whom she was connected, even by 
 the sacrifice of her own warmest feelings, were 
 destined to be foiled, and only to show the en- 
 tire futility of all human foresight. She had 
 married in the first instance to promote, as she 
 hoped, the happiness of her brother: — how 
 much she was mistaken in her idea, and how 
 fatally her hopes were frustrated, has been suf« 
 ficiently shown. She married the second time 
 in the prospect of advantage to her children, 
 rather than to gratify her own inclinations ; 
 and ere two years were expired she had the 
 
 VOL. I. h
 
 2}'S 
 
 misfortune of losing one of the objects for 
 whom this sacrifice was made : her son was 
 seized with the scarlet fever, which flying im- 
 mediately to his throat and head carried him 
 off in a few days. This was a subject of in- 
 expressible grief to her, and scarcely less to 
 Mr. Garberry ; for he always behaved to her 
 children, and really seemed to love them as 
 well, as if they had been his own. Thus were 
 blasted all Mrs. Garberry 's hopes with regard 
 to her son : — how they were answered with 
 regard to her daughter the sequel will dis- 
 close. 
 
 About a year before Bernard Middleron's 
 death Mrs. Garberry had become the mother 
 of another son, who was called Edward after 
 his father ; — and in two years from his birth 
 her family was further increased by a daughter, 
 to whom she gave the name of Sophia, after 
 the cherished friend of her youth. She had 
 given the name of Katherine to her eldest 
 daughter, because it was that both of her own 
 mother and of iMrs.Middleton. Katherine being 
 just three years younger than Maurice Gar- 
 berry, it was the general opinion of the world 
 that the marriage of the parents would be suc- 
 ceeded by that of their children, when they 
 should be respectively arrived at the proper 
 ages for such an union.
 
 219 
 
 The speculation was ingenious, and certainly 
 plausible : the young people had ample oppor- 
 tunities of seeing and knowing each other's 
 merits ; and it seemed natural enough to sup- 
 pose that they might be led almost insensibly 
 to forming a mutual attachment. But to 
 Maurice his father's second marriage had been 
 a source of the severest mortification and disap- 
 pointment ; nor could he forbear even, young 
 as he then was, to make use of some expressions 
 to him upon the subject not very consistent 
 with the decorum due from a child to his pa- 
 rent. Nourished so many years in the belief 
 that he was to be the sole and undivided inhe- 
 ritor of his father's large property, he could 
 not bear with any degree of patience the idea, 
 not only that other heirs might be born to his 
 father, who would have a positive claim to di- 
 vide the inheritance with him, but that the two 
 children of his mother-in-law, who could not 
 urge any claim whatever upon the property, 
 w^ere, through the foolish fondness of the hus- 
 band for this new connection, to be placed 
 upon the same footing as if they were his own, 
 Maurice could never, therefore, contemplate 
 the new head of his father's house but with 
 an eye of secret jealousy and chagrin ; yet Mrs. 
 Carberry's conduct was such as to command 
 from him an involuntary show of outward re- 
 J- 2
 
 220 
 
 spect, how much soever it might be revolting 
 to his real sentiments: and this sort of awe of 
 her controlled lum so far as to prevent his 
 ever showing any active enmity towards her 
 children. Entertaining, however, such senti- 
 ments as those above described, he could not 
 learn without a satisfaction, which, perhaps, if 
 he had been upon the spot he would have 
 found it difficult wholly to disguise even to 
 her, that he was relieved from one of the ob- 
 jects of his jealousy by the death of Bernard 
 Middleton. Where he could venture to speak 
 plainly, he did not attempt to varnish over hi^ 
 delight; and if he did not speak in terms 
 equally direct with regard to Katherine, enough 
 was said to show very clearly that he would 
 much rather follow her to the tomb than lead 
 her to the altar. 
 
 My first introduction to Maurice had cer- 
 tainly not been attended with circumstances 
 that prejudiced me very much in his favour, 
 nor did any subsequent interviews contribute 
 towards removing the impression v;hich I then 
 received. As his holidays were usually spent 
 at home, I occasionally saw him at these times, 
 during the two years that he rem.ained at 
 school after his father's marriage, and in the 
 vacations after he vas removed to college; 
 but indeed our interviews were seeing each
 
 221 
 
 other only. He had bv some means, I do not 
 know what, obtained more accurate informa- 
 tion concerning my origin than he received 
 from Katherine, and knew now what sort of 
 a doctor my lather was ; that he was not even 
 so honomable a member of the yEsculapian art 
 as to be always iiitddliiis; ivitk nesiy drugs ; — 
 that his intercourse with drugs was but small, 
 — that he was much more Familiar with iron. 
 Knowing me then to be but the son of a black- 
 smith, and seeing me in that dress by which 
 he had been already so much annoyed, a con- 
 descending " How do you do, mester Den- 
 ville," and after a while " Mr, Denville,'* 
 when we met, and a formil " Good morning" 
 or " Good night to you, Mr. Dcnville," at part- 
 ing, was commonly the sum total of the con- 
 versation which passed between us during 
 perhaps four or five hours that we remained in 
 the room together ; and even these ordinary 
 salutations of civility from one so much my 
 superior he seemed to regard as no vsmall de- 
 gree of condescension. 
 
 But the distance he chose to preserve in this 
 respect could not prevent my making my 
 private observations upon, and forming my 
 own judgement of, this future parliamentary 
 orator ; aad the result of these observations 
 was, that in due time 1 had imbibed as large a
 
 222 
 
 share of contempt for him under every point 
 of view in which I had had an opportunity of 
 contemplating him, as one man may reason- 
 ably entertain for another : his own contempt 
 for my origin and situation coulvl not posbibly 
 exceed mine boih for his literary attainments 
 and for the qualities which 1 saw were the pre- 
 ponderating ones in his mind and heart. As 
 he was exceedingly ambitious of showing oiF 
 his learning before his father, he often inter- 
 larded his conversation with common-place 
 scraps of Latin and Greek, such as are to be 
 found in all the selections first taught to young 
 beginners in the languages. These, though 
 often misquoted J and generally misapplied, 
 piSsed oH very well with Mr. Carberry, who 
 was no great judge of the maUer ; he consi- 
 dered them as convincing proofs of the vast 
 progress made by his son in the paths of ele- 
 gant literature, and congratulated himself on 
 the assurance that his utmost wishes would be 
 gratified in the future fame and distinctions he 
 must acquire. 
 
 Probably it never occurred to Maurice that 
 it was possible for a blue-coat boy to have 
 knowledge sufficient for detecting the errors of 
 a pupil at so celebrated a seminary as that 
 where he was a student ; — nay, in the vanity 
 and self-sufficiency of ignorance, he perhaps
 
 223 
 
 had no iJea that he ever was guilty of errors. 
 But as I happened' to be a tolerably good scho- 
 lar for my age, so, though two years younger 
 than Maurice, I was very capable of detec Jng 
 them. I saA' plainly that he was not only far 
 behind me in learning, but that even the little 
 he had was very superficially acquired ; — that 
 in truth there was not a single branch of know- 
 ledge in which he was tolerably well grounded. 
 His quotations were sometimes brought- in so 
 very mal-a.-propos, that I could whh difficulty 
 repress a smile, and it w^as putting some re- 
 straint upon myself that they were not made a 
 subject of amusement with my fellow-students 
 at the hospital : nothing but respect for Mr. 
 and Mrs. Carberry, and a high sense of what 
 was due from me to tham, withheld me from 
 making them so. But as I did not think ic 
 equally necessary to pract'se this forbearance 
 with respect to Katherine and Walter, in 
 private wirh them I did not fail to put them 
 in as ridiculous a point of view as possible, 
 to make amends for my forbearance with 
 regard to others : — with both I had many a 
 hearty laugh at Maurice's expense. Two 
 things only did this illustrious pupil appear 
 to have learned effectually at his seminary, 
 and these were, — to entertain a sovereign con- 
 tempt for his father, and for every thing con-
 
 224 
 
 nected with trade, and to look forward with 
 eager expecfaaon to his death, and to the ni- 
 berifance of his ample fortune. 
 
 As on the occasion of mv hrst interview 
 with Count Maurice, (for this -was the name by 
 which he was always known between Walter 
 and myself,) he had not failed to introduce his 
 intimacy with his schoolfellow the Earl of Bor- 
 rowdale, so I never saw him afterwards that 
 the Earl's name was not by some means or othf r 
 forced into the conversation : indeed the only 
 instance in which I ever knew him show any 
 thing hke ingenuity, was in his contrivances to 
 introduce it how foreign soever it might be to 
 the subject under discussion. But 1 soon found, 
 and I must confess with a secret delight, that this 
 intimacy, upon which he valued himself so 
 aiuch, was a school intimacy only ; — when 
 these dear friends were at their respective 
 homes for the holidays, they were unfortu- 
 nately at so great a distance from each ether, 
 that it was impossible any intercourse should 
 be kept up between them. The Earl's house 
 was, as Count Maurice had announced to us, 
 in Portman Square; and during his minority it 
 was inhabited by the Countess Dowager, his 
 mother, from whom he learned that Chatham 
 Place was such an immense way off that it was 
 impossible to think of visiting there. When
 
 225 
 
 therefore the school broke up for the holidays, 
 the Earl always took an affectionate leave of his 
 friend, accompanied with expressions of ex- 
 treme regret that the remoteness of their resi- 
 dences from each other must debar their meet- 
 ing again till the time arrived for the school to 
 'reassemble. Maurice was no less grieved at 
 this separation, indeed it is probable that his 
 grief was the more genuine of the two ; yet he 
 was too fond of the idea of having a peer for 
 his friend at any moment, to feel the spirit 
 which some will perhaps think he ought to 
 have felr, that if the Earl did not choose to be 
 his friend at all times he should not be so at 
 any. Indeed the Earl's friendship was the 
 more valuable, since though at the school there 
 were many sons of noblemen, of baronets, and 
 of rich untitled commoners, yet there was no 
 other actual peer but himself. The case, how- 
 ever, during the holidays being unfortunately 
 such as 1 have described, Count jMaurice could 
 at these intervals only detail all the clever 
 things said and done by the Earl of Borrow- 
 dale, for so he always called him, and talk of 
 the wonderful feats they performed, and the 
 many plea ant sehcUies they had together; — 
 this dear friend was s:ill, during their stay in 
 town, to him an invisible being. I had so 
 often heard the Earl's witticisms detailed, which 
 L 5
 
 226 
 
 I, having only the plain understanding of a 
 commoner, thought rather showed his lord- 
 ship's dullness than his genius, that he became 
 a by- word with me, and the retailing them, 
 equally with Maurice's quotations, formed no 
 unimportant contribution towards the hilarity 
 which generally reigned in the walks taken by 
 Walter and myself whenever I was down at 
 Langham. 
 
 Reader, I hope thou art now impressed with 
 a sufficient degree of veneration for the cha- 
 racter of this heir apparent of the Carberry 
 family.
 
 '22? 
 
 CHAPTER XIIT. 
 
 devolution of opinions and inclinations. — Doubts, 
 difficulties, and perplexities. — The delights of 
 castle-building. — Strange ideas concerning the 
 clerical office. — Doubts and difficulties rather in- 
 creased than dimhiished. — A medium found to 
 dispel them for a tiiyie. 
 
 -T ROM the time that my juvenile partiality for 
 my father's trade began to subside, 1 con- 
 teiTiplated with perfect complacency, nay even 
 with delight, the idea of devoting myself to the 
 church, till the two last years of my residence 
 at the hospital. During that period my in- 
 clinations again experienced an important re- 
 volution. It wa^ not that my old partialities 
 returned upon me with a force not to be re- 
 sisted, — that ardour once cooled, was cooled 
 for ever. Other ideas first made me look for- 
 ward with no satisfaction to my future destiny, 
 and these ideas long dwelt upon, were 
 strengthened at last to such a degree as to end 
 in a determined repugnance to it. 
 
 They did not originate in any want of re- 
 spect for the clerical profession, for I always 
 considered it with very great respect, and who 
 that had been in the habit of contemplating the 
 character of Mr. Armstrong for a long course
 
 228 
 
 of years as intimately as I had been could do 
 otherwise ? The objections to it which now 
 took possession of my mind, as the profession 
 which I was to follow myself, arose from a 
 very different cause. They shall be here de- 
 tailed under the veil through which alone I 
 then contemplated them : — if afterwards I had 
 reason to think that my mind was much in- 
 fluenced by motives which I did not then con- 
 fess, it was not that I intentionally deceived 
 others or myself, but that k really was not at 
 the moment awake to feelings of which I be- 
 came afterwards but too powerfully sensible, 
 nor was aware of the secret influence which 
 they had obtained over me. The objections I 
 did urge were however I think sufficiently for- 
 cible, as my prospects then stood, to deter- 
 mine me to act as I did, and for Mr. Arm- 
 strong to advise as he did, if it was by our 
 judgements alone that we were to be swayed : 
 if afterwards it appeared that these objections 
 were not so strongly founded as I had seen 
 reason to suppose, still it must be urged that I 
 could not foresee events, I could only act from 
 the complexion which things wore at the time, 
 and Mr. Armstrong could only advise accord- 
 ing to the premises which I laid before him. 
 
 Had I seen a prospect of being well esta- 
 blished in the church, it is probable that I
 
 229 
 
 might never have entertained a thought, or 
 wish, of abandoning the profession ; but as I 
 grew to be of an age when I was capable of 
 judging of my prospects in following it, they 
 seemed to me very far from encouraging. I 
 saw that it was little in the power of any man 
 to make his way in it by his own talents and 
 industry alone, that he must principally rely 
 for promotion on the favour of the Great, and 
 in my situation how was that to be obtained ? — 
 Born of obscure parents, in an obscure country 
 village, where was the man whom I could 
 hope to interest in my behalf ? — It was entirely 
 out of the power of the benefactor to whom I 
 owed every thing else, of Mr. Armstrong, to 
 assist m bringing me forward in the church, 
 and where else could 1 look for a patron ? — 
 For his own elevation he was indebted to the 
 spontaneous patronage of the proprietor of his 
 living, by whom the preferment was bestowed 
 upon him as a recompense for the exemplary 
 manner in which he had discharged his duty in 
 a subordinate station ; but this haa not created 
 him an interest which would enable him to as- 
 sist others. Indeed, if he had any interest, it 
 might be wanted for his own son; — for that 
 chance it must be reserved, it could not be 
 employed for me. 
 
 My only prospect then in taking orders was.
 
 230 
 
 if I shouid behave well at college, to obtain a 
 fellowship, and perhaps a curacy ; but in this 
 situation I must linger on till the best part of 
 my life would be past before I could expect to 
 make any further progress in my profession. 
 After waiting five-and-twenty or thirty years, 
 I might succeed to a college living, by which 
 time my habits would probably be so fixed to 
 a college hfe, that I should be unfitted for the 
 enjoyment of any other. 1 therefore felt that 
 I should infinitely prefer the following some 
 employment in which I could get forward by 
 my own exertions ; — in which, at the end of 
 every day spent in industry, I should be able 
 to consider myself with pleasure as one step 
 nearer to the attainment of an easy competence: 
 — beyond this my wishes never aspired. 
 
 I mast own too that there appeared to me 
 something more honourable, more manly, in 
 being able to reflect that whatever I might en- 
 joy in future of this world's goods was my own 
 acquiring, was the fruit of my own industry, 
 than that I was indebted for them to the favour 
 of another. It v/as not, I hope, that I ever 
 cherished that proud, I would almost say that 
 sullen feeling which cannot bear the idea of 
 being under obligation to another. The Crea- 
 tor of the world has so constituted every thing 
 here below, that we must necessarily be de-
 
 231 
 
 pendent on each other for the greatest com- 
 forts we are capable of enjoying, — for our so- 
 cial and domestic comforts. But there is a 
 point beyond which it appears mean to carry 
 this dependence ; and I had seen so many in- 
 stances of those who had favours to confer, 
 expecting from those who were to receive 
 them a greater degree of servility than 1 could 
 consider as consistent with a manly character, 
 that I not only shrunk from such patronage, 
 but felt myself physically incapable of submit- 
 ting to it. I mean not here a general censure; 
 — there are many liberal minds v/ho have so 
 happy an art of conferring favours that they 
 seem rather receiving them : but all cannot 
 meet with such patrons, and the dread of meet- 
 ing with one of an opposite character made me 
 revolt from the very idea of patronage. 
 
 But if I were to abandon the church, the 
 next question was, what profession I should fol- 
 low. In a visit . to my father soon after these 
 doubts were first awakened in my mind, I be- 
 ing then just turned of sixteen, he was sum- 
 moned as a witness in an important cause, at 
 Salisbury, relative to the inheritance of an 
 estate, the late owner of which having died 
 intestate, several claimants to the property had 
 arisen. My father thought this it good op- 
 portunity of showing me something more of
 
 232 
 
 the world, and carried me with him to Salis- 
 bury, where I attended during the whole time 
 of the trial. It lasted for two days, and they 
 were indeed days of inexpressible enjoyment to 
 me. Some of the first pleaders from London 
 were engaged in the cause, and the witnesses 
 examined were very numerous. I had never 
 been in a court of law before, so that every 
 thing was new to me, and I was fortunate both 
 days in having an excellent place in the court, 
 from which the \^\io\e posse comitatus of the 
 judge could hardly have for one moment re- 
 moved me. 1 was in ecstasies with all I saw, 
 with all I heard ; and iny imagination w^as at 
 length so fired, that nothing I thought could 
 ever satisfy me. but being a lawyer: it -seemed 
 astonishing indeed how my father, in settling a 
 profession for me, could ever have thought of 
 preferring the church to the law. The judge 
 and counsel appeared to me beyond all com- 
 parison greater men than a clergyman : — 
 how eloquent-- soever a clergyman may be, yet 
 he prepares every thing beforehand, he has 
 time to reiiect upon his arguments, to arrange 
 his plan, and his matter, before he sits down 
 to write ; or even if he should preach extem- 
 pore, he can think beiorehand what he shall 
 say : — but a pleader must speak off hand from 
 the impulse of the moment, he has no time to
 
 2SS 
 
 prepare, he must remark upon what he has 
 heard, he must retain the evidence in his me- 
 mory, and be attending to that when he might 
 otherwise be reflecting upon the speech he is 
 about to friake : — and yet, notwithstanding all 
 these disadvantages, he speaks at last with as 
 much readiness and fluency, aye, with ten 
 times more too than most clergymen : — O, 
 never, never can I be satisfied unless my 
 father will consent to my being a lawyer ! 
 
 In short, I immediately, in idea, commenced 
 my career, 1 entered myself at the Temple, 
 I went through the regular course of study, I 
 was called to the bar. This was no sooner 
 done, than business crowded upon me on all 
 sides, so that I scarcely knew which way to 
 turn myself; I pleaded several very difficult 
 and important causes with the most brilliant 
 success ; I arrived at such eminence in my 
 profession that I was hailed as one of the won- 
 ders of the age ; and at a period of life when 
 three fourths of those who enter on the study 
 of the law are still toiling hard to gain a few 
 guineas every term, I had arrived at no less 
 honours than being made lord chief justice of 
 the king's bench. Then followed a peerage, 
 a magnificent house in one of the best parts of 
 London, a coach and six, and lastly, a beau- 
 tiful wife and fine family of children, for it
 
 2S4 
 
 would then be necessary that I should marrVy 
 and transmit my honours to posterity. Indeed 
 it would have been too cruel to the sex if I 
 had not invited some favoured fair to share my 
 honours. 
 
 Whoever has a taste for the delights of cas- 
 tle-building, and 1 believe that this is a species 
 of architecture of which most people are fond, 
 will have an idea of the vast pleasure I enjoyed 
 during several weeks that these visions w^ere 
 constantly floating in my imagination. But 
 after having indulged in them for some time, 
 I began to grow sensible to the baseless nature 
 of the fabric which I had been raising, and it 
 was soon blown to the ground by the breath 
 of reflection. The vast expense of educating 
 a man to the law stared me in the face^ I saw 
 that it was far beyond my father's means, and 
 I thought no more of it. 
 
 Still I was not any better reconciled to the 
 thoughts of taking orders: — my indifferent 
 prospects in the church did not the less haunt 
 my mind, nor could I get rid of these visions with 
 the same facility that I had discarded those of 
 my chief-justiceship and its appendages : and if 
 the bar seemed out of my reach, there were 
 many other ways of getting a livelihood within- 
 it, that would be much more congenial to my 
 feelings.
 
 But the important question of all was, how 
 was the subject ever to be mentioned to my 
 father ? — in what language could a determina* 
 tion on my part to renounce the clerical pro- 
 fession be clothed, so as to make the disap- 
 pointment at all supportable to him ? — For a 
 long succession of years, even from before my 
 birth, the leading object of his ambition had 
 been to have a son a minister of the gospel; — 
 his whole thoughts, his whole cares, had been 
 directed to the attainment of this darling ob- 
 ject ; — with unshaken steadiness and perseve- 
 rance had he sacrificed every consideration of 
 personal indulgence to the pursuit of it ; — and 
 now, when he had reason to flatter himself that 
 the moment was not far oif for the accomplish- 
 ment of his wishes, could any thing render 
 palatable the cruel mortification he must en- 
 dure when told that they must be abandoned 
 forever? — Could I even be justified in thus 
 stabbing to the heart a parent who had done 
 so much for me ? 
 
 ' Yet on the other hand it might be made a 
 question, how far a parent could justly claim a 
 right to bind down his child to a profession for 
 which he had a distaste, merely to gratify 
 what the most extended candour could hardly 
 call any thing but an idle vanity. It was 
 not my individual happiness that had been his
 
 236 
 
 aim in the measure p -oposed ; he thought only 
 of the dehght he should himscif feel in the ag- 
 grandizement of his family, in seeing the name 
 of Danville rise to eminence and distinction. 
 
 If the graiific -Jion of this vanity, however, 
 was his only object, might not tliat be as ef- 
 fectually gratified by seeing me rise in one way 
 as in anot-ier? — Supposing I were to go into 
 the mercantile line, in that I might equally 
 arrive at distinction, nay, at much greater di- 
 stinction than as a clergyman. In the latter 
 capacity' the utmost extent of my prospects 
 was to become a country parish-priest, to 
 preach to, and to be admired by, the rustics 
 of a country village ; — there was nothing very 
 flattering in this, nothing very eminent, very 
 distinguished. As a merchant I might accu- 
 mulate a large property, which in any country^ 
 and more especially in such a commercial 
 country as England, is a sufficient passport to 
 distinction ; — to arrive at a peerage even, by 
 means of my wealth, was not beyond the 
 bounds of possibility, — such things had been, 
 and might be again. But the church had no 
 such prospects to hold out. Even supposing 
 me to rise to the highest honours she has to 
 bestow, they are personal only, and die with 
 the possessor ; his family does not enjoy a 
 higher rank in society than hundreds of others
 
 237 
 
 in which no such dignity has ever been en- 
 joyed. On the whole, then, in becoming a 
 merchant I should rather promote than coun- 
 teract my father's plans for raisin cr his family, 
 and rendering it illustrious. And yet I was 
 forced to own to myself, that this was a falla- 
 cious mode of viewing the subject ; 1 could 
 not but be sensible that not only was he de- 
 sirous of agpcrandizing hio family, but that his 
 heart was fixed on one particular mode of ag- 
 grandizement. To see his son in the pulpit, 
 to hear hin admonish and instruct an admiring 
 congregation, — it was by this, and this alone, 
 that his heart could be fully gratified. 
 
 But there was yet anotiier consideration. I 
 had conceived, 1 did not then perfectly know 
 why, though I have since thought that it was 
 to be accounted for very naturally, an extreme 
 dislike to the idea of going to rhe university. 
 What, as far ar. I could then account for this 
 prepossession, seemed my leading objection to 
 it was, that I thought my birth might occasion 
 me to be looked down upon contumeliously in 
 a place where there were so many youths of 
 fashion and fortune assembled together. I 
 might have reflected, however, that all the 
 students, amid so numerous a band, could not 
 be of this description ; that there must be per- 
 iions of all ranks and degrees, and proba-
 
 *i38 
 
 bly enough whose origin was quite as obscure 
 as mine to keep me in countenance. 1 might 
 indeed have been well aware that it was possi- 
 ble to cite more than one instance, of persons 
 not born in a higher situation than myself, who 
 had yet, from their talents, been always held 
 in high respect and esteem there, and who had 
 risen, through them alone, to some of the 
 highest honours and distinctions among that 
 body. But such a determined repugnance to 
 going there had taken possession of my mind, 
 that I could see only the dark side of the story; 
 and though I had always disregarded, nay, 
 treated with contempt, such^ allusions to my 
 birth as Count Maurice sometimes chose to 
 indulge himself in, it appeared to me that the 
 case would be very different when reflections 
 of that kind were not to be confined to one 
 mouth only, but were to surround me on all 
 sides. However this be, — whether or not the 
 feehng was in any way to be justified, it was 
 certainly a very predominant one in my mind. 
 These debates and conflicts harassed me 
 more and more, as the prospect of my leaving 
 the hospital drew near, without my having 
 ever been able to summon up resolution to im- 
 part them to any one. Sometimes I flattered 
 rayself that my repugnance to the church was 
 not absolutely invincible, and that by reason-
 
 239 
 
 m% with myself it might be overcome ;— there 
 were even moments when I thought it abso- 
 lutely subdued, and that I could cheerfully 
 acquiesce in my father's wishes : but I always 
 found, in a few days after one of these imagi- 
 nary victories, my repugnance return more 
 forcibly than ever. I resolved, however, upon 
 mature dehberation to remain silent till 1 had 
 quitted the hospital, as 1 thought that the 
 change in my situation which must then neces- 
 sarily take place, would afford a more favour- 
 able opportunity than any other for laying 
 open the state of my mind ;— for displaying 
 my objections to the mode of life chosen for 
 me, and requesting to be allowed to choose 
 one for myself more congenial to my inclina- 
 tions, and affording me better prospects in the 
 world. 
 
 This time then being arrived, I resolved that 
 the tirst person to whom my embarrassments 
 should be disclosed should be my ever kind 
 friend and counsellor Mr. Armstrong. I kne^v 
 that two important objects would be thus ob- 
 tained. In the first place, I had so great a 
 respect for his judgement, that, if he had dis- 
 couraged my abandoning the church, I believe 
 I should without hesitation instantly have given 
 up the idea ; and in that case it was much bet- 
 ter that the subject should never be mentioned
 
 240 
 
 to my father. Id the next place 1 was assured 
 thatj whatever his opinion might be, it would 
 be delivered with gentleness and kindness, 
 that from him I should have no angry locks or 
 hasty sallies to encounter ; — whereas from 
 my father 1 was well aware that a like forbear- 
 ance was hardly to be expected. 
 
 Accordingly, having taken leave of the hos- 
 pital, and having come down to Langham, 
 where I was to make a short stay before my 
 going to Cambridge ; one morning when I 
 went as usual to read with Mr. Armstrong, 
 finding him alone, I took the opportunity of 
 requesting that he would indulge me, instead 
 of reading, with some conversation, as I wished 
 earnestly to request his opinion upon a subject 
 which concerned me very nearly. 
 
 He was kindly pleased to say that he was 
 sure I could have nothing to consult him about, 
 on which he should not be most ready and 
 happy to give me his very sincere opinion ; 
 and even added that he felt himself flattered 
 by the confidence 1 was reposing in him. 
 
 Thus encouraged, I opened at large to him 
 the important secret ; — 1 explained to him all 
 my doubts, my fears, my difficulties, — my 
 reluctance to going into the church, with the 
 motives on which it was grounded, yet my 
 uneasiness in reflecting upon the disappoint-
 
 21.1 
 
 ment which I knew my renouncing it would 
 occasion to my father. 
 
 '' My dear Samuel," said the good rector, 
 " I am not surprised at what you say, and 
 have that opinion of your good sense and 
 judgement, that I dare venture to return your 
 confidence with equal confidence on my side. 
 I can perfectly enter into your feelings. I can- 
 not but acknowledge that there is much jus- 
 tice in youi* ideas, and will own that your 
 prospects in the church have often given me 
 serious concern. To the mind which has a 
 proper dignity of feeling, the idea of living a 
 life of dependence upon others is certainly very- 
 painful ; — it is mortifying to waste the prime of 
 our years in the wearisome expectation of a 
 promotion for which, when it comes at last, 
 we perhaps cease to have any relish. I even 
 once ventured to hint these things to your fa- 
 ther, but found his mind so strongly fixed 
 upon his plan, that he could never be brought 
 easily to relinquish it ; and I thought it better 
 to let the matter rest till you were grown up, 
 and your disposition with regard to it should 
 appear. 
 
 " I will even go further, and own to you 
 that, as far as concerns myself, I should proba- 
 bly never have engaged in the profession, from 
 the same reasons which induce your wish to 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 
 
 abandon it, had it not been for the pecuFia- 
 situation in which I stood at the moment when 
 1 was of age to take orders. You know, Sa- 
 muel, what that was: I could not have felt 
 myself acquitted to my own conscience if I had 
 not done what lay in my power to assist my 
 sisters ; and this was the only means in my 
 power of assisting them. 
 
 *' I do not speak thus from want of a proper 
 respect for my profession ; — where those en- 
 gaged in it conduct themselves in such a man- 
 ner as their situation requires of them, I will not 
 hesitate to say that it is one highly to be re- 
 spected. 
 
 I think the pulpit, In the sober use 
 
 Of its leguimate peculiar powers. 
 
 Must stand acknowlediied while the world shall 
 
 o 
 
 last, 
 A most important and effectual guard. 
 Support, and ornament, of virtue's cause. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 *' But I also think that the clerical profession 
 has never in any country been put upon the 
 footi:^g which it ought to be ; and for this rea- 
 son principally the clergy have never been the 
 general objects of respect which every well- 
 wisner to the cause of religion and morality 
 must wish to see them. Young men are 
 placed in the church at much too early a pe-
 
 243 
 
 riod of life, before they can be expected to 
 contemplate in their proper light the sacred 
 nature of the duties they are taking upon 
 themselves. They consider the profession 
 merely as the ipeans of gaining a subsistence, 
 and, since it does not require the same exertions 
 of industry as many others, are very ready to 
 adopt it upon that account. We are so prone 
 to habits of indolence, that for the sake of 
 indulging them we are ready to sacrifice our 
 independence, and court the patronage of those 
 who can place us in ease and affluence, with- 
 out these habits being interrupted, even at the 
 expense of servilities little consistent with the 
 true dignity of man, 
 
 " Not that I would by any means recom- 
 mend that surly independence of spirit which 
 disdains to be under an obligation to any one. 
 We are formed to assist and endeavour to 
 promote the happiness of each other, by re- 
 ciprocal kindness and good offices ; and it is 
 •striving against the very nature which our 
 Almighty Creator has implanted in us, when 
 we would make ourselves wholly independent 
 of others, and isolate ourselves entirely from 
 society. But there is a proper independence 
 which every man ought to seek, and it is a 
 much more common fault among mankind to 
 make themselves too dependent upon, than too 
 M 2
 
 244 
 
 independent of others. Either extreme ought 
 equally to be avoided : but the former is far 
 the more common failing ; and as far as it 
 •concerns the present question, I am afraid it 
 must be acknowledored that indolence has car- 
 ried more men into the church, than worthier 
 motives. 
 
 ** To make the clerical profession as re- 
 spectable as it ought to be, I think that there 
 should be no office in the church without a 
 salary annexed to it sufficient to support the 
 incumbent in a creditable and respectable way, 
 and I would have that salary paid in almost 
 any way preferably to tythes. I would have 
 no more persons ordained to the ministry than 
 there are offices for them to fill ; — I would 
 never allow them to hold more than one piece 
 of preferment, and on that they should be 
 obliged to reside ; — and I would not have 
 them admitted into the ministry under thirty 
 years of age. I know that this plan is not 
 without its objections, that even under such 
 regulations, many persons might still only 
 
 for their bellies' sake 
 
 Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold ; 
 
 Milton. 
 
 but I think there would be a better chance 
 than there is at present of seeing the clergy 
 what the institution intends them to be, — faith-
 
 245 
 
 ful guardians of the morals of those who are 
 committed to their care, and examples in theijr 
 own conduct of the virtues they inculcate. 
 At any rate, young men would not then be 
 pushed into the church at a period of life when 
 it cajinot reasonably be expected that the wild- 
 ness of youth should be past, and the mind 
 sobered to a sense of the serious charge it is 
 undertaking ; — nor should Vv'e be so liable to 
 see the ministers of our holy religion, instead of 
 running with eagerness the race of their high 
 calling, running races for preferment, or running 
 after the sporting races of Newm.arket. 
 
 " Samuel, I have given you my opinion 
 very freely upon this subject ; — I have done so 
 because I thought your own remarks showed 
 good sense and judgement, and that you v/ould 
 not misapprehend my sentiments. Yet the 
 subject would never have been started by mp, 
 if you had not yourself expressed in a very 
 decided manner your wish to pursue some 
 other course of lite, raiher than that v/hich 
 your father has chosen for you. I should 
 have thought it extremely wrong to say any 
 thing which might prejudice your mind, or 
 interfere with the views and wishes of your 
 parents ; yet after what has now passed, I 
 stiall not scruple to declare it as my decided 
 opinion, that the moment any one feels within
 
 246 
 
 himself a repugnance to the clerical profession, 
 that moment he becomes an improper person 
 to enter into it. 
 
 " There is not much chance of a man's dis- 
 charging properly the functions of any profes- 
 sion to which he is decicledly averse ; much 
 less the important duties attached to this. I 
 think there is a peculiar turn of mind requisite 
 for making a proper figure as a clergyman, as 
 a peculiar organisation of the frame is requisite 
 for arriving at perfection in certain sciences. We 
 would not make a public singer of one who 
 had no voice, or ear for harmony, or a painter 
 of a man incapable of distinguishing colours, 
 or insensible to the beauty of proportions. 
 Without a fine voice and ear, no man can 
 succeed in attempts to entertain the public as 
 a musician ; — without taste and judgement in 
 drawing, colouring, in the grouping of figures, 
 in the contrasts of light and shade, who could 
 arrive at distinction as a painter ? And can we 
 think that any man, be his propensities ever 
 so widely estranged from the sacred duties of 
 the clerical office, shall yet fulfil them with 
 that punctuality, that strictness, that reverence, 
 that fervour and solemnity, which shall make 
 both him and them respectable and respected ? 
 
 " I am not of that class of enthusiasts who 
 would talk of waiting for an immediate cali
 
 247 
 from heaven, who would encourage a man 
 to look for Inspi?ations of the Holy Spirit, ere 
 he should consider himself qualified to become 
 a minister of religion ; but I would have him 
 examine his heart very carefully before he 
 engages in the ministry. I would have him 
 consider deliberately whether he feels himself 
 divested of conceit and vain- glory, firm in the 
 faith which he teaches, deeply impressed with 
 the vast importance of a holy and moral life, 
 and with the assurance that no preaching can 
 have effect unless the pr^^acher himself be a 
 pattern of the virtues he recommends. If he 
 cannot resolve to abstain not only from the great 
 vices which degrade and deform our nature, 
 but even to endeavour to keep himself clear 
 as much as possible from those smaller errors 
 which are but shades in a generally virtuous 
 character ; — if he cannot resolve, in short, to 
 lead a fife of as perfect virtue as the frailly of 
 our nature will permit, he is unfit for the 
 charge he would undertake, he ought never 
 to think of engaging in it. 
 
 *' In your particular case, my dear Samuel, 
 there is a circumstance which I recommend 
 especially to your very serious consideration. 
 Though I would exhort you to avoid any pro- 
 fession for which you feel a decided repugnance, 
 and this more particularly, yet I would have
 
 248 
 
 you equally consider, how much it has been 
 even from your birth the wish of your parents 
 that you should be a clergyman ; — that to this 
 end all their efforts have been directed ; — 
 that they have spared no pains within the com- 
 pass of their industry to procure the means 
 of educating you for this profession ; — that 
 they have denied themselves every thing but 
 the mere necessaries of life, in order that all 
 which their earnings could supply above mere 
 necessaries, might be devoted to what they 
 considered as for your advantage. 
 
 " I am far from regarding these considera- 
 tions as conclusive to binding you down to their 
 views, but I think that they ought to be allowed 
 considerable weight. Though it seems indispu- 
 tably the duty of a parent to allow the inclina- 
 tions of a child every proper preponderance 
 in deciding the avocation to which he shall be 
 devoted ; yet the superior experience in the 
 world, and greater maturity of judgement in 
 the parent, ought equally to be respected by 
 the child, and suffered to have due influence 
 in deciding how far he shall conform himself 
 to his parents' wishes. You will consider well, 
 whether, in opposing the\^ishes of your pa- 
 rents, you may not be laying up for yourself 
 a source of future regret and remorse in th§ 
 disappointment you have occasioned them.
 
 249 
 
 " Weigh these things well, my young 
 friend, there is no necessity for being preci- 
 pitate in mentioning the subject. When you 
 have reflected more fully upon it, we will 
 have some further conversation ; and if you 
 still remain in your present disposition, I will 
 readily undertake to speak to your father, and 
 use all my interest with him to consent to the 
 change you desire.'* 
 
 Thus ended my first conversation with the 
 worthy, the benevolent Mr. Armstrong upoa 
 this interesting subject. 1 repeated in very 
 warm terms, for I felt very warmly, my ac- 
 knowledgements for the extreme kindness 
 he had shown in the patience with which he 
 had heard and answered me, and departed^ 
 to enter on the meditations he had recom- 
 mended. 
 
 His last suggestions sunk deeply into my 
 mind ; they were similar to others with which ^- 
 1 had before been visited, and which formed 
 the great, indeed the only stumbUng-block in- 
 the way of an immediate disclosure of . my 
 sentiments. If I must be equally the victinx 
 of unavaihng regret, whichever way I should 
 decide, there seemed no cause for hesitation 
 on the decision to be made. In sacrificing 
 my own wishes to those of my parents, they 
 at least would be satisfied and happy, whateveri' 
 
 M 5
 
 250 
 
 might be my lot ; whereas, by persisting in op- 
 posing their wishes, I was sure of mortifying 
 them, without by any means being certain of 
 securing my own peace of mind. 
 
 Yet there was another point to be consider- 
 ed. In seeking some way of business by 
 which I might sooner be enabled to make a 
 fortune, it would be no small satisfaction to 
 me that I should then have the means of ren- 
 dering the declining years of my parents easy 
 and comfortable. In the church, before I 
 might have an income adequate to rendering 
 them any assistance, their wants and wishes 
 might rest with them in the peaceful grave. 
 As a clergyman I must live like a gentleman, 
 and the income to which I must expect to be 
 confined perhaps for thirty years to come, 
 would merely suffice for that ; it would leave 
 nothing superfluous wherewith to assist them, 
 and they must remain working on to the end 
 of their lives. Against this it was to be con- 
 sidered, that since our happiness or unhappi- 
 ness is very much the effect of imagination, my 
 father might perhaps feel much less real satis- 
 faction in being supported at his ease in his 
 old age, by a son an opulent merchant, than 
 in being compelled still to seek his food by 
 his own industry, feeling himself the father of 
 a miiiister of the gospel.
 
 251 
 
 These things I weighed nicely ; — I revolved 
 them over and over again in my mind ;— I 
 turned and twisted them into evei7 possible 
 point of view, but could decide on nothing in 
 any degree satisfactory to myself. Sometimes 
 I was all obedience, sometimes all disobedience, 
 to my honoured parents ; and I am afraid, if I 
 must confess all my weakness, that when the 
 former sentiment was predominant, it was as 
 much the effect of vanity as of a better prin- 
 ciple. The idea of martyrdom has something 
 in it very soothing to our self-love ; and as a 
 martyr I considered myself, at the moments 
 when I had heroically determined to sacrifice 
 every consideration of my own feelings to the 
 gratification of my parents : — I was disposed 
 to celebrate my victory with loud songs of 
 triumph ; — I could have written ode upon ode 
 in compliment to my own heroism. 
 
 I suffered a fortnight to elapse before I could 
 summon up resolution to renew the subject 
 with Mr. Armstrong, and even then I could 
 only tell him that my mind was still distracted 
 by doubts and hesitations, and I thought that, 
 since I could not please myself,, I should de- 
 termine to please my father. He heard me 
 with his usual kindness and patience, and then 
 said : — " My dear Samuel, since you are un- 
 able to make up your mind satisfactorily to
 
 252 
 
 yourself, so as to come to a final decision knme- 
 diately, there seems a sort of middle course 
 which may be adopted as a temporary mea- 
 sure. Resolve to go for a year to the Uni- 
 versity, and to stay it out at all events : you 
 are at present unacquainted with the nature of 
 a college life, except in idea, and may find 
 upon experience that it is Mot so disagreeable 
 as you have couceived it to be. It is true that 
 in this way a year will be lost, if at length you 
 determine against the church, and at your age 
 that is some disadvantage ; but in my opinion 
 it will be more than compensated by the su- 
 perior satisfaction you will have in your ultimate 
 decision. Every thing in your power to re- 
 concile yourself to the situation in which your 
 father wishes to place you, will then have been 
 done, and you will have less reason to call 
 in question the propriety of your determina- 
 tion. This is the best advice I can give you— 
 reflect upon it, and remember that I only offer 
 my advice^ I do not mean to impose my opinion. 
 I wish you to reflect upon ic, 1 exhort you to 
 do so ; — you have good sense enough to en- 
 able you to decide for yourself, and be assured 
 tfiat I shall not consider it as any slight upon 
 me, if my advice is not followed." 
 
 Here was a plan proposed, on which a 
 determination might be much more easily
 
 2S3 
 
 made. I saw that there was abundance of 
 reason and judgement in the counsel offered 
 me ; and though an important part of my ob- 
 jection to going into the church arose from- 
 a conviction that I should very much dislike 
 an university education, yer^ all things consi- 
 dered, 1 thought it better to give the matter 
 a fair trial. Two days after, I therefore again 
 waited upon Mr. Armstrong to acquaint him 
 that I had determhied to follow his advice, 
 and go for a year to college. Every idea 
 of mentioning the subject to my lather, was 
 in consequence for the present entirely dropped, 
 I accordingly went through my year of 
 probation, but was not more, if any things, 
 even less, pleased with a college life than I ex* 
 pected, and quilted Cambridge in the sum* 
 mer for the long vacation, if not \^ith a fixed 
 determination, at least with a decided v.ish, 
 never to return to it. Still, however, I had 
 so much apprehension of the storm which 
 must ensue on my father's being admitted 
 into my confidence, that I gladly availed my- 
 self of an invitation to accompany a fellow 
 collegian on a tour into Scotland, to put off 
 the evil day yet awhile longer, and did not 
 arrive at Langham till the middle of August, 
 being then turned of nineteen.
 
 254 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Original propensities seldom wholly eradicated, — 
 A ivalk taken malgre soi. — Different objects of 
 men's idolatry. — Rhapsody outrhapsodized, — The 
 rhapsody abruptly terminated. 
 
 And what became of your young friend 
 Walter during this period ? For a long time 
 we have scarcely been favoured with a syllable 
 concerning him, and we left him extremely 
 thoughtless and careless, and occassioning his 
 father the utmost uneasiness on that account ; 
 nor could any consolation be derived to him, 
 but from the hope and expectation that this 
 fatal propensity in the boy might wear off gra- 
 dually as he should approach to manhood. 
 
 Courteous reader, all this is very true ; such 
 were the hopes and expectatioLb of Mr. Arm- 
 strong ; but, alas ! they were for a long time 
 most cruelly disappointed. Walter contmued 
 the same giddy thoughtless animai as ever ; and 
 instead of his excellent lather's uneasiness on 
 that account being alleviated, it was daily aug- 
 mented. He had no kind ot vicious propen- 
 sity ; he was one of the sv\ eettst ot tempers, 
 gentle, humane, and benevolent, perfcxtiy free 
 from pride, wishing to do kind acts, yet 
 wholly unable to give deep attention to any
 
 255 
 
 thing, or any attention to the same thing for 
 long together. How he came by this disposi- 
 tion seemed a perfect senigma ; — it was not by 
 inheritance, for Mr. Armstrong himself was 
 always steadily attentive to whatever he under- 
 took, and poor Sophia had been more than 
 commonly assiduous in the pursuit of every 
 branch of instruction which she wished to 
 attains — it could not be from example, for 
 again the example which he had constantly 
 before his eyes in Mr. Armstrong was exactly 
 the reverse : — neither could it be caught from 
 careless associates ; for I, who was always his 
 principal associate, was so far from showing a 
 similar disposition, that wherever I was known 
 I almost uniformly acquired the appellation of 
 Old Steady. 
 
 Yet from whatever cause it had arisen^ the 
 effect was such ?s to create the most alarming 
 apprehensions in a father*s mind. It was a 
 germ which, if it did not grow up into vice, as 
 there was much reason to fear, must almost 
 inevitably lead him into numberless dangers 
 and difHcukies, and preclude his rising to emi- 
 nence in virtue, or in any kind of attainments. 
 It besides occasioned infinite embarrassment 
 in the arrangement of any plans for his esta- 
 blishment in life. It was iMr. Armstrong's 
 idea originally to send him to college and edu-
 
 256 
 
 cate him for the church ; but such a disposition 
 it was obvious was in the most imminent danger 
 of being led astray by an university hfe. He 
 was the very kind of person upon whom the 
 worthless and dissipated were hkely to fasten 
 themselves ; over whom they would soon ob- 
 tain unbounded influence, and lead him 
 whithersoever they wished. Besides, Walter's 
 was not a disposition to make such a minister 
 of the gospel as Mr. Armstrong would wish a 
 son of his to be, and he early saw reason to 
 think that ihe idea of his being educated for 
 holy orders must be abandoned. What pro- 
 fession he was fit for, it was indeed very diffi- 
 cult to say, certainly for none in which industry 
 an-d diligence were required ; he seemed fit only 
 to be a gentlem.an of independent fortune, aud- 
 it was totally out of his father's power to esta-^ 
 blish him as such. 
 
 The great question, whether or not he should 
 be sent to school^ was decided by the extreme 
 delicacy of his h'^alth, which, as well as his 
 thoughtlesness of character^ rather increased 
 than diminished with his increasing years^ so 
 that it was impossible for his father to trust him 
 from under his own eye. Here therefore he 
 continued, 2nd continued unaltered as to the 
 leading features of his disposition, as well as 
 to the delicacy of his frame, till he was about
 
 257 
 
 sixteen. He then caught the measles, which 
 were attended with so many alarming sym- 
 ptoms, that the utmost apprehensions were 
 entertained for his life. He however recovered, 
 and it seemed in the end to occcasion a favour- 
 able turn both in his constitution and disposi- 
 tion; in a short time he evidently grew stronger 
 and more healthy, and also, though still 
 volatile, began to pay more attention to study, 
 and took much more pains to retain what he 
 acquired : he accordingly made for the next 
 two years considerable advances in learning. 
 
 Still his chief delight continued to be draw- 
 ing and painting. He never had any instruc- 
 tion in either except from his father : but Mr. 
 Armstrong had a fine and correct taste in both ; 
 and Walter had so much natural genius, that 
 little more was necessarv to make him an ac- 
 complished artist, than to have the exuberances 
 of his genius corrected by a refined and matured 
 judgement. He had, besides, the opportunity 
 of studying some good paintings at the HalL 
 Mr. Con ^v ay's coll-ction of pictures was not 
 large, but extremely select ; and Walter was 
 permitted the free use of them, not merely as 
 objects of study, but to copy any that he 
 wished. 
 
 Still, though paying more attention to the 
 different branches of learning in which he was.
 
 25g 
 
 instructed by his father, he never of himself 
 selected any books for his own reading but 
 such as had some connection with the leading 
 propensity of his mind. He read over and 
 over again the classic poets of antiquity, and 
 in general all authors whose imaginations had in 
 their writings afforded fine subjects for the pen- 
 cil, and was perpetually making sketches from 
 them. Nay, I am afraid, if the truth must be 
 confessed, that the sacred writings of the Old 
 and New Testament were rather studied by 
 him with a view to the fine subjects they offer 
 to the painter, than for the sake of the impor- 
 tant truths which they contain. 
 
 The year before, in my conversations "with 
 the worthy rector upon my own concerns, he 
 had more than once expressed to me the great 
 uneasiness he was under upon Walter's account, 
 and the impossibility he found of even con- 
 jecturing in what profession he could possibly 
 be placed. He had endeavoured, by studying 
 his disposition and the turn which his inclina- 
 tions seemed to take, to discover what might 
 appear best to accord with them, — determined 
 however not to urge him to any, but whatever 
 he seemed inclined to, to state to him fairly 
 the advantages and disadvantages attending it^ 
 and then leave him to his choice. He should 
 "Very gladly, he said, see him incline to some
 
 259 
 
 branch of the medical profession, and rather 
 flattered himself that he might be gratified on 
 this point, as he had of late taken very much 
 to the study of anatomy. The inference was 
 certainly not an unfair one on the part of the 
 father ; but this study in the son was directed 
 to far other views. 
 
 When at length I had returned to Langham 
 after my college campaign and my Scotch 
 tour, I was desirous to get over as soon as 
 possible the conflict I so much dreaded, as the 
 necessary consequence of the communication 
 now to be made to my father. I had just seen 
 Mr. Armstrong and Walter on the day of my 
 arrival, and was received by them with their 
 usual kindness and affection ; — the next morn- 
 ing I bent my steps towards the rectory, in the 
 full intention, if I should find Mr. Armstrong 
 at leisure, to inform him of my determination, 
 and to consult with him on the best means of 
 carrying my designs into execution. 
 
 In my way thither I met Walter with his 
 pencil and sketch-book in his hand, who said he 
 was going to take a walk, and that I must positive- 
 ly accompany him. He could not rest another 
 day, he said, without taking a view of a very 
 pretty spot about three miles off, which he had 
 only recently discovered j " and," he added, " I 
 shall like of all things. Old Steady, to have you
 
 260 
 
 as my companion. That you are a most dull 
 fngid soul in these matters, and more disposed 
 to worship the deity who presides over sermon- 
 making, if such an one there be, than the divi« 
 nity whom I adore ; that celestial Being who 
 first inspired the pencils of an Apelles or a 
 Zeuxis ; and that I don't care a fig therefore for 
 your taste, are indisputable facts. And yet, 
 strange to say, notwithstanding this conviction, 
 since we used formerly to scratch over toge- 
 ther those strange deformed groupes of objects 
 which we then dignified with the name of 
 pictures, and compliment each other on our 
 performances, I am from habit more delighted 
 with your approbation th3n with that of a hun- 
 dred other people for whose tastes I have an 
 infinitely higher respect." 
 
 Though I w^as at that time in a very unpic- 
 turesque humour, and would much rather 
 have prosecuted my plan of relieving my mind 
 by some conversation with Mr. Armstrong, 
 yet Walter had seized my arm, and drew me 
 along with him, so that I was compelled to 
 accept his invitation whether disposed to it or 
 not. But even without this gentle violence 
 I should probably have yielded, since I always 
 had so strong an attachment to him, and he 
 had such an invariable, inexhaustible fund of 
 good nature, that I scarcely had the power of.
 
 261 
 
 refusing any thing he asked. Occupied how- 
 ever as my mind was, I could not help being 
 very thoughtful and abstracted, so that I left 
 him to harangue upon the beauties of the spot 
 whither we were going, without paying much 
 attention to what he said, or making the least 
 attempt to put in a word. 
 
 " Why, Sam," he said at length, " what's 
 in the wind now ? — what can make you so very 
 grave and solemn ? — I verily believe you are 
 already making your first sermon. If so,cou'dn't 
 you, when your hand's in, make a sermon or 
 two for me ? for, to tell you the truth, I don't 
 believe that I shall ever have the heart to make 
 one for myself." 
 
 " No, Walter, I am not making a sermon, 
 but I have something upon my mind which 
 makes me thoughtful ; I have an important 
 question to decide ; and whatever my decision 
 may be, I have little chance of being satisfied 
 with it." 
 
 *' That's agreeable, I must own. But I too 
 have something upon my mind ; and yet for all 
 the world I could not be as solemn and serious 
 about it as you are. 'Tis no light matter, nei- 
 ther. In one respect, however, I am better 
 off than you ; for I shall probably be spared 
 the trouble of determining for myself, the matter 
 will be settled for rae."
 
 262 
 
 *' So that at any rate you will not be subjected 
 to the chagrin of being dissatisfied with your- 
 self; and, let me tell you, that is no light con- 
 sideration. You may be disconcerted at the 
 manner in which the question is determined, 
 but you will not, on that account, have any 
 cause of quarrel with Walter Armstrong." 
 
 " Which, as you observe, is a consideration 
 not to be despised. But if I am in no danger 
 of quarrelling with Walter Armstrong on this 
 account, there is another subject on which 
 I have great ground of quarrel with him. 
 Would you believe it ? the rascal has taken it 
 into his head not to be satisfied with the pro- 
 fession to which he has good reason to believe 
 his father destines him, and wants to follow 
 another, which he may be very sure will not 
 be approved. Whereas a certain friend of his, 
 like a good boy, is perfectly obedient to the 
 wishes of papa and mama ; and, while he is de- 
 lighting them with holding forth from the pul- 
 pit, will be a stranger to any other feelings than 
 the transport he is giving them. Sam, I hear- 
 tily wish that I could be as good a boy ! '* 
 
 A compliment never comes so mal-a-propos 
 as at the very moment when we feel that we 
 are taking some step exactly the reverse of the 
 thing for which we are complimented. An eu- 
 logium upon my filial obedience, made at the
 
 263 
 
 moment when I had just determined to act in 
 direct opposition to my father's wishes, was so 
 like a reproach, that I even felt humiliated by 
 it ; and would gladly, from an impulse of con- 
 scious shame, have at the same instant laid 
 open to Walter all my most secret thoughts. 
 I however checked myself, as it seemed better 
 not to mention the thing to any body but Mr. 
 Armstrong while matters rested as they were. 
 Besides, I could hardly make Walter the con- 
 fident of my Ovvn secret, without at the same 
 time confiding to him the sentiments his fa- 
 ther had declared respecting young people 
 being permitted within reasonable bounds to 
 follow their own inclinations in the choice of 
 their profession. And though this would have 
 been very encouraging to my young friend, yet 
 I did not think that it was from me the encou- 
 ragement ought to come ; — it was time enough 
 for him to be made acquainted with his father's 
 sentiments when he himself should think proper 
 to disclose them. 
 
 While my mind was occupied by these re- 
 flections, we had walked on for some minutes in 
 profound silence. U was one of those days not 
 unfrequent in tnis climate, when heavy clouds, 
 floating through the atmosphere, darken it as 
 they pass ; and when the sun begins to emerge 
 from behind them, the finest variations of light
 
 264 
 
 and shade are thrown upon the surrounding 
 objects. At this very minute, the sun beam- 
 ing from the verge of one of these clouds 
 threw a gleam of radiance which might ahnost 
 be called sublime upon an adjacent hill. Wal- 
 ter pulled me by the arm: — " O Samuel!*' 
 said he, " can you see with a soul unmoved 
 the enchanting effects produced at this moment 
 upon the landscape, through the conflict be- 
 tween that glorious luminary and the opake 
 body by which it is partially obscured ? For 
 my part, they make an impression upon me 
 which it is impossible to describe, which seems 
 something like enchantment : — my senses are, 
 as it were, suspended ; — every nerve seems in 
 a trance. Could I but produce the exact re- 
 presentation of such an effect upon canvass, 
 I should be arrived at the very acme of my 
 wishes, for I should think myself a painter 
 equal to any of the brightest ornaments of the 
 art that the world could ever boast." 
 
 •* And you would be more gratified by pro^ 
 ducing the finest picture that ever was painted, 
 than the- finest sermon that ever was com- 
 posed ? '* 
 
 " Indeed, Sam, I cant't say but I should. — 
 Tg tell you the truth, if I do become a clergy- 
 man, as I suppose I must some day or other, 
 I know that I never can be one of the bright
 
 265 
 
 luminaries of the profession ; never could shine 
 in it as my excellent father has done. It would 
 be wholly out of my power to set about mak- 
 ing sermons : just the same thing would occur 
 with them as formerly with my Latin lessons, 
 — I should be sketching a beautiful form upon 
 the paper when I ought to be expatiating on 
 the charms of a beautiful mind ; — and instead 
 of pathetically lamenting the deplorable fall of 
 cur first parents, and the sin and misery v\ hich 
 it has entailed on their descendants, I should be 
 contrasting tire noble forms of the first pair in 
 their state of innocence, with the degraded ones 
 which human nature has since assumed. In 
 short, Sam, but that you are to be in it, I should 
 be tempted to say that there is scarcely any 
 profession I dislike the thoughts of so much as 
 being a clergyman." 
 
 " Oh, do not, I entreat, be scrupulous of 
 saying any thing you please upon the subject 
 out of delicacy to me. In whatever profession 
 my lot may be cast, if I am but still thought 
 worthy of the same place I have ever enjoyed 
 in your friendship and regard, you may think 
 of my profession as you please." 
 
 " With many thanks for that obliging per- 
 mission, I shall certainly avail myself of it. As 
 to friendship and regard, I should hate myself 
 if 1 could ever entertain a less degree of either 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 
 
 for you than I do at present, whatever I may 
 think of your profession, — even though your 
 old passion for shoeing horses should return, 
 and you should not be able to settle to any 
 thing else. But look at that tree, Sam ! how 
 beautifully picturesque are its forms ! how ele- 
 gantly are its wavy branches disposed ! What 
 a charming object for the foreground of a land- 
 scape ! It doesn't signify : there are, and 
 ever will be, clergymen enough in the world : 
 for my part, I must be a painter, only that 
 I know not how I shall ever venture to toll my 
 father so.'* 
 
 *' Why should you be so much afraid of it ? 
 If you can only be a dauber, he might reason- 
 ably object to that ; but if you can be an eminent 
 painter, the case would be very different." 
 
 *' Do you really think there would be any 
 hope of his acceding to my wishes ?" 
 
 " If conviiKed of your abilities for what you 
 •would undertake ; — satisfied on this point, 
 I cannot suppose that he would have any other 
 objection." 
 
 '' Oh, if that's all, it is but trying ; and if I 
 don't succeed, 'tis easy at last to come back to 
 the story of a black coat ana a surplice : so, as 
 you 'encourage me, Sam, I think I will venture 
 to break the matter to him. Stiil there's one 
 thing : — you know I never can make any thing
 
 267 
 
 of such a pursuit in th3 country, I must live la 
 London, and I'm sure he would not readily 
 consent to that." 
 
 '' Still I think you judge too hastily. He might 
 perhaps prefer your living in the country : but 
 this is not the only profession which you would 
 be obliged to pursue in London ; in the law, 
 or in physic, there must your studies be pur- 
 sued." 
 
 '' Well, then, it is resolved ! — and oh if I 
 am but permitted to follow my inclinations, 
 how transporting will be my lot ! Sam, with 
 what raptures will my heart expand, when left 
 at hberty to dwell upon nothing but the beau- 
 ties and the wonders of nature and of art I — to 
 be no more doomed to look towards wearing 
 out tedious days and nights amid the dry stu- 
 dies of mathematical calculations ; or to think 
 of brooding over and hatching dull sermons 
 for the edification of others, but for the morti- 
 fication of myself ! My head is not organized 
 to studies like these j it wants a more ample 
 field in which to range, a field wherein imagina- 
 tion may have some space to sport and play. 
 I have no taste for enforcing common-place 
 saws, trite maxims, and worn-out apophihrgms. 
 A preacher has but one road, which he must 
 travel over and over again : — be can say nothing 
 N 2
 
 268 
 
 that has not already been said a thousand and 
 a thousand times. Give me a profession where 
 something is to be created ; — in which the stu- 
 dent is not tied down to one hackneyed beaten 
 track, but may move wiih the eccentricity of 
 the comet's course : 
 
 Where a new wcrld leaps out at his command. 
 And ready nature waits upon his hand. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 *' Still less could I endure to load my brains 
 with a pack of dull law^s ; — to think of devoting 
 myself to the contemplation of a moral world 
 of deformity, as is the lawyer's doom, instead of 
 contemplating a physical world full of beauty, 
 under aspects the most beautiful ! He thinks 
 not whether the form and situation of such or 
 such a tree be picturesque or not ; he regards 
 not whether such a house or barn be so dispo- 
 sed as to harmonize with the surrounding land- 
 scape;— he considers only whether the situa- 
 tion in which they stand may not be of that am- 
 biguous nature, that it is difficult to Fay v. hose 
 prcp'^^rty they are, and hopes that the decision 
 of this important question may help to fill the 
 pockets ot his brethren and himself. What 
 share can the soul take in studies such as these? 
 — what pleasure nas any one in the beauties 
 of creation, who contemplates them only as ob- 
 jects of property to this or that man, in the
 
 269 
 
 qniet possession of which the law is bound to 
 defend him ? And as to the army or navy, I 
 have no taste for having my body perforated 
 by a cannon ball, or for being served up as a 
 gourmandise at the table of a shark : there is 
 nothing very picturesque in these things. 
 
 " Then^ if we turn to physic, what are the 
 enjoyments of him who has to dwell continually 
 upon the contemplation of human nature only 
 on its melancholy side ? — who instead of the 
 light airy form, the eye spark h"ng with the vi- 
 vacity of youth and health, has to contemplate 
 it upon the bed of sickness, languishing under 
 a painful, perhaps a loathsome disease, when 
 the features cease to be animated, when the 
 brilliant lustre of the compk-xion is no more, 
 — when the body, wasted by suffering, no 
 longer presents those fine forms on which the 
 eye could dwell for ever with unwearied rap- 
 ture ? — O no ! to be a physician would harrow 
 up my soul ! — I was born to view every thing 
 with a picturesque eye : — Heaven created me 
 with the soul of a painter, and it were striving 
 against the decrees of Heaven to think of in- 
 spiring me with other id^as. 
 
 " As the beams of the refulgent lamp of 
 day in its declining course gild the horizon, 
 while I adore the power which could create 
 and can uphold so magnificent a luminary, a
 
 270 
 
 body of such transcendant splendor and bril- 
 liance, 
 
 that, with surpassing elorv crownM, 
 
 l.ooks from its sole dominion like the God 
 Of this new worlds — 
 
 Milton. 
 
 my scul is filled with enthusiasm at the splendid 
 effects which its lengthened shades throw on 
 the surrounding landscape ; and I sigh to think, 
 that however enchanting may be the imitative 
 arts, still how infmitely short do they fall of the 
 glories of Nature, herself ! Then sometimes 
 will airy visions float in my fancy ; and! figure 
 to myself that it may, perhaps, be my blessed 
 lot to strike out some new idea in the sublime 
 art of painting ; — that I may make such won- 
 iderful, discoveries in the power of forming and 
 of blending colours, that 1 may produce effects 
 as yet unknown on canvass,— effects ot which 
 even the aspiring genius of a Claude himself 
 never could dream. O if this should prove 
 TiO vision ! — But no ! — that would be happiness 
 too great! — my senses hardly could stand the 
 mighty trial. 
 
 " Or when storms have been abroad, when 
 by the furious raging of the tempest all nature 
 has been thrown as it were into one undistin- 
 guished scene of wild confusion, — 
 
 .when lightnings fired 
 
 The arch of heaven, and thunders rock'd the ground.
 
 271 
 
 When furious whirlwinds rent the howling-air, 
 And ocean groaning from its lowest bed 
 Heaved its tempestuous billows to the sky ; — 
 
 Akenside. 
 
 at these awful moments, with what deep regrets 
 have I been seized in considering the transient 
 nature of each varied aspect into which the 
 clouds, the trees, the objects around, w^ere 
 thrown ! 1 could have wept with vexation that 
 no pause was allowed when each variation 
 amidst the storm-tost forms that they as- 
 sumed might separately be displayed. I have 
 been half frantic with reflecting that even the 
 wild pencil of a Salvator himself could but give 
 the scenes of desolation which it so wonder- 
 fully exhibits, from general ideas; — that still 
 a storm can be but an effect produced from ge- 
 neral recollections, it never can be oPfe parti- 
 cular scene of awful tumult which we ourselves 
 have witnessed. O Samuel ! — on such occa- 
 sions I have actually been so abandoned to the 
 enthusiasm of the moment, that I have even 
 fallen upon my knees and prayed devoutly to 
 him who 
 
 K.des on the whirlwind and directs the storm, 
 
 that he would bid the elements pause but for 
 an instant, while I had time to sketch the sub- 
 lime effect before me, ere it should be lost, va- 
 nished tor ever. Sam, 1 hope you would not
 
 272 
 
 have thought me profane in these moments? 
 You, who are a better judge of these things 
 than myself, resolve me." 
 
 " As to the profaneness of the thing, I will 
 not pretend positively to decide upon it ; — but 
 I certainly should not have expected to find 
 your prayer granted/* 
 
 For my own part, as mine was always rather 
 a dull matter-of-fact imagination, not at all given 
 to similar rhapsodies, the listening to this very 
 fine farrago seemed to me somewhat as if I had 
 been listening to an Otaheitean oration. I could 
 not help asking myself what sort of effect 
 flights such as these would have from the pul- 
 pit ; and I thought indeed that Walter judged 
 very rightly in saying that he was wholly unfit 
 to be a clergyman. 
 
 The secheresse of my observation had the ef- 
 fect of recalling my companion in some sort from 
 the lofty heights to which he had been soaring, 
 down to the vale of realities here below ; and he 
 could not forbear bursting into a hearty laugh at 
 the nonsensical jargon with which he had been 
 entertaining me. After his fit of laughter as 
 well as his fit of the heroics had sul^sided, we 
 renewed our more sober discussion of the ques- 
 tion ; when 1 felt so thoroughly convinced, from 
 what I knew of Mr. Armstrong's sentiments, 
 that Walter would meet with no decided op-
 
 273 
 
 position to his wishes, and that at any rate 
 Mr. Armstrong would be very desirous of being 
 made acquainted with them ; — I felt so assured 
 of these things, that I did not hesitate to urge 
 him to a full and explicit disclosure of the 
 whole matter ; while he, glad to be thus encou- 
 raged, assured me that he would break the ice 
 the very first opportunity that presented itself. 
 
 K 5
 
 274 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Doults and difficulties still further increased. — Noc- 
 turnal meditations. — Afflicting news at the end of 
 them. — A sick room. — An affecting change. — A 
 cruel apprehension. 
 
 My walk with Walter, and the conversation to 
 which it had given rise, entirely prevented for 
 that day my making the communication I had in- 
 tended to Mr. Armstrong. The night which suc- 
 ceeded it was spent much more in ruminating on 
 what had passed, than in the arms of soft repose. 
 While I was perfectly satisfied that I had done 
 right in encouraging Walter to explain his 
 wishes fully and fairly to his father, from the 
 conviction that, whatever they were, the latter 
 would earnestly desire to be made the confident 
 of them, 1 was yet by no means satisfied that 
 the communication would be agreeable to him. 
 And here I could not htlp adverting to another 
 reflection, and contemplating with no slight 
 degree of chagrin and vexation the perverseness 
 which seemed to govern human events. Not- 
 withstanding the manifold advantages that both 
 Walter and myself might have derived from 
 our education under such a man as Mr. Arm- 
 strong, rebel nature had opposed itself so firmly 
 jQ the excellent precepts in religion and mora- 
 
 &
 
 275 
 
 lity which he always mingled in every branch 
 of his instruction to us, that we were both at 
 this moment likely to be the occasion of great 
 uneasiness to our parent*^, from our own 
 wishes and inch'nations having been pleased to 
 erect themselves into a determined opposition 
 to theirs. 
 
 With regard to myself, these ideas for awhile 
 took such strong possession of my mind, that 
 they shook almost to its foundation the pur- 
 pose on which I had before been so fully de- 
 cided. It seemed as if both Walter and my- 
 self were in a conspiracy to throw oblique re- 
 ficctions on the excellent man under whom he 
 had been educated entirely, and I principally, 
 by showing that the system he had pursued 
 was not one which tended ultimately to inspir- 
 ing a proper sense of filial duty. I thought 
 that to the advocates for the rod it would be 
 no small matter of triumph if they could say, 
 *' See how these two boys who were to be edu- 
 cated without it have turned out! — both are 
 become in their maturer years a torment to 
 their parents." — Out of mere regard therefore 
 to Mr. Armstrong, and that I at least might 
 not be the means of bringing discredit on his 
 system of education, I had nearly passed upon 
 myself the irrevocable sentence which was to 
 doom me to a life of inv.ard mortification ; —
 
 276 
 
 for such, and nothing else, could I feel the 
 going into the church — Not that I had been 
 wholly educated without the rod, or at least 
 without the fear of it ; since, though I had no 
 apprehensions of it under Mr. Armstrong, at 
 the hospital I was as Hable to it as at any 
 other school. 
 
 Then again, when I had nearly come to this 
 self-denying resolution, the idea against which 
 of all others my heart revolted, that of being 
 doomed to a life of dependence and expecta- 
 tion, presented itself in all its horrors ; — I 
 . shrunk from it appalled, I could see nothing 
 else ; and no sense of gratitude either to my 
 father or Mr. Armstrong could resist the feel- 
 ing with which it inspired me. Besides, I 
 could never abandon the hope of contributing 
 to make the declining years of my parents 
 more comfortable ; I even wished to persuade 
 myself that it would be acting more virtuously 
 towards them, to disregard their present fa- 
 vourite idea, and makeihem/spite of themselves, 
 easier in their situation at a time of hfe when 
 they would both so much w-ant it, than to com- 
 ply with an iJle piece of vanity for the sake of 
 their gratification at the present moment. 
 
 Indeed, my ideas, w^hich had long beea 
 floating and vague respecting my future views_, 
 had for some months been fixed on a more
 
 277 
 
 specific object, and one which I thought would 
 lead to my having the means of assisting my 
 father and mother, as speedily as any that I 
 could pursue ; — which had besides the addi- 
 tional recommendation, that it seemed one per- 
 fectly within my reach. In the course of my 
 frequent visits to Mr. and Mrs. Carberry du- 
 ring my latter years at the hospital, I observed 
 that Mr. Carberry had several young men of 
 tolerable education in his service, either as 
 clerks in the compting-house, or superinten- 
 dants in ditferent parts of the business ; and L 
 thought that, if he would give me a situation of 
 this kind, my views would be fully answered^ 
 and I should be in the road to fortune. That 
 he would do so appeared a reasonable hope, 
 considering the notice that he and Mrs. Car- 
 berry had always taken of me, and that I 
 seemed connected as it were with the Arm*. 
 strong family. 
 
 I arose in the morning still full of the ideas^ 
 by which I had been haunted all night, when, 
 before 1 was entirely dressed, I received a mes* 
 sage from Walter, desiring me to come imme- 
 diately to the rectory, that his father was very 
 ill, and he was under the cruellest alarms about 
 him. On inquiry of the servant who came 
 with the message, he told me that Mr. Arm- 
 strong had gone to bed the night before very
 
 278 
 
 unwell, and complaining of his stomach being 
 much disordered ; he had passed a very indif- 
 ferent night, and was still in bed, so much in- 
 disposed, that, at his son's earnest request, he 
 had consented to send for the physician from 
 Salisbury, and that a messenger was already 
 dispatched for him. He added that Mr. Arm- 
 strong and Mr. Walter both wished very much 
 to see me. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong had long been subject to 
 periodical attacks of some internal complaint, 
 which was the more alarming, as his medical 
 attendants never seemed thoroughly to under- 
 stand the nature of ir. I had seen him many 
 times under ihe influence of them, and every 
 time with increased alarm and apprehension 
 lest it should terminate fatally. I immediately 
 ran, or rather flew, to the rectory, overwhelmed 
 with anguish, and could scarcely have been 
 more agitated wnen I arrived there, if I had 
 already known that he was no more. I sup- 
 pose my countenance and manner betrayed my 
 feelings ; for on seeing me he took my hand 
 in the most affectionate manner ; '' Samuel,'* 
 said he, " do not distress yourself upon my 
 account ; I am indeed much iiidisposed, but 
 there may nevertheless be no real cause of 
 alarm. It is one ot my old attacks, and, though 
 worse than usual, may yet 1 hope be recover-
 
 279 
 
 ed." — Indeed, often as I had seen hiai thus 
 attacked before, I never saw his looks so af- 
 fected, and I was impressed with the most 
 alarming apprehensions that the attack was in- 
 deed worse than usual. Walter was sitting by 
 his bedside, — he did not speak, but grasped 
 my hand with an eagerness which spoke his 
 feelings more emphatically than they could 
 have been expressed by words. 
 
 A few moments pause ensued, for Mr. Arm- 
 strong seemed deeply affected, though less 
 with his own situation than in seeing the di- 
 stress which it oc asioned to Walter and my- 
 self. At length he said, " Sit down by me, 
 Samuel.'' — I obeyed, and sat down upon the 
 bed. — " I have many things to say to you both, 
 my children," he continued : " and though I 
 would fain hope that Heaven may yet spare my 
 life, and permit me to aid your inexperience 
 with such counsel as I can give you ; yet since 
 all human events are uncertain, and the pre- 
 sent moment only is our own, I dare not delay 
 for an instant the purpose, which, if delayed, 
 I may never be able to execute at all." 
 
 Waiter, whose heart and feelings were as 
 warm as his mind was volanle, could not for 
 the moment hear any more, but hastily quitted 
 the room, to give vent to emotions which 
 were no longer to be suppressed, yet which he
 
 280 
 
 was unwllllag should appear in his father*s pre- 
 sence. 
 
 This was one of the most affecting moments 
 I ever passed in my life ; — never did I find the 
 resolution and fortitude of mind which I had 
 always been emulous to acquire, put to so se- 
 vere a trial, — for never did I see in Mr. Arm^ 
 strong the piety and resignation of the chris- 
 tian so subdued by the feelings and anguish of 
 the man and the father. He took my hand, 
 which he pressed between both his with a 
 warmth of affection mingled with an agony of 
 soul which I can never forget, while tears 
 streamed from his eyes. " Samuel/' he said, 
 when he recovered the power of speech — 
 " yes, 1 am ill indeed, but Heaven's will be 
 dt)ne 1 — 1^0 that I strive to be w^holly resigned j. 
 yet I am forced to confess that if it be his plea- 
 sure to call me away at this moment, I cannot' 
 quit the world without one severe pang ! — 'tis 
 there! — there!" — and he waved his hand to- 
 wards the door at which Walter had gone out. 
 
 " If I have erred," he proceeded after an 
 interval of some minutes, " in tlie endeavours 
 I have uniformly pursued to make him what I 
 have always so earnestly wished to see him, an 
 honest man, steady and firm in the cause of 
 piety and virtue, — Heaven knows the sincerity; 
 of my wishes, of my efforts, — O let me hope
 
 281 
 
 then that he may pardon my errors, and that 
 my poor child may not become the victim of 
 them!"' — Again he paused for a few minutes^ 
 then with a tone of more composure, "Yes," 
 he added, '* surely Heaven will vouchsafe his 
 protection to my dear boy ! — Yet it is not to 
 barren prayers alone that the aid of Heaven is 
 extended, our own efforts also must be exerted 
 to attain our ends ; — Heaven will bless those 
 efforts when piously directed, but he expects 
 that man also should do his part. — Be it mine 
 then to do what siill remains within my power, 
 for guarding him from the path of error when 
 I may be no longer here to be his monitor and 
 guide. 
 
 " Samuel," then he said, addressing himself 
 to me, " I shudder when I reflect on the pro- 
 bable fate of a heart like his, when it ceases to 
 be under the constant vigilance of a father's 
 eye, — when there shall no longer be one so 
 nearly, so tenderly interested for him, to watch 
 over and regulate its movements. I see him 
 still, even at his years, as much a child in his 
 conduct, as when he was scarcely six years 
 old, and I dread that when left to himself he 
 will never act but on the immediate impulse of 
 the moment. You know him well; he is vet 
 free, perfectly free, from any vicious propen« 
 sities, — he is yet unchargeable with gross and
 
 282 
 
 palpable deviations from the right path ; but 
 the world is corrupt, and he may easily be led 
 astray : — how can I then not tremble at the 
 dangers he will run, when he must of neces- 
 sity mingle with the world ? His heart is warm 
 and affectionate ; but these qualities, which, 
 accompanied by a sound judgement, would 
 render that judgement doubly valuable, as the 
 attendants on a head so little regulated, it is 
 much to be feared, will only help to involve 
 him in perpetual difficulties, if not to lead him 
 into absolute vice and irregularities. 
 
 " You have often expressed yourself, my 
 young friend, as highly grateful for the share 
 I have taken in your instruction, — you have 
 perhaps even expressed more gratitude than I 
 thought was strictly due to assistance given at 
 so little expense to myself either of time or 
 trouble ; — but if your heart has felt only a 
 small part of what your lips professed, now is 
 your time to show it, — to your care, to your 
 kindness, I commend him! — I have long 
 thought that I must perhaps not look forward 
 to seeing him established in the world, and 
 have not now to make the necessary provisions 
 required by law for placing him under a pro- 
 per guardiansr p till he shall attain that age 
 when he must i.e left to his own guidance. Yet 
 k seems to me that with a disposition such as
 
 283 
 
 his, more may be done to withhold him from 
 going astray, through the counsels of a com- 
 panion and an associate, a friend of his own 
 age, who to as much discretion as can be ex- 
 pected at equal years adds an influence and 
 ascendancy over his mind which may insure 
 him a ready and cheerful hearing, than by ad- 
 monitions from a person of maturer age. — 
 Samuel, let him find such a friend in you ! — 
 I have narrowly watched your conduct when- 
 ever you have been under my own eye ; I have 
 inquired into it of the superiors of that institu- 
 tion where you were educated ; and neither did 
 1 ever witness myself any thing in it, or ever 
 liear any reports from them concerning it, but 
 what have given me entire satisfaction. Be 
 then to Walter the friend he so much wants ! 
 — He respects, he reveres you as he ought to 
 do, — he does much more, — he loves you with 
 such unbounded aflfection that to you he will 
 always listen readily, nor will f^nd any re- 
 straints which you would impose upon him 
 hard to be borne. It is my firm conviction 
 that vou will never recommend to him any 
 thing inconsistent with the truest principles of 
 virtue and honour, with the character of an 
 honest man and a christian ; and it is this con- 
 viction which makes me anxious to consign to 
 you a charge so dear. You will not then
 
 284* 
 
 surely refuse to undertake it!— 'tis a father, — - 
 a dying father perhaps^ — who asks ir, — lie en- 
 treats your continued friendship to his only- 
 child ! — -he would say even more than friend-* 
 ship, if he did not consider every thing that 
 can be asked of man, included in that sacred 
 name. — He knows that 'tis an arduous task he 
 would impose upon you, but *tis the strongest 
 proof that could be given of the high esteem 
 in which he holds you. — Say, will you be this 
 friend ?" 
 
 I scarcely know what I answered, my heart 
 was so oppressed. The varied feelings with 
 which my bosom was agitated as 1 listened to 
 words so deeply affecting, as I witnessed the 
 emotions with which they were delivered, as I 
 revolved in my mind the situation of the 
 speaker and my own, hardly left me the power 
 of speech. It was some time before I could 
 utter a syllable intelligibly : — at last in broken 
 sentences I expressed my deep sense of the 
 confidence he was placing in me, — I assured 
 him, as well as my faltering accents would 
 permit, that my attachment to his son v\ould 
 have been sufficient to secure my doing every 
 thing in my power to show myself really his 
 friend, even if he had never laid so solem.n a 
 charge upon me ; but that the confidence with 
 which he had honoured me, would make me
 
 285 
 
 think any service I could render him not less 
 one of my most sacred du:ies than one of my 
 highest pleisures. 
 
 " It is enough " he said ; " my mind is now 
 relieved of what it was above all things anxi- 
 ous to Sriy to you ; — there are yet m.any sub- 
 jects which I hope we shall be able to talk over ; 
 — I would fain have some further conversation 
 with you on your own views, as well as on 
 Walter's : but I must first be quiet awhile to 
 recover myself ; — whatever may now happen, I 
 shall not quit the world without having spoken 
 to you on the subject nearest my heart ; — ihat 
 is an inexpressible satisfaction. But now, my 
 dear Samuel, retire and leave me to compose 
 myself, I would not spend my strength too 
 much at once. — Go seek Walter, he is deeply 
 affected, and wants consolation — adieu for the 
 present:" — then again claspmg my hand ea- 
 gerly, he waved me to retire, and I quitted 
 the room in silence. 
 
 I now went in search of Walter, anxious 
 beyond measure to learn whether he had dis- 
 closed his wibhes to his faiher the evening be- 
 fore. I found him somewhat more composed 
 than when he quitted Mr. Armstrong's room, 
 and ventured to make my inquiry without he- 
 sitation or c'rcumlocution. 
 
 " O yes, yes ! " said he, " there is my mi-
 
 2S6 
 
 sery, my reproach! — Why did you counsel me 
 to take such a step ? — Could I have entertained 
 the remotest idea cf the consequences it has 
 produced, I would have died a thousand deaths 
 myself rather than have mentioned the sub- 
 ject. — Samuel, we have killed the best of 
 men." 
 
 *' Killed him, Walter ? — what can you 
 mean ?'* 
 
 " Tis that I fear which brought on this at- 
 tack." 
 
 '* How ? — impossible, surely ?'* 
 
 " Too true, I fear." 
 
 " Nay, speak more plainly^ you harrow up 
 my soul !" 
 
 " Fain would I banish the idea from my bo- 
 som, but it will not quit me ; — O 'tis a bur- 
 den upon it which no time can ever remove." 
 
 " Speak, for Heaven's sake ! — you cannot 
 mean what you say ! " 
 
 *' Nay, I know not. — As we sat together in 
 the evening, after turning the matter over and 
 over in my mind a hundred and a Imndred 
 times, after devising endless ways in which to 
 open the subject, I at length did begin, though 
 I scarcely know how, and we had some con- 
 versation upon It. — My father expressed no 
 decided opposition to my wishes, — he said he 
 was rejoiced that I had made an unreserved
 
 287 
 
 disclosure of them, since there was nothing 
 he so earnestly wished as to enjoy my full con- 
 fidence. As to the profession of a painter, he 
 said, it was undoubtedly one capable of being 
 highly honourable to the professor ; ' but you 
 must be sensible,' he added, * my dear Wal- 
 ter, that a man's saying he will be a painter is 
 not the only thing requisite for deciding the 
 question ; — the first point to be considered is 
 whether he possesses the talents necessary for 
 being one. Any man may undoubtedly be- 
 come one to a certain degree ; but I trust, my 
 son, that you would not wish to undertake 
 such a profession, unless there appeared a fair 
 chance of your rising to eminence in it. Yet 
 even supposing that on the score of talents 
 there were no doubt upon the subject, suppose 
 a man decidedly capable of rising to eminence, 
 there are still many objections to be made 
 against engaging in it, as the means on which 
 to rely for our subsistence ; and this is a con- 
 sideration, my son, of which you must never 
 lose sight. I have always been anxious to im- 
 press upon your mind that I cannot leave you 
 a fortune adequate to your support, without 
 the assistance of your own industry ; to that 
 therefore your views must be directed as one 
 great object in the choice you are about to 
 make : it is one which cannot be put out of
 
 288 
 
 the question. Heaven has create us with 
 wants which must be satisfied, and, in the case 
 of nine tenths at least of mankind, by their 
 own exertions either of mind or body. The 
 profession of a painter, if properly pursued, 
 certainly leads to enlarging and ennobling the 
 mind, for it never can be properly pursued 
 without the professor preparing himself for it 
 by a course of elegant and improving as well 
 as moral and religious study. It ought to turn 
 the mind to the contemplation of all the most 
 glorious works of the great Creator, and 
 throuc;h these works to imbibe the loftiest con- 
 ceptions of the author of them ; — it ought to 
 lead him to dwell upon great and heroic ac- 
 tions, upon actions of exalted virtue. — In tliis 
 point of view it is not only unobjectionable, but 
 one which a man is laudable for aspiring to : 
 yet there is another in which it must be taken, 
 where many objections are presented, espe- 
 cially in this country. It is not conformable 
 to the ideas of the English nation, to raise the 
 art to the disiinction which, in my opinion, it 
 ought to hold in civilized life ; to encourage it 
 for its own sake alone ; to devote it to the or- 
 nament and splendour of the country ; to the 
 decoration of our churches and public build- 
 ings. Like all other things, it is little esteemed 
 here but as au object of traffic. There are but
 
 289 
 
 two ways in which a painter is likely to derive 
 much profit from his art in England , — either 
 as a portrait-painter, or in painting popular 
 subjects for the engravers. Neither of these can 
 be considered as among the higher branches of 
 the art. The latter are seldom subjects which 
 would be chosen by true genius ; they are com- 
 monly some passing whim of the day, or are 
 destined to commemorate some action or event 
 which had nothing in it really worth recording, 
 and is only exalted by national vanity into some- 
 thing great. Such a painter, I will fairly 
 own, I should not wish to see my son.' A few 
 more observations to this effect,'' continued 
 Walter, " were all that he made ; and he con- 
 cluded by saying, ' But we will renew the sub- 
 ject some other time : at present I am really not 
 well, and unequal to the exertion of much talk- 
 ing.' It was then that I first thought of look- 
 ing at him ; my eyes had hitherto been cast 
 down, 1 was too much abashed to look him in 
 the face : but now that I raised them up, 1 can- 
 not say how much I was shocked to see his coun- 
 tenance so pale and ghastly." 
 
 " Yet why suppose that this was the effec-tf 
 of your communication ?'* ^'^^^ 
 
 " There is but too much reason for it ; he bad 
 not before complained of indisposition. He cer-^ 
 tainly was secretly chagrined at what I had beeh' 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 
 
 saying ; yet from kindness to me endeavoured to 
 suppress bis feelings, and was therefore the more 
 severely affected by them.*' 
 
 " Indeed I think you here seek a source of 
 unnecessary regret ; and in a iTiatter in which, 
 Heaven knows, there is sufficient cause of real 
 aflliction." 
 
 " I wish I dared think so ; but this would 
 only be throwing a false varnish over the fault 
 I h;ive committed." 
 
 " If I thought that you really had committed 
 a great fcmlt, I would be far from seeking to 
 extenuate it : but neither, surely, is it wise or 
 right to aggravate unnecessarily a distress which 
 without this addition is sufficiently acuie. You 
 say that you had not observed your excellent 
 father's looks till he himself said he was indis- 
 posed : — had not your mind been preoccupied, 
 tliey might not, , perhaps, have passed so long 
 unobserved, and you might have been more 
 readily alarmed. Let me indulge in this idea ! 
 Let me not think for a moment that your 
 communicaHon could have produced so de- 
 plorable an etlect ; for what then must be my 
 feelings, when I reflect that it was my counsels 
 alone which ccca.^ioned it to be made ?'' 
 
 Here our conversation was broken off by the 
 arrival of the physician, which called otjr atten- 
 tion to other matters.
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Different cxertiom of medical skill, with their re- 
 suits. — Ne sulor ultra crepidam. — A touch of the 
 dead languages. — A most unexpected and mor-* 
 tifying catastrophe, 
 
 J. HE result of the physician's visit was expect- 
 ed by us with no small degree of impatience, 
 and we took an opportunity, after it was over, 
 of requesting in private his unreserved opinion 
 respecting his patient's case, that we might be 
 well assured of what we had in reason either to 
 hope or fear. He said that Mr. Armstrong 
 certainly was very ill, and it was impossible not 
 to consider him as in a very hazardous situation, 
 yet he did not regard his state as by any means 
 hopeless: — in any case, it was not probable that 
 his dissolution would take place very speedily ;— 
 it would most likely be a protracted illness, and, 
 he was afraid, attended with much suffering. 
 Mr. Armstrong's generally mild and placid 
 disposition, he observed, was much in his favour; 
 and the more his attention could be diverted 
 from thinking of his malady without its being 
 called to subjects that required deep thought, 
 or any considerable exertion of intellect, the 
 better chance would there be of the disease 
 being finally subdued. 
 
 In this report we undoubtedly found no 
 O 2 '
 
 292 
 
 small degree of satisfaction and consolation, for 
 I own I was extremely disposed to apprehend 
 the case quite desperate ; — }'et it was at the 
 same time a painful reflection, that while exer- 
 tion of intellect was deprecated for him, there 
 was a subject upon which his mind must unavoid- 
 ably dwell very forcibly. To be able to divert 
 his attention from it was a thing we could not 
 hope for, since his own situation would naturally 
 lead to his dwelling upon it the more eagerly. 
 All I could hope was, that means might be 
 found to delay any further discussions till he 
 might be more able to go through them with- 
 out injury to himself. 
 
 As my father had expressed great anxiety, 
 when I set off in the morning for the rectory, 
 to hear more particulars concerning the afflict- 
 ing event which carried me thither, I waited 
 only till I had spoken with the physician to has- 
 ten home and satisfy him. This was not, how- 
 ever, till towards noon. I found him not long 
 come in from the exercise of his medical talents; 
 — he had been summoned to a farmer in the 
 village, who also that morning, on getting up, 
 had been seized with a violent pain in his sto- 
 mach, " Well, Sam," says he, on seeing me 
 enter, " and how did you find matters at the 
 rectory ? — I hope in God, not so bad as the 
 servant made us believe !''
 
 " Indeed, father, I am sorry to say that the 
 servant did not exaggerate at all : poor Mr. 
 Armstrong has a most severe attack of his old 
 complaint, much worse, as far as I can judge, 
 than ever he has had yet. I never saw hiai 
 look so ill ; for I have generally remarked that, 
 considering how much he seemed to suffer, 
 his looks were surprisingly little affected." 
 
 " Poor man ! — God send him well through 
 it ! — which I dare say there isn't a man, v;oman, 
 or child in the parish, aye, and in many other 
 parishes too, that wouldn't say Amen to that 
 wish. — Well, and so they've sent for a doctor 
 from Salisbury ; and what does he say ? " 
 
 " That the patient is very ill, and in consi-- 
 derable danger, but he by no means gives up 
 the case as hopeless." 
 
 " And I suppose he has been writing sub- 
 scriptions by the dozens for him, and that he's 
 to have all sorts of messes and medleys to take, 
 poor man ! " 
 
 " In leed I don't know, father. — ^The servant 
 was dispatched immediately to Ambresbury 
 with the prescriptions, that the medicines may 
 be made up by the apothecary there ; and I did 
 not see them, so that I do not know whether 
 there were many different prescriptions or not." 
 
 " Aye, there's another thing. — -these con- 
 coctions must always be made up at the apothe*
 
 294 
 
 cary's, which then there is another hour or two 
 lost. Now, it's my thoughts, Sam, that if he 
 "Would but have taken thirty or forty grains of 
 jalap the moment he found himself ill, which 
 I think there isn't hardly such another medi- 
 cine to be found, why, Lord bless you ! by this 
 time would have had all the effect possible, and 
 he'd be nigh hand three parts well ; only want 
 a glass or two of good wine, or mayhap a httle 
 peppermint water, just to comfort his stomach, 
 and set it all to rights again. If you had but 
 seen Farmer Burrell there ! — Lord, why he was 
 taken as bad as could be, which upon that they 
 sends for me promiscuously to come and see 
 him. There he was, with such a pain and 
 colick all over his body, which so he had been 
 ever since he got out of bed this morning, he 
 could hardly tell where it was worst, it was all 
 over so bad. He was sitting up in a great chair 
 in the corner of the kitchen chimney when I got 
 there, winching and screwing about, and twist- 
 ing this way and that way, — and 'Lord,' says he, 
 * Danville,' when he sees me come in, ' it's my 
 belief that instead of subscribing for me, you'll 
 have to toll the bell and dig my grave, and 
 your wife will- have to furnish my funeral.' 
 So says I, ' Mr. Burrell,' says I, ' to be sure,' 
 says I, ' I'm very much oblis^ed to you for the 
 favour to my wife, v^'hich sheM certainly be very
 
 295 
 
 thankful for It, but I hope 'tisn't come to that 
 yet neither ; let's hope there's physic enough 
 left in the world to do your job for the present, 
 so that there'll be no need to talk of funerals 
 and such things ; though for that matter, if it 
 should be so, 1 don't suppose there's any body, 
 for many a mile round, that would do it gen- 
 teeler or cheaper than my old dame Hannah.' 
 And then he gives a great squeal ; and ' O ! ' 
 says he, ' nobody ever was in such pain, to be 
 sure !' ' Yes,' 'says I, ' neighbour, I'm afraid 
 there's somebody now at this time in as great 
 pain as you, and you'll be soiTy to hear of it 
 too, which that is poor Mr. Armstrong.' So 
 then I tells him all about how you vvas sent 
 for in such a hurry ; but I w^ouldn't say any 
 thing about the doctor from Salisbury ; which 
 I thought, mayhaps, thinks I, if he knows it, 
 he'll be for having the doctor come to him too, 
 and it's my thought that I can do him more 
 good than he can. So this was the first word 
 that any of them had heard about Mr. Arm- 
 strong, and sorry enough they was to be sure. 
 ' But come,* says neighbour Burreil, ' sor- 
 rowing won't cure me;' and then he winched 
 and squealed again : — ' and so,' says he, 
 ' Bob, says he, tell me what you thinks will 1' 
 Which then I says, says I, ' If you please to 
 let me feel your pulse,' says I ; and with that 
 he gives me his hand, and 1 feels, and it went
 
 296 
 
 thump, thump, thump ; gallop, gallop, gallop : 
 and says I, 'Neighbour, it's my thoughts that 
 the best thing you can do is to take about 
 thirty or fc^rty grains of jalap, and that will 
 work away all that's amiss, and I hope you'll 
 soon get well.' Which then he says, says he, 
 * I don't believe we have any jalap in the house; 
 but I was thinking, that if my wife was to heat 
 a little table beer with some spice, and then put 
 a little drop qf gin to it, and I was to take that 
 hot, it would bring off the wind, and I shouldn't 
 be in so much pain/ ' No/ says I, ' neigh- 
 bour,' says I, * I'm not at all of your v/ay of 
 thinking ; you know that I've had a pretty deal 
 of practice now, for it's best part of tw^enty 
 years since I begun, and I always found that 
 'twas the best way to clear out what we have 
 within us before we think of taking in any 
 thing more ; and I have brought a dose of jalap 
 with me, which 1 thought that if in the case I 
 found that it would be right, it would be ready 
 at hand, and no time lost in sending for it ; so, 
 if you please to take my advice, I'll mix it up 
 and give it you directly.' 
 
 " ' Ay, come, Thomas,' says his wife, ' Bob 
 Danville's right enough ; — you know 1 telied 
 you myself 'that I was sure 'twas only that you 
 had eat too much yesterday at the christening of 
 your first grandchild there at our son's at Am- 
 bresbury/
 
 297 
 
 * No,' says nei;:ihbour Barrel!, says he, * 'tis 
 no such thing : you wanted to persuade -me 
 once before, when I had just such another co- 
 lick, that I had eat too much, because it hap- 
 pened to come just after our audit dinner at 
 the Hall ; but I won't be bamboozled in that 
 way. I'm sure that I ought to have something 
 warm and comforting; so don't talk to me no 
 more about your jalap and such kind of non- 
 sense.' 
 
 " ' Well,' says I, 'neighbour, so you may have 
 something warm if you've such a great mind 
 for it, for we can put half a glass of gin or so 
 to the jalap.' For you know, Sam, I thought, 
 if we could but pacify him to take it, why that 
 was all we wanted ; and 'twould all go down, 
 and work all the same, whatever 'twas mixed in^ 
 and I knowcd that he was but a bad hand at 
 takmg physic when I was sent for to him once 
 before, a good many years ago. So I was right 
 enough ; for he says, ' Well then,' says he, ' mix 
 it up, and I'll see what I can do.' Which 
 then I was very glad to hear him say that. So 
 I asks his wife promiscuously for a cup and 
 spoon, and some water, and 'the gin, and mixes 
 it up and gives it to him. At first he did keck 
 and make vvij faces ; but I kept persuading 
 him, and so down it went at last ; and I dare say 
 that by this time 'tis almost all worked off, and 
 O 5
 
 298 
 
 he*s three parts well. And so it might have 
 be$n with Mr. Armstrong, only that your doc- 
 tors and apothecaries don't like to subscribe 
 jalap, because 'tis so cheap, and doesn't bring 
 money to their pockets." 
 
 '' But, father, Mr. Armstrong's illness may 
 not be absolutely of the same nature as Mr. 
 Burrell's ; at least, 'tis certain that it does not 
 proceed from eating too much at his grand- 
 child's christening ; and the same remedy can- 
 not be good for all complaints. Besides, you 
 know he does not like gin, though neighbour 
 Burrell does." 
 
 " He might easily have taken the jalap with- 
 out it, however ; and there could be no harm 
 in trying it. If it didn't do good of itself, it 
 would at least clear the way and make room 
 for other things. — Well, God send that he 
 mayn't die for want of it ! — But we shall see 
 now which does best, the Salisbury doctor or 
 I, and which gets well soonest, neighbour Bur- 
 rell or Mr. Armstrong." 
 
 Though I always entertained a proper vene- 
 ration for my father's specific, and thought 
 that it was probably as good a remedy as could 
 have been prescribed for Mr. Burrell's com^ 
 plaint ; yet I had not quite the same opinion 
 of its efficacy in Mr. Armstrong's case, and 
 was therefore very glad that recourse had been
 
 299 
 
 had, for him, to the best regular advice which 
 could be procured within a reasonable distance. 
 Indeed, in the case of neighbour Burrell, I 
 thought it at least an even chance whether my 
 father had not, by allowing the gin, counter- 
 acted the good effect which the jalap might 
 have had without it. 
 
 As to the competition between the Doctors 
 Danville and Rochford, it might safely be pro- 
 nounced, from the event of neighbour Burrell's 
 illness, that if dispatch be the criterion of me- 
 rit, there could be no doubt to whom the 
 crown must be awarded, since the case of the 
 former's patient came to a very decided issue 
 in only four days ; while the latter kept work- 
 ing on day after day, almost without any per- 
 ceptible effect from his labours. 
 
 When I went home in the evening, I found 
 my father exulting extremely at the feats he 
 had performed. Neighbour Burrell, he said, 
 was a vast deal better ; he had ordered him an- 
 other dose g>f jalap for the next day, and the 
 day after he expected that he would be quite 
 well : — and then he asked triumphantly, whe- 
 ther things were going on equally well at the 
 rectory ? 
 
 I replied that no rapid amendment was to be 
 expected, but it was with satisfaction I could 
 say that Mr. Armstrong was in less pain than
 
 soo 
 
 before he took the medicines prescribed by Dr. 
 Rochford. " Well, we shall see," said my 
 father: " to be sure, 'tis something not to be 
 in so much pain; but when one sends so many 
 miles for a doctor, one has a right to expect 
 something more/* 
 
 But whatever we might have a right to ex- 
 pect, all that could be said positively for some 
 days wasj that Mr. Armstrong was certainly 
 not worse as to the alarming symptoms of his 
 complaint, and that he suffered less from pain 
 than in the first hours of his attack ; it was 
 impossible to pronounce that there was any 
 decided amendment. 
 
 My father had spoken so entirely without 
 any doubt or hesitation upon the subject of 
 neighbour Burreirs amendment, that I really 
 concluded his complaint to have proceeded 
 merely, as his wife statevi, from having eaten 
 too much, and that, the dose he had taken 
 having carried away the load, he would be 
 immediately well ; so that the next day, when 
 I went home, I never thought of inquiring 
 after him. J did indeed recollect afterwards, 
 that my father appeared somewhat grave, and 
 was not altogether so talkative as usual, though 
 at the time I scarcely observed it. I was 
 in fact myself under so much anxiety about 
 our good rector, that I was little disposed to
 
 301 
 
 conversation, and therefore more readily passed 
 over a similar indisposition in him. In the 
 course of the next morning, however, being 
 the third of Mr. Armstrong's illness, as well 
 as of neighbour Burrell's, 1 was called out of 
 the sick-room at the rectory, to my father, who 
 wanted to speak with me below. I found him 
 with rather a long and melancholy countenance, 
 and in a corresponding tone he inquired whe- 
 ther the Salisbury Doctor was expected to see 
 Mr. Armstrong that day ? — I replied that he 
 had already made his visit, and had been gone 
 nearly half an hour.' 
 
 " That's unlucky," he said, with an ex- 
 pressive shake of the head, " and when will 
 he come again ?*' 
 
 " Not till the day after tomorrow.*' 
 
 " Very unlucky indeed.*' 
 
 " What is the matter, then, father ? — No- 
 body ill in the parish, I hope ?" 
 
 " Only neighbour Burrell." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that he wants a doctor; 
 he must be worse, then, I am afraid ? I thought 
 you said, father, that he was getting well very 
 
 fast r 
 
 '' So I thought yesterday, which, 'tis my 
 belief now, that they hav Vt followed my orders, 
 or else perhaps they've given him something 
 that they ought not, and are afraid to own it.
 
 302 
 
 But, somehow or other, yesterday evening he 
 was taken much worse, and this m.orning he's 
 very bad, and swears he won't take no more jalap 
 for nobody ; U'hich that I thought very shock- 
 ing, for him to swear when he was so bad and 
 afraid he should die ; and God knows, I don't 
 think there's another man in the parish that 
 would have done so. But even Mr. Armstrong 
 never could quite cure him of swearing, though 
 he has preached about swearing several times, 
 and as fine discourses, to my thinking, as any he 
 ever dehvered from the pulpit, particularly that 
 as he preached last Sunday was a three weeks, 
 from Matth. chap. v. ver. 34-, 5, 6. ' But I 
 say unto you, Swear not all : neither by hea- 
 ven, for it is God's throne : nor by the earth, 
 for it is his footstool : neither by Jerusalem, 
 for it is the city of the great king : neither by 
 thy head, because thou canst not make one 
 hair of it white or black.' Which, to be sure, 
 though all Mr. Armstrong's discourses are as 
 fine as any body can hear ; yet this was a won- 
 derful grand one, enough to make any body, 
 one should have thought, asham.ed of swear- 
 ing. But notwithstanding, however, it hav'n't 
 cured neighbour Burrell, and he swears that he 
 v/on't take no more jalap, and his wife she 
 can't pacify him ; for he says he's sure it has 
 done him more harm than good^ which Tm
 
 303 
 
 sure there he's quite mistaken ; for if he hadn\ 
 a taken it, God knows, he'd most likely have 
 been dead before this time. So now he has 
 got a fancy promiscuously to see the Salisbury 
 Doctor, and he says he's sure I know nothing 
 at all about the matter, and I may go to the 
 devil with my jalap ; which that is another very 
 shocking thing to say ; but he always was so 
 terrible passionate ! So there he lies squeaking 
 and shrieking like a crazy man." 
 
 " This is very unlucky indeed, father. — 
 Suppose you were to send for the apothecary 
 from Ambresbury ?'' 
 
 " Lord bless you, Sam, and what could he 
 do ? — and what, for that matter, could any body 
 do, when you sea he won't take what's sub- 
 scribed for him ?'* 
 
 " However, if you send for the doctor from 
 Ambresbury, at least, father, they won't have 
 to blame you if all does not go well." 
 
 " Yes, but they will blame me, and they 
 do blame me, though it*s my belief that 'tis all 
 their own fault ; — and there's Dame Burrell 
 crying and sobbing,, and such a piece of work 
 among 'em T* 
 
 " Shall I go and talk to 'em, father, and 
 see what I can do ?'* 
 
 " Aye, do, Sam, there's a good boy, for
 
 304 
 
 you can talk people over better than I can ; you 
 have so much more learning ; though mayhap 
 you mayn't know so much about it as I do. 
 But go to 'em and say a few hard words, and 
 then they'll think that 'tis all right." 
 
 So away I posted. — I thought indeed that 
 our good neighbour seemed very ill, and to be 
 sure he was groaning and complaining most 
 piteously ; but not all my eloquence, and all 
 the hard words with which I interlarded it, 
 could prevail upon him to send for the apothe- 
 cary ; the utmost I could obtain was his con- 
 sent, that if the Ambresbury Doctor should 
 happen to come over to Mr. Armstrong, he 
 might be sent to his house. I did, besides, per- 
 suade him to try a bason of plain water gruel 
 without any thing in it, for I suspected him to 
 be in a fever from the effects of the gin. 
 
 This accomplished, I returned to the rectory, 
 where 1 stayed, as usual, the remainder of the 
 day. In the evening when I went home, I 
 found my lather's spirits again extremely ele- 
 vated viith regard to his patient. He had just 
 been with him, and found him a vast deal bet- 
 ter, q'jite free from pain, and quite glad, since 
 he had got so well, that he hadn't given him- 
 self any more trouble about having doctors. 
 *' x^ind now,'* adds my father, " I hope people
 
 305 
 
 will believe next time that there isn't a better 
 medicine in the world than jalap, which that I 
 am very sure of." 
 
 So far, all seemed well for my good father's 
 prescriptions. The next morning I went to 
 the rectory as soon as we had breakfasted, and 
 left him preparing to visit his patient. In about 
 two hours I was again summoned from Mr. 
 Armstrong's room to him, he wanted to speak 
 with me below. When I went, he began with 
 inquiring after the dear good man above ; to 
 which I answered, that he appeared to me 
 nearly the same as for the last two days. 
 
 " What, no better?" 
 
 " Indeed, it is impossible to say decidedly 
 that he is." 
 
 "But certainly no v/orse, I hope ?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly not worse.*' 
 
 « Sam." 
 
 " Well, father." 
 
 " Do you think — do you think — " 
 
 " What, father?^' 
 
 " Hum — do you think, Sam, — do you think 
 — that it would disturb him to hear the bell 
 toll ?" 
 
 " O, not at all ; — he isn't a man to be af- 
 fected by such kind of things, — he ha§ a mind 
 far superior to those idle terrors. — But who is 
 dead then, father ?— Old Stevenson, I suppose
 
 306 
 
 — ^I heard last night that he was thought now 
 to be really going." 
 
 " Aye, but he isn't gone yet, though.'* 
 " Who then ? — not Alice Fordham, I hope?" 
 " No, not she neither. — 'Tis— poor neigh- 
 bour — Burrell." 
 
 "You don't say so, father ?— Why, you 
 seemed to think him so much better last night, 
 that I nev^r should have guessed him !" 
 
 " So I thought that he was a great deal 
 better, and so his wife thought too, and he 
 said himself he was quite well, like. But 
 somehow in the middle of the night he was 
 taken quite faint, and gasping for breath, which 
 then the old dame she was terrified out of her 
 hfe, and away she sends for the Ambresbury 
 doctor, wiihout with your leave or by your leave 
 from him ; and when the doctor came, he said 
 there was nothing to be done, that it was a 
 mor'ification in his bovv'els; though God knows 
 how he could tell that, when to be sure he 
 couldn't see what was going forward there ; but 
 he said it was gone so far that nothing could 
 stop it, and die he must ; and so to be sure 
 die be did about half an hour ago. So now 
 Fm sure they didn't mind and do all that I bid 
 'em ; and there's the worst of having to sub- 
 scribe for people when you can't see 'em take 
 the things yourself, which then you can never
 
 307 
 
 be sure that they'll follow your orders, and so 
 they Jie ; and then 'tis the doctor that's to 
 blaiwe; when, mayhap, he has ordered every 
 thing for the best, and it's their own fault that 
 they hav'n't minded him, as to be sure 1 think 
 it's the case with neighbour BurrelL So 
 there he lies now a corpse ; and if it won't 
 disturb Mr. Armstrong, 1 must go and toll the 
 bell. And, Sam, do pray take can. that every 
 thing that the doctor says is done for our dear 
 good man ; for then, if he musl die at last, 
 which I'm sure I most heartily pray to God 
 that he may be spared, thjn we sha'n't have at 
 least to blame ourselves." 
 
 1 confess that I was a Httle vexed and mor- 
 tified at the ill success of my father's attend- 
 ance in this instance, and the more so, as I 
 could not help apprehending that his yielding 
 the point of the gin in his ardour to get down 
 the jalap, had entirely counteracted its effects 
 and increased the malady. For 1 then thought, 
 and I found afterwards in talking with the apo- 
 thecary, that I was perfectly right, that it was 
 an inflammation in the bowels ; and that the 
 cessation of pain the evening before, which 
 had given my father so much satisfaction, was 
 really neither more nor less than the mortifi- 
 cation coming on. I never saw my poor father 
 much more humiliated than in this affair ; — if
 
 SOS 
 
 mortification of mind had been as fatal as mor- 
 tification of body, he must have accompanied 
 neighbour Burrell to the grave, instead of as- 
 sisting only in putting him into it. At the 
 same time I could not help inwardly smiling, 
 to see how ready he was at finding an excuse 
 for his own mistake, and the failure of his fa- 
 vourite specific. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Printed by Richard Taylor and Co., Shoc-lune, London.
 
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