OF THE U N I VLR5 ITY Of ILLINOIS 823 MlQvrv \840 Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library FEB 19 W Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/manoffeelingmanoOOmack THE MAN OF FEELING: I THE MAN OF THE WORLD. BY HENRY MACKENZIE, ESQ. HALIFAX : JOSEPH HARTLEY, OLD MARKET PLACE. MDCCCXL. 5 HI Hi i iS'^/oCONTENTS ^ TO THE MAN OF FEELING. ^ f*> PAGE, > CHAPTER XI. 1^ Of Bashfulness— A Character— His Opinion on that Subject 1 ^ CHAPTER XII. .Jjti? wordly Interests 4 - CHAPTER XIII. The Man of Feeling in Love 8 CHAPTER XIV. ■X^ He sets out on his Journey — The Beggar and his Dog 12 CHAPTER XIX. He makes a Second Expedition to the Baronet's — The Laudable Ambition of a Young Man to be thought something by the World 17 CHAPTER XX. He visits Bedlam. — The Distresses of a Daughter.. 24 CHAPTER XXI. The Misanthropist 30 CHAPTER XXV. His Skill in Phisiognomy 39 CHAPTER XXVI. The Man of Feeling in a Brothel 43 CHAPTER XXVII. His Skill in Phisiognomy is doubted 47 CHAPTER XXVIII. , He Keeps his Appointment 49 CHAPTER XXIX. The Distress of a Father 63 CHAPTER XXXIII. He leaves London^Characters in a Stage Coach. ... 72 iv. CONTENTS PAGE. CHAPTER XXXIV. He meets an Old Acquaintance 80 CHAPTER XXXV. He misses an Old Acquaintance — an adventure consequent upon it 92 CHAPTER XXXVI. He returns Home — A description of his Retinue. ... 96 CHAPTER XL. The Man of Feeling Jealous 103 CHAPTER LV. He sees Miss Walton and is happy 123 CHAPTER LVI. The Emotions of the Heart 128 The Conclusion 129 THE MAN OF FEELING. ♦ CHAPTER XI * Of Baslif Illness — a Character — His Opinion on that Subject. THERE is some rust about every man at the beginning; thougli in some nations (among the French, for instance) the ideas of the inhabitants, from cUmate, or what other cause you will, are so vivacious, so eternally on the wing, that they must, even in small societies, have a frequent collision ; the rust therefore will wear off sooner : but in Britain it often goes wdtli a man to liis grave ; nay, he dares not even -pen a hie jacet to speak out for him after his death. Let them rub it off by travel, said the baronet's brother, who v/as a striking instaiice of excellent metal shamefully rusted. 1 had drawn my chair * The reader will remember that the Editor is accountable only lur :-cattered chapters, and iVaguicnts of chapters ; the curate inuat answer lor the rest. The number the top, ..heu the chapter was en^re, he has given as it originally stoodj with tiie title which its author had affixed to it. B 2 MAN OF FEELING. near his. Let me paint the honest old man : 'tis bnt one passing sentence to preserve his hnage m my mind. He sat in his usual attitude, with his elbow rested on his knee, and his fingers pressed on his cheek. His face was shaded by his hand ; yet it was a face that might once have been well accounted handsome ; its features were manly and striking, and a certain dignity residing on his eyebrows, which were the largest I remember to have seen. His person was tall and well made ; but the indolence of his nature had now inclined it to corpulency. His remarks were fev/, and made only to his familiar friends : but they were such as the world might have heard with veneration : and his heart, uncorrupted by its ways, was ever warm in the cause of virtue and his friends. He is now forgotten and gone ; The last time I was at Silton-hall, I saw his chair stand in its corner by the fire-side ; there was an additional cushion on it, and it was occupied by my young lady's favourite lapdog. I drew near unperceived, and pinched its ears in the bitterness of my soul ; the creature howled, and ran to its mistress. She did not suspect the author of its misfortune, but she bewailed it in the most pathetic terms ; and kissing its lips, laid it gently on her lap, and covered it with a cambric handkerchief. I sat in my old friend's seat; 1 heard the roar of mirth and gaiety around me : ])oov Ben Silton ! I gave thee a tear then : accept of one cordial drop that fails to thy memory now. Let them rub it off by travel.— Why, it is true, MAiN OF FKELING. 3 said I, that will go far; but then it will often hap- l)en that, in the velocity of a modem tour, and amidst the materials through which it is commonly made, the friction is so violent that not only the rust, but the metal too will be lost in the progress. Give me leave to correct the expression of your metaphor, said Mr. Silton : that is not always rust which is acquired by the inactivity of the body on which it preys ; such, perhaps, is the case with me, though indeed I was never cleared from my youth; but (taking it in its first stage) it is rather an in- crustation, which nature has given for purposes of the greatest wisdom. You are right, I returned ; and sometimes, like certain precious fossils, there may be hid under it gems of the purest brilliancy. Nay, further, continued Mr. Silton, there are two distinct sorts of what we call bashfulness : this, the awkwardness of a booby, which a few steps into the world will convert into the pertness of a coxcomb ; that, a consciousness, which the most delicate feel- ings produce, and the most extensive knowledge cannot always remove. From the incidents I have already related, I imagine it will be concluded, that Harley was of the latter species of bashful animals: at least, if Mr. Silton's principle be just, it may be argued on this side : for the gradation of the first-mentioned sort, it is certain, he never attained. Some part of his external appearance was modeled from the company of those gentlemen, whom the antiquity of a family, now possessed of bare £250 a year, entitled its representative to approach : these in- 4 MAN OF FEELING. deed were not maiiy; great part of tlie property in liis iieigliboiirliood beiirgiii tlie hands of merchants who had got rich by their lawful calHng abroad, and tlie sons of stewards, who had got rich by their lawful calling at home, persons so perfectly versed in the ceremonial of thousands, tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands (whose degrees of pre- dency are plainly demonstrable from the first page of the Complete x\ccomptant, or Young Man's best Pocket Companion), that a bow at church from them to such a man as Rarley would have made the parson look back into his sermon for some pre- cept of Christian humility. CHAPTER XII. Of u'orldii/ Interests. There are certain interests which the world sup- poses every man to have, and which therefore are properly enough termed worldly : but the world is apt to make an erroneous estimate : ignorant of the dispositions which constitute our happiness or misery, it brings to an undistinguished scale the means of the one, as connected with power, wealth, or grandeur, and of the other with their contraries. Philosoi)hers and poets have often protested against this decision ; but their arguments have been des- jjised as declamatory, or ridiculed as romantic. There are never wanting to a young man some grave and prudent friends to iset him riglit in this MAN OF FEELING. 5 particular, if lie need it ; to v/atcli liis ideas as they arise, and point them to those objects which a wise man should never forget. Harley did not want for some monitors of this sort. He was frequently told of men, whose fortunes enabled them to command all the luxuries of life, whose fortunes were of their own acquirement : his envy was invited by a description of their hapi)i- ness, and his emulation by a recital of the means which had procured it. Harley was apt to hear those lecturers with in- difference ; nay, sometimes they got the better of his temper ; and, as the instances were not always amiable, provoked, on his part, some reflections which I am persuaded his good nature would else have avoided. Indeed, I have observed one ingredient, some- what necessary in a man's composition towards happiness, which people of feeling would do well to acquire — a certain respect for the follies of man- kind ; for there are so many fools whom the opinion of the world entities to regard, v/hom accident has placed in heights of which they are unworthy, that he who cannot restrain his contempt or indignation at the sight will be too often quarreling with the disposal of things to relish that share which is allot- ted to himself. I do not mean, however, to insinuate this to have been the case with Harley : on the contrary, if we might rely on his own testimony, the conceptions he had of pomp and grandeur served to endear the state which Providence had assigned him. He lost his father, the last surviving of his pa- G MAN OF FEELING. rents, as I have already related, when he was a boy. The good man, from a fear of offending, as w^ell as a regard to his son, had named him a variety of guardians; one consequence of which was, that the}^ seldom met at all to consider the affairs of their ward; and when they did meet, their opinions were so opposite that the only possible method of conciliation was the mediatory power of a dinner and a bottle, which commonly interrupted, not ended the dispute ; and, after that interruption ceased, left the consulting parties in a condition not very proper for adjusting it. His education therefore had been but indifferently attended to ; and after being taken from a country school, at which he had been boarded, the young gentleman was suffered to be his own master in the subsequent branches of literature, with some assistance from the parson of the parish in languages and philo- sophy, and from the exciseman in arithmetic and bookkeeping. One of his guardians, indeed, who, in his youth, had been an inhabitant of the Temple, set him to read Coke upon Ly ttleton ; a book which is very properly put into the hands of beginners in that science, as its simplicity is accommodated to their understandings, and its size to their inclina- tions. He profited but little by the perusal; but it was not without its use in the family : for his maiden aunt applied it commonly to the laudable purpose of pressing her rebellious linens to the folds she had allotted them. There were particularly two ways of increasing . his fortune, which might have occurred to people of less foresight than the counsellors we have men- MAN OF FEELIxNG. tioned. One of these was the prospect of his suc- ceeding to an old lady, a distant relation, who was known to be possessed of a very large sum in the stocks : but in this their hopes were disappointed ; for the young man was so untoward in his disposi- tion that notwithstanding the instructions he daily received, his visits rather tended to alienate than gain the good-will of his kinswoman. He sometimes t looked grave when the old lady told the jokes of her youth ; he often refused to eat when she pressed him, and was seldom or never provided with sugar- candy or liquorice when she was seized with a fit [ of coughing; nay, he had once the rudeness to fall asleejD while she was describing the composition and virtues of her favourite colic water. In short, he accommodated himself so ill to her humour, that she died, and did not leave him a farthing. The other method pointed out to him was an en- deavour to get a lease of some crown lands, which lay contiguous to his little paternal estate. This, it was imagined, might be easily i:)rocured, as the crown did not draw so much rent as Harley could afford to give, with very considerable profit to him- self; and the then lessee had rendered himself so obnoxious to the ministry, by the disposal of his vote at an election, that he could not expect a renewal. This, however, needed some interest with the great, which Harley or his father never pos- sessed. His neighbour, Mr. Walton, having heard of this affair,generou3ly offered his assistance to accomplish it. He told him, that though he had long been a stranger to courtiers, yet he ))elieved there were MAN OF FEELING. some of them wlio might pay regard to liis recom- mendation; and that, if he thouglit it worth the while to take a London journey upon the business, he would furnish him with a letter of introduction to a baronet of his acquaintance, who had a great deal to say with the first lord of the treasury. When his friends heard of this offer they pressed hira with the utmost earnestness to accept of it. They did not fail to enumerate the many advan- tages which a certain degree of spirit and assurance gives a man who would make a figure in the world ; they repeated their instances of good fortune in others, ascribed them all to a happy forwardness of disposition ; and made so copious a recital of the disadvantages which attend the opposite weakness that a stranger, who had heard them, would have been led to imagine, that in the British code there was some disqualifying statute against any citizen who should be convicted of — modesty. Harley, though he had no great relish for the attempt, yet could not resist the torrent of motives that assaulted him ; and as he needed but little preparation for his journey, a day not very distant was fixed for his departure. CHAPTER XIII. The Man of FeeHng in love. The day before that on which he set out, he went to take leave of Mr. Walton. — We would conceal >\LVN OF FEELING*. 9 nothing : — tliere was anothei' person of the family to whom also the visit was intended, on whose ac- count, perhaps, there were some tender feelings in the bosom of Harley than his gratitude for the friendly notice of that gentleman (though he was seldom deficient in that virtue) could inspire. Mr. Walton had a daughter; and such a daughter ! we will attempt some description of her by and by. Harley's notions of the KoXoi'y or beautiful, were not always to be defined, nor indeed such as the world would always assent to, though we could define them. A blush, a phrase of affability to an inferior,^ a tear at a moving tale, were to him, like the cestus of Cytherea, unequalled in conferring beauty. For all these Miss Walton was remarkable; but as these, like the abovementioned cestus, are perhaps still more powerful when the wearer is possessed of some degree of beauty, commonly so called : it happened that, from this cause, they had more than usual power in the person of that young lady. She was now arrived at that period of life which takes, or is supposed to take, from the flippancy of girlhood those sprightiinesses with which some good-natured old maids oblige the world of three- score. She had been ushered into life (as that word is used in the dialect of St. James's) at seventeen — her father being then in parliaiiient, and living in London : at seventeen, therefore, she had been a universal toast ; her health, now she was four and twenty, w^as only drunk by those who knew her face at least. Her complexion was mellowifed into a paleness, which certaiidy took from her beauty ; but agreed, at least Harley used to say so, with 10 MAN OF FEELING. the pensive softness of her mind. Her eyes were of that gentle hazel colour v/hieh is rather mild than piercing ; and, except when they were light- ed up by good humour, which was frequently the case, were supposed by the fine gentleman to want fire. Her air and manner were elegant in the highest degree, and were as sure of commanding respect as their mistress was far from demanding it. Her voice was inexpressibly soft ; it was, ac- cording to that incomparable similie of Otway's, like the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, When all his little flock's at feed before him. The effect it had upon Harley, himself used to paint ridiculously enough ; and ascribed it to powers which few believed, and nobody cared for. Her conversation was always cheerful, but rarely witty ; and without the smallest afiectation of learn- ing, had as much sentiment in it as would have puzzled a Turk, upon his principles of female materialism, to account for. Her benificence was unbounded ; indeed the natural tenderness of her heart might have been argued, by the frigidity of a casuist, as detracting from her virtue in this res- pect, for her humanity was a feeling, not a principle : but minds like Harley's are not very apt to make this distinction, and generally give our virtue credit for all that benevolence which is instinctive in our nature. As her father had for some years retired to the country, Harley had frequent opportunities of see- ing her. He looked on her for some time merely with that respect and admiration v^diich her appear- ance seemed to demand, and the opinion of others MAN OF FEELING. 11 conferrred upon her : from this cause, iierhaps, and from that extreme sensibility of which we have taken frequent notice, Harley was remarkably silent in her presence. He heard her sentiments with peculiar attention, sometimes with looks very expressive of approbation ; but seldom declared his opinion on the subject, much less made compli- ments to the lady on the justness of her remarks. From this very reason it was, that Miss Walton frequently took more particular notice of him than of other visitors, who, by the laws of precedency, were better entitled to it ; it was a mode of polite- ness she had peculiarly studied, to bring to the line of that equality, which is ever necessary for the ease of our guests, those whose sensibility had placed below it. Harley saw this ; for though he was a child in the drama of the world, yet it was not altogether owing to a want of knowledge on his part; on the contrary, the most delicate consciousness of propriety often kindled that blush which marred the performance of it : this raised his esteem something above what the most sanguine descriptions of her goodness had been able to do; for certain it is, that notwith- stan-ding the laboured definitions which very wise men have given us of the inherent beauty of virtue, we are always inclined to think her handsomest when she condescends to smile upon ourselves. It would be trite to observe the easy gradation from esteem to love : in the bosom of Harley there scarce needed a transition ; for there were certain seasons when his ideas were flushed to a degree much above their common complexion. In times i2 MAN OF FEELING. not credulous of inspiration, we should account for this from some natural cause ; but we do not mean to account for it at all ; it were sufficient to describe its effects ; but they were sometimes so ludicrous, as might derogate from the dignity of the sensations which i^roduced them to describe. They were treated indeed as such by most of Harley's sober friends, who often laughed very heartily at the awkward blunders of the real Hariey, when the different faculties which should have prevented them, were entirely occux:)ied by the ideal. In some of these paroxysms of fancy, Miss Walton did not fail to be introduced ; and the picture, which had been drawn amidst the surrounding objects of un- noticed levity, was now singled out to be viewed through the medium of romantic imagination: it was imj^roved of course, and esteem was a word inexpressive of the feelings which it excited. CHAPTER. XIV. He sets out on his Joiuiieif. — The Beggar and his Dog. He had taken leave of his aunt on the eve of his in- tended departure ; but the good lady's affection for her nephew interrupted her sleep, and early as it was next morning when Hariey came down stairs to set out, he found her in the parlour with a tear on her cheek, and her caudle-cup in her hand. She knew enough of physic to prescribe against going abroad of a moriiing with an empty stomach. She gave her MAN OF FEELING. 13 blessing with the draught : her instructions she h?^d (delivered the night before. They consisted mostly iof negatives ; for London, in her idea, was so replete f with temptations that it needed the whole armour ^ of her friendly cautions to repel their attacks. Peter stood at the door. We have mentioned this faithful fellow form.erly : Hariey's father had taken him up an orphan, and saved him from being cast on the parish ; and he had ever since rema^ined in the service of him and his son. Harley shook him I by the hand as he passed, smiling, as if he had said, jj I will not weep. He sprang hastily into the chaise I that waited for him : Peter folded uj) the step. My dear master (said he, shaking the solitary lock that hung on either side of his head), I have been told as how London is a sad place. — He was choked ^ with the thought, and his benediction could not be 'I heard: — But it shall be heard, honest Peter ! where these tears will add to its energ}^ Tn a few hours Harley reached the inn where he in'oposed breakfasting ; but the fullness of his heart Avould not suffer him to eat a morsel. He walked out on the road, and, gaining a little height, stood gazing on the quarter he had left. He looked for his wonted })rospect, his fields, his woods, a.nd his hills : they were lost in the distant clouds ! He pencilled them on the clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh ! He sat down on a large stone to take out a litle pebble from his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching him. He had on a loo^e sort of coat mended with different coloured rags, amongs t which the blue and the russet were the predominant. MAN 01' FEKLING. He had a sliort kiioty stick in his hand, and on the top of it was stuck a ram's horn ; his knees (though he was no pilgram ) had worn the stuff of hisbreeches ; he wore no shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which should have covered his feet and ancles : in his face, hovvever, was the plump ap- pearance of good humour ; he walked a good round pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. Our delicacies, said Harley to himself, are fantas- tic ; they are not in nature ! that beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, while I have lost the most delightful dream in the world, from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe. — The beggar had by this time come uj). and, i)ulling off a piece of hat, asked charity of Harley : the dog began to beg to : — it was impossible to resist both ; and, in truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before. The beggar, on receiving it I)oured forth blessings without number ; and, with a sort of a smile on his countenance, said to Harley, that if he wanted to have his fortune told — Harley turned his eye briskl}/ on the beggar : it was an un- promising look for the subject of a prediction, and silenced the i)rophet immediately. I would much rather learn, said Harley, what it is in your power to tell me : your trade must be an entertaining one sit down on this stone, and let me know something of your profession : I have often thought of turning fortune-teller for a week or two myself. Master, replied the beggar, I like your frankness much; God knows I had the humour of plain dealing in me from a child ; but there is no doing with it in MAN OF FEELING. 15 : this world we must live as we can, and lying is, as lyou call it, my profession : but I was in some sort ifbrced to the trade, for I dealt once in telling truth. ; I was a labourer, sir, and gained as much as to \ make me live : 1 never laid by indeed : for I was S reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I take ; it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley. So, said Harley, : you seem to know me. Ay, there are few folks in 1 the country that I don't know something of : How should I tell fortunes else ? True ; but to go on with your story : you were a labourer, you say, I and a wag ; your industry, I suppose, you left with f your old trade ; but your humour you preserve to \ be of use to you in your new. j What signifies sadness, sir ? a man grows lean on't : but 1 was brought to my idleness by degrees ; I first I could not work, and it went against my f stomach to work ever after. 1 was seized with a • jail fever at the time of the assizes being in the i county where I lived ; for I was always curious to get acquainted with the felons, because they are commonly fellows of much mirth and little thought, qualities I had ever an esteem for. In the height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house where I lay- took fire, and burned to the ground ; I was carried out in that condition, and lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the better of my disease, however, but I was so weak that I spit blood when- ever I attempted to work. I had no relation living that I knew of, and I never kept a friend above a week, when I was able to joke ; I seldom reniained above six months in a parish, so that I might have died before I had found ii settlement in any : thus MAN OF FEELhNG. I was forced to beg my bread and a sorry trade 1 found it, ]\lr. Harley. I told all niy misfortunes truly, but they were seldom believed ; and the few who gave me a lialfpenny as they passed did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In short, I found that people don't care to give alms without some security for their money; a wooden leg or a Avither- ed arm is a sort of draught upon heaven for those who choose to have their money placed to account there ; so 1 changed my x^lan, and, instead of telling my own misfortunes, began to prophecy happiness to others. This I found by much the better way : follis will always listen when the tale is their own ; and of many who say they do not believe in fortune- telling, I have known few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of their acquaintance ; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned among servants and neighbours ; and, indeed, people themselves are the best intelli- gencers in the world for our purpose : they dare not i)uzzle us for their own sakes, for every one is anxious to hear what they w ish to believe ; and they who repeat it, to laugh ?,.t it when they have done, are generally more serious than their hearers are apt to imagine. V\^ith a tolerable good memor}^, and some share of cunning, w^ith the helj) of v.alk- ing a-nights over heaths and churchyards, with this, and showing the tricks of thai: there dog, whom I stole from the sei'jeant of a marching regiment (and by the wjiy, he can steal too upon occasion), 1 made shift to pick up a livelihood. My trade, indeed; is none of the honc^tcfjl ; yet people are net MAN OF FEELING. 17 much cheated neither, who give a few halfpence i for a prospect of happiness, which I have heard some 13 arsons say is ail a man can arrive at in this world. — But I must bid you good day, sir ; for I have three miles to walk before noon, to inform some boarding-school young ladies, whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm or captains in the army : a question which I promised to an- swer them by that time. Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket : but Virtue bade him consider on whom he was going to bestow it. — Virtue held back his arm : — but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue's, not so severe as Virtue nor so serious as Pity, smiled upon him ; his fingers lost their compres- sion; — nor did Virtue offer to catch tlie money as it fell. It had no sooner reached the ground than the watchful cur (a trick he had been taught) snap- ped it up ; and, contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, delivered it immediately into the hands of his master. ***** <«■ ^^■ CHAPTER XIX. Ue makes a second Expedition to the Baronefs. — The laudable Ambition of a young Man to he thought something by the W orld. We have related in a former chapter the little suc- cess of his fir^t visit to the great man, for whom he c 18 MAN OF FEELING. had the introductory letter from Mr. Walton. To people of equal sensibility, the influence of those trifles we mentioned on his deportment will not ap- pear surprising ; but to his friends in the country they could not be stated, nor would they have al- lowed them any place in the account. In some of their letters, therefore, which he received soon after, they expressed their surprise at his not hav- ing been more urgent in his application, and again recommended the blushless assiduity of successful merit. He resolved to make another attempt at the baronet's ; fortified with higher notions of his own dignity, and with less apprehension of repulse. In his way to Grosvenor Square he began to ruminate on the folly ' of mankind, who affix those ideas of superiority to riches, which reduced the minds of men, by nature equal with the more fortunate, to that sort of servility which he felt in his own. By the time he had reached the square, and was walk- ing along the pavement which led to the baronet's, he had brought his reasoning on the subject to such a point, that the conclusion, by every rule of logic, should have led him to a thorough indifference in his approaches to a fellow mortal, whether that fellow mortal was possessed of six, or six thousand pounds a year. It is probable, however, that the premises had been improperly formed ; for it is certain that, when he approached the great man's door, he felt his heart agitated by an unusual pulsa- tion. He had almost reached it, when he observed a young gentleman coming out, dressed in a white MAN OF FEELING. 19 frock and a red laced waistcoat, with a small switch in his hand, which he seemed to manage with a particular good grace. As he passed him on the steps, the stranger very politely made him a bow, I which Harley returned, though he could not re- member ever having seen him before. He asked , Harley, in the same civil manner. If he were going to wait on his friend the baronet \ For I was just calling, said he, and am sorry to find that he is gone for some days into the country. Harley thanked him for his information ; and was turning : from the door, when the other observed, that it [ would be proper to leave his name, and very obligingly knocked for that purpose. Here is a gentleman, Tom, who meant to have waited on ; your master. Your name, if you please, sir ? Harley. — You'll remember, Tom, Harley. — The door was shut. Smce we are here, said he, we shall not lose our walk, if we add a little to it by a turn or two in Hyde Park. He accompanied this proposal with a second bow, and Harley accepted of it by another in return. The conversation as they walked was brilliant on the side of his companion. The playhouse, the ^ opera, with every occurrence in high life, he seem- ed perfectly master of ; and talked of some reign- ing beauties of quality, in a manner the most feel- ing in the world. Harley admired the happiness of his vivacity ; and, opposite as it was to the reserve of his own nature, began to be »much pleased with its effects. Though 1 am not of opinion with some wise men, that the existence of objects depends on idea ; yet c 2 20 MAN OF FEELING. I am convinced that tlieir appearance is not a little influenced by it. The optics of some minds are in so unlucky a perspective, as to throw a certain shade on every picture that is presented to them ; while those of others (of which number was Harley), like the mirrors of the ladies, have a wonderful effect in bettering- their complexions. Through such a medium, perhaps, he was looking on his present companion. When they had finished their walk, and were re- turning by the corner of the Park, they observed a board hung out of a window, signifying " an excel- lent ORDINARY on Saturdays and Sundays." It happened to be Saturday, and the table was covered for the purpose. What if we should go in and dine here, if you happen not to be engaged, sir ? said the young gentleman. It is not impossible but we shall meet with some original or other ; it is a sort of humour I like hugely. Harley made no objection ; and the stranger showed him the way into the parlour. He was placed, by the courtesy of his intro- ductor,in an arm-chair that stood atone side of the fire. Over against him was seated a man of a grave considering aspect, with that look of sober prudence which indicates what is commonly called a warm man. He wore a pretty large wig, which had once been white, but was now of a brownish yellow ; his coat was one of those modest-coloured drabs, which mock the injuries of dust and dirt ; two jack-boots concealed in part the well-mended knees of an old pair of buckskin breeches, while the spotted hand- kerchief round his neck preserved at once its owner MAN OF rEELIxVG. 21 from catching cold and liis neckcloth from being dirted. Next him sat anotlier man with a tankard in his hand, and a quid of tobacco in his cheek, whose eye was rather more vivacious, and whose dress was something smarter. The first-mentioned gentleman took notice, that the room had been so lately washed as not to have had time to dry; and remarked, that wet lodging was unwholesome for man or beast. He looked round at the same time for a poker to stir the fire with, which, he at last observed to the company, the people of the house had removed, in order to save their coals. This difficulty, however, he over- came, by the help of Harley's stick, saying, that as they should, no doubt, pay for the fire in some .shape or other, he saw no reason why they should not have the use of it while they sat. The door was now opened for the admission of dinner. I don't know how it is with you, gentle- men, said Harley's new acquaintance; but I am afraid I shall not be able to get down a morsel at this horrid mechanical hour of dining. He sat down, however, and did not show any want of ap- petite by his eating. He took upon him the carving of the meat, and criticised on the goodness of the pudding. When the table-cloth was removed, he proposed calling for some punch; wdiich was readily agreed to : he seemed at first inclined to make it himself, but afterwards changed his mind, and left that pro- vince to the waiter, telling him to have it pure West Indian, or he could not taste a drop of it. When the punch was brought, he undertook to 22 MAN OF FEELING. fill the glasses and call the toasts. ^" The King.'* The toast naturally produced politics. It is the privilege of Englishmen to drink the king's health, and to talk of his conduct. The man who sat op- posite to Harley (and who by this time, partly from himself, and partly from his acquaintance on his left hand, was discovered to be a grazier) observed, That it was a shame for so many pensioners to be allowed to take the bread out of the mouth of the poor. Ay, and provisions, said his friend, were never so dear in the memory of man; I wish the king and his counsellors would look to that. As for the matter of provisions, neighbour Wrightson, he replied, I am sure the prices of cattle — A dispute would have probably ensued, but it was prevented by the spruce toast-master, who gave a sentiment; and turning to the two ijoliticians. Pray, gentlemen, said he, let us have done with these musty politics: I would always leave them to the beer- suckers in Butcher Row*. Come, let us have some- thing of the fine arts. That was a damn'd hard match between the Nailor and Tim Bucket. The knowing ones were cursedly taken in there ! I lost a cool hundred myself, 'faith. At mention of a cool hundred, the grazier threw his eyes aslant, with a mingled look of doubt and surprise ; while the man at his elbow looked arch, and gave a short emphatical sort of cough. . Both seemed to be silenced, however, by this in- telligence; and, while the remainder of the punch *It may be necessary to inform readers of the present day, ttiat the noted political debating society called The Robin Hood was held at a house in Butcher Row. MAN OF FEELING. 23 lasted, the conversation was wholly engrossed by the gentleman with the line waistcoat, who told a great many immense comical stories and con- founded smart things, as he termed them, acted and spoken by lords, ladies, and young bucks of quality of his acquaintance. At last, the grazier, pulling out a watch of a very unusual size, and telling the hour, said, that he had an appointment. Is it so late ? said the young gentleman: then I am afraid T have missed an appointment already; but the truth is, I am cursedly given to missing appoint- ments. When the grazier and he were gone, Harley turned to the remaining personage, and asked him, if he knew that young gentleman ? A gentleman ! said he ; ay, he is one of your gentlemen at the top of an affidavit. I knew him, some years ago, in the quality of a footman; and, I believe, he had some- times the honour to be a pimj). At last, some of the great folks, to whom he had been serviceable in both capacities, had him made a guager; in which station he remains, and has the assurance to pre- tend an acquaintance with men of quality. The impudent dog ! with a few shillings in his pocket, he will talk you three times as much as my friend Mundy there, who is worth nine thousand if he's worth a farthing. But I know the rascal, and des- pise him as he deserves. Harley began to despise him too, and conceive some indignation at having sat with patience to hear such a fellow speak nonsense. But he cor- rected himself, by reflecting, that he was perhaps as well entertained, and instructed too, by this same 24 MAN OF FEELING. modest gunger as he should have been by such a man as he had thought proper to personate. And surely the fault may more properly be imputed to that i-ank where the futility is real, than where it is feigned; to that rank, whose opportunities for nobler accomplishments have only served to rear a fabric of folly, which the untutored hand of af- fectation, even among the meanest of mankind, can imitate with success. CHAPTER XX. He i^isits Bedlam. — The distresses of a Daughter, Of those things called sights in London, which every stranger is supposed desirous to see, Bedlam is one. To that place, therefore, an acquaintance of Harley's, after having accompanied him to several other shows, proposed a visit. Harley ob- jected to it, because said he, I think it an inhuman practise to expose the greatest misery with which our nature is afflicted, to every idle visitant who can afford a trifling perquisite to the keeper; es- pecially as it is a distress which the humane must see v/ith a painful reflection, that it is not in their power to alleviate it. He was overpowered, how- ever, by the solicita^tions of his friend and the other j>ersons of the party (amongst whom were several ladies) ; and they went in a body to Moorfieids. Their conductor led them first to the dismal man- sions of those who are in the most horrid state of MAN OF FEELING. 25 (iicuralilc iiiadiioss. The claiikiiij,^ of chains, the Avildiiess of their cries, and the imprecations which some of tliem uttered, formed a scene inexpressly siiocking. Harley and his companions, especially the female part of them, begged their guide to re- turn : he seemed surprised at their uneasiness, and ^vas with difficulty prevailed on to leave that part of the house without showing them some others; who, as he expressed it in the phrase of those that keep wild beasts for show, were much better worth seeing than any they had passed, being ten times more fierce and unmanageable. He led them next to that quarter where those re- side, who, as they are not dangerous to themselves or others, enjoy a certain degree of freedom, ac- cording to the state of their distemper. Harley had fallen behind his companions, looking at a mptU who was making pendulums with bits of thread and little balls of clay. He delineated the segment of a circle on the wall with chalk, and marked their different vibrations by intersecting it with cross lines. A decent-looking man came up, and, smiling at the maniac, turned to Harley and told him, that gentlema^n had once been a very ce- lebrated mathematician. He fell a sacrifice, said he, to the theory of comets; for having, wdth infi- nite labour, formed a table on the conjectures of Sir Isaac Newton, he was disappointed in the return of one of those luminaries, and was very soon after obliged to be placed here by his friends. 1/ you please to follow me, sir, continued the stranger, I believe 1 shall be able to give you a more satis- factory account of the unfortunate people you see 26 MAN OF FEELING. here than the man who attends your companions. Harley bowed, and accepted his olfer. The next person they came up to had scrawled a variety of figures on a piece of slate. Harley had the curiosity to take a nearer view of them. They consisted of different columns, on the top of which were marked South Sea annuities, India Stock, and Three per cent, annuities consol. This, said Har- ley 's instructor, was a gentleman well-known in Change-alley. He was once worth fifty thousand pounds, and had actually agreed for the purchase of an estate in the West, in order to realize his money ; but he quarreled with the proprietor about the repairs of the garden-wall, and so returned to town to follow his old trade of stock-jobbing a little longer; when an unlucky fluctuation of stock, in which he was engaged to an immense extent, re- duced |||m at once to poverty and to madness. Poor wretch ! he told me t'other day, that against the next payment of differences he should be some hundreds above a plum. — It is a spondee, and I will maintain it, inter- rupted a voice on his left hand. This assertion was followed by a very rapid recital of some verses from Homer. That figure, said the gentleman, whose clothes are so bedaubed with snuff, was a school-master of some reputation; he came hither to be resolved of some doubts he entertained con- cerning the genuine pronunciation of the Greek vowels. In his highest fits, he makes frequent mention of one Mr. Bentley. But delusive ideas, sir, are the motives of the greatest j^art of mankind, and a heated imagination MAN OF FEELING. 27 itlie power by which their actions are incited: the world, in the eye of a philosopher, may be said to be a large madhouse. It is true, answered Harley, V the passions of men are temporary madnesses ; and ; sometimes very fatal in their effects, " From Macedonia's madman to the Swede.'* It was, indeed, said the stranger, a very mad thing in Charles, to think of adding so vast a country as Russia to his dominions ; that would have been fatal indeed; the balance of the North would then have been lost; but the Sultan and I would never have allowed it. Sir ! said Harley, with no small surprise on his countenance. Why yes, an- swered the other, the Sultan and I ; do you know me 1 I am the Chan of Tartary. Harley was a good deal struck with this dis- covery: he had prudence enough, however, to con- ceal his amazement, and, bowing as low to the monarch as his dignity required, left him imme- diately, and joined his companions. He found them in a quarter of the house set apart from the insane of the other sex, several of whom had gathered about the female visitors, and were examining, with rather more accuracy than might have been expected, the particulars of their dress. Separate from the rest stood one, whose appear- ance had something of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, was less squalid than those of the others, and showed a dejection of that de- cent kind which moves our pity unmixed with hor- ror; upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were 28 7>IAX OP FEELING. immediately turned. The keeper, who accompanied them, observed it: this, said he, is a 3'oung lady, who was born to ride in her coach-and-six. She was beloved, if the story I have heard is true, by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means her match in fortune: but love, they say, is blind, and so she fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, would not hear of their marriage, and threatened to turn her out of doors, if ever she saw him again. Upon this the young gentleman took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of bettering his fortune and obtaining his mistress ; but he was scarce landed when he was seized with one of the fevers which are common in those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was at the same time pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly fellow, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect upon her inhuman parent; he was only the more earnest for her marriage with the man he had provided for her; and what between her despair at the death of the one, and her aver- sion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the condition you see her in. But God would not prosper such cruelty ; her father's affairs soon after went to wreck, and he died almost a beggar. Though this story was told in very plain language, it had particularly attracted Harley's notice; he had given it the tribute of some tears. The un- fortunate young lady had till now seemed entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring she wore on her finger; she turned them now MAN OF FEELING. 20 upon Harley. My Billy is no more ! said she, do you weep for my Billy ? Blessings on your tears ! 1 would weep too, but my brain is dry ; and it burns, it burns, it burns !— She drew nearer to ' Harley. — Be comforted, young lady, said he, your I Billy is in heaven. — Is he, indeed ? and shall we I meet again ? and shall that frightful man (pointing : to the keeper) not be there l — Alas ! I am grown naughty of late; I have almost forgotten to think • of Heaven: yet I pray sometimes; when I can, I pray; and sometimes I sing; when I am saddest, I sing : —you shall hear me — hush ! *' Light be the earth qn Billy's breast, And green the sod that wraps his grave." There was a plaintive wildness in the air not to be withstood; and, except the keeper's, there was not an unmoistened eye around her. Do you weep again ? said she ; I would not have you weep : you are like my Billy : you are, believe me; just so he looked when he gave me this ring; poor Billy ! 'twas the last time ever we met ! " 'Twas when the seas were roaring — " I love you for resembling my Billy; but I« shall never love any man like him. She stretched out her hand to Harley ; he pressed it between both of his, and bathed it with his tears. Nay, that is Billy's ring, said she, you cannot have it, indeed; but here is another, look here, which I plaited to- day of some gold thread from this bit of stuff ; will you keep it for my sake ? I am a strange girl; — but my heart is harmless : my poor heart; it will burst 30 MAN OF FEELING. some day ; feel how it beats ! — She pressed his hand to her bosom, then holding her head in the attitude of listening — Hark ! one, two, three 1 be quiet thou little trembler; my Billy is cold ! — but I had for- gotten the ring. She put it on his finger — Fare- well ! I must leave you now. She would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips. — I dare not stay longer; my head throbs sadly : fare- well ! — She walked with a hurried step to a little apartment at some distance. Harley stood fixed in astonishment and pity ; his friend gave money to the keeper. Harley looked on his ring. He put a couple of guineas into the man's hand. Be kind to that unfortunate— he burst into tears, and left them. CHAPTER XXI. The Misanthropist. The friend who had conducted him to Moorfields called upon him again the next evening. After some talk on the adventures of the preceding day ; I carried you yesterday, said he to Harley, to visit the mad ; let me introduce you to-night, at supper, to one of the wise ; but you must not look for any thing of the Socratic pleasantry about him ; on the contrary, I warn you to expect the spirit of a Diogenes. That you may be a little prepared for his extraordinary manner, I will let you into some particulars of his history. MAN OF FEELING. 31 I He is the elder of the two sons of a gentleman of I considerable estate in the country. Their father i died when they were young : both were remarkable : at school for quickness of parts and extent of If genius; this had been bred to no profession, be- • cause his father's fortune, which descended to him, I was thought sufficient to set him above it; the other \ was put apprentice to an eminent attorney. In this the expectations of his friends were more con- sulted than his own inclination; for both his brother i and he had feelings of that warm kind that could j ill brook a study so dry as the law, especially in : that department of it which was allotted to him. But the difference of their tempers made the character- I istical distinction between them. The younger^ i from the gentleness of his nature, bore with patience a situation entirely discordant to his ge- nius and disi^osition. At times, indeed, his pride would suggest, of how little importance those talents ' were, which the partiality of his friends had often extolled ; they were now incumbrances in a walk of life where the dull and the ignorant passed him at every turn ; his fancy and his feelings were invin- cible obstacles to eminence in a situation where his fancy had no room for exertion, and his feeling experienced perpetual disgust. But these mur- ' murings he never suffered to be heard ; and that he might not offend the prudence of those who had been concerned in the choice of his profession, he ' continued to labour in it several years, till, by the death of a relation, he succeeded to an estate of a ' little better than £100 a-year; with which, and the small patrimony left him, he retired into the coun- i 32 MAN OF FEELING. try, and made a love-match with a young lady of a similar temper to his own, with whom the sagacious world pitied him for finding happiness. But his elder brother, whom you are to see at supper, if you will do us the favour of your com- pany, was naturally impetuous, decisive, and over- bearing. He entered into life with those ardent expectations by v/hich young men are commonly deluded; in his friendships warm to excess, and equally violent in his dislikes. He was on the brink of marriage with a young lady, when one of those friends, for whose honour he would have i^awned his life, made an elopement with that very goddess, and left him besides deeply engaged for sums which that good friend's extravagance had squandered. | Tlie dreams he had formerly enjoyed were now I changed for ideas of a very different nature. He abjured all confidence in anything of human form; sold his lands, which still produced liim a very large reversion, came to town, and immured himself with a woman who had been his nurse, in little better than a garret; and has ever since applied his talents to the vilifying of his species. In one thing I must take the liberty to instruct you : how ever different your sentiments may be (and different they must be), you will suffer him to go on without contradiction; otherwise he will be silent imme- diately, and we shall not get a word from him all the night after. Harley promised to remember this injunction, and accepted the invitation of his friend. When they arrived at the house, they were in- formed that the gentleman was corae, and had been MAN OF FEELING. 33 Bhown into the parlour. They found him sitting with a daughter of his friend's, about three years old, on his knee, whom he was teaching the alpha- bet from a horn-book ; and at a little distance stood a sister of hers, some years older. Get you away, miss, said he to this last ; you are a pert gossip, and I will have nothing to do with you. Nay, an- swered she, Nancy is your favourite; you are quite in love with Nancy. Take away that girl, said he to her father, whom he now observed to have en- tered the room, she has woman about her already. The children were accordingly dismissed. Betwixt that and supper time he did not utter a syllable. When supper came, he quarrelled with every dish at table, but ate of them all ; only ex- empting from his censures a salad, which you have not spoiled, said he, because you have not at- tempted to cook it. When the wine was set upon the table, he took from his pocket a particular smoking apparatus, and filled his pipe, without taking any more notice of Harley or his friend than if no such persons had been in the room. Harley could not help stealing a look of surprise at him ; but his friend, who knew his humour, re- turned it, by annihilating his presence in the like manner; and leaving him to his own meditations, addressed himself entirely to Harley. In their discourse some mention happened to be made of an amiable character, and the words honour 2indipolite7ie§s were applied to it. Upon this ' the gentleman, laying down his pipe, and changing the tone of his countenance from an ironical 34 MAN OF FEELING. grill to sometliinc^ more intensely contemptuous i Honour, said lie. Honour and Politeness ! this is the coin of the world, and passes current with the fools of it. You have substituted the shadow Honour instead of the substance Virtue; and have banished the reality of friendship for the fictitious semblance which you have termed Politeness : Politeness, which consists in a certain ceremonious jargon, more ridiculous to the ear of reason than the voice of a puppet. You have invented sounds, which you worship, though they tyrannize over your peace; and are surrounded with empty forms, which take from the honest emotions of joy, and add to the poignancy of misfortune. Sir, said Harley His friend winked to him, to remind him of the caution he had received. He was silenced by the thought. — -The j)hilosopher turned his eye upon him : he examined him from top to toe, with a sort of triumphant contempt. Harley's coat happened to be a new one : the other's was as shabby as could possibly be supposed to be on the back of a gentleman; there was much significance in his look with regard to his coat; it spoke the sleekness of folly, and the threadbareness of wisdom. Truth, continued he, the most amiable as well as the most natural of virtues, you are at pains to eradicate. Your very nurseries are seminaries of falsehood; and what is called fashion in manhood comjDletes the system of avowed insincerity. Man- kind in the gross is a gaping monster, that loves to be deceived, and has seldom been disappointed; nor is their vanity less fallacious to your philoso- MAN OF FEELING. 35 I^iiers, who adopt modes of truth to follow them through the paths of error, and defend paradoxes merely to be singular m defendmg them. These are they whom ye term Ingenious; 'tis a phrase of commendation I detest; it implies an attempt to impose on my judgment by flattering my imagina- tion; yet these are they whose works are read by the old with delight, which the young are taught to look upon as the codes of knowledge and philosophy. Indeed, the education of your youth is every way preposterous; you waste at school years in im- proving talents, without having ever spent an hour in discovering them ; one promiscuous line of in- struction is followed, without regard to genius, capacity, or probable situation in the common- wealth. From this beargarden of the pedagogue, a raw unprincipled boy is turned loose upon the world to travel, without any ideas but those of im- proving his dress at Paris, or starting into taste by gazing on some paintings at Rome. Ask him of the manners of the i)eople, and he will tell you that the skirt is worn much shorter in France, and that every body eats macaroni in Italy. When he returns home, he buys a seat in Parliament, and studies the constitution at Arthur's. Nor are your females trained to any more useful purpose: they are taught, by the very rewards which their nurses propose for good behaviour, by the first thing like a jest which they hear from every male visitor of the family, that a young woman is a creature to be married; and when they are grown somewhat older, are instructed, that it is D 2 36 MAN OF FEELING. the purpose of marriage to have the enjoyment of pin-money, and the expectation of a jointure. * These indeed are the effects of luxury, which is perhaps inseparable from a certain degree of power and grandeur in a nation. But it is not simply of the progress of luxury that we have to complain : did its votaries keep in their own sphere of thoughtless dissipation, we might despise them without emotion ; but the frivolous pursuits of I)leasure are mingled with the most important concerns of the state ; and public enterprise shall sleep till he who should guide its operation has decided his bets at Newmarket, or fulfilled his en- gagement with a favourite mistress in the country. We want some man of acknowledged eminence to | point our counsels with that firmness which thof counsels of a great people require. We have hun- dreds of ministers, who press forward into office, without having ever learned that art which is necessary for every business, the art of thinking ; and mistake the petulance, which could give in- spiration to smart sarcasms on an obnoxious mea- sure in a popular assembly, for the ability which is to balance the interest of kingdoms, and investi- gate the latent sources of national sui3eriority. * Though the Curate could not remember having shown this chapter to any body, I strongly suspect that these poli- tical observations are the work of a later pen than the rest of this performance. There seems to have been, by some acci- dent, a gap in the manuscript, from the words " expectation of a jointure," to these, " In short, man is an animal," where the present blank ends ; and some other person (for the hand ' is different, and the ink whiter) has filled part of it with sentiments of his cwn. Whoever he was, he seems to have caught some portion of the spirit of the man he personated. MAN OF FEELING. 37 With the administration of such men the people . can never be satisfied ; for, besides that their con- ^ fidence is gained only by the view of superior ■ talents, there needs that depth of knowledge, which ; is not only acquainted with the just extent of power, but can also trace its connexion with the expedient, to preserve its possessors from the contempt which attends irresolution, or the resentment which fol- \ lows temerity. [Here a considerable part is wanting.] f * * In short, man is an animal equally selfish and i vain. Vanity, indeed, is but a modification of sel- fishness. From the latter, there are some who pretend to be free : they are generally such as declaim against the lust of v/ealth and power, be- cause they have never been able to obtain any high degree in either ; they boast of generosity and feeling. They tell us (perhaps they tell us in rhyme) that the sensations of an honest heart, of a mind universally benevolent, make up the quiet bliss which they enjoy ; but they will not, by this, be exempted from the charge of selfishness. — Whence the luxurious happiness they describe in their little family circles % Whence the pleasure which they feel when they trim their evening fires, , and listen to the howl of vvinter's wind ? Whence, but from the secret reflection of what houseless wretches feel from it ? Or do you administer com- fort in afiiiction — the motive is at hand ; I have had it preached to me in nineteen out of twenty of I 3B MAN OF FEELING. your consolatory discourses — the comparative little- ness of our own misfortunes. With vanity your best virtues are grossly tainted ; your benevolence, which ye deduce immediately from the natural impulse of the heart, squints to it for its rew^ard. There are some, indeed, who tell us of the satisfaction which flows from a secret con- sciousness of good actions ; this secret satisfaction is truly excellent — when we have some friend to whom we may discover its excellence. He now paused a moment to relight his pipe, when a clock, that stood at his back, struck eleven : he started up at the sound, took his hat and his cane, and nodding good night with his head, walked out of the room. The gentleman of the house called a servant to bring the stranger's surtout. What sort of a night is it, fellow ? said he. It rains, sir, answered the servant, with an easterly wind.— Easterly for ever ! — He made no other reply ; but, shrugging up his shoulders till they almost touched his ears, wrapped himself tight in his great coat, and disappeared. This is a strange creature, said his friend to Harley. I cannot say, answered he, that his re- marks are of the pleasant kind : it is curious to observe how the nature of truth may be changed by the garb it wears ; softened to the admonition of friendship, or soured into the severity of reproof ; yet this severity may be useful to some tempers ; it somewhat resembles a file ; disagreeable in its operation, but hard m.etals may be the brighter for it. MAN OF FEELR^G. 39 CHAPTER XXV. His SJcill in Phisiognomy. The company at the baronet's removed to the play- house accordingly, and Harley took his usnal rente into the Park. He observed, as he entered, a fresh-looking elderly gentleman in conversation with a beggar, who, leaning on his crutch, was re- counting the hardships he had undergone, and explaining the wretchedness of his present condi- tion. This v/as a very interesting dialogue to Harley ; he was rude enough therefore to slacken his pace as he approached, and at last to make a full stop at the gentleman's back, wlio was just then expressing his compassion for the beggar, and regretting that he had not a farthing of change about him. At saying this he looked piteously on the fellow ; there was something in his phisiognomy which caught Harley 's notice ; indeed phisiognomy was one of Harley's foibles, for which he had been often re- buked by his aunt in the country ; who used to tell him, that when he was come to her years and ex- perience, he would know that all's not gold that glitters ; and it must be owned, that his aunt was a very sensible, harsh-looking, maiden lady of three- score and upwards. But he was too apt to forget this caution ; and now, it seems, it had not occurred to him : stepping up, therefore, to the gentleman, who was lamenting the want of silver, Your inten- tions, sir, said he, are so good that I cannot help lending you my assistance to carry them into exe- 40 MAN OF FEELING. cution, — and gave the beggar a shilling. The other returned a suitable compliment, and extolled the benevolence of Harley. They kept walking to- gether, and benevolence grew the topic of discourse. The stranger was fluent on the subject. There is no use of money, said he, equal to that of bene- ficence : with the profuse, it is lost, and even with those who lay it out according to the prudence of the world, the objects acquired by it pall on the sense, and have scarce become our own till they lose their value with the power of pleasing : but here the enjoyment grows on reflection, and our money is most truly ours when it ceases to be in our possession. Yet I agree in some measure, answered Harley, with those who think, that charity to our common beggars is often misplaced ; there are objects less obtrusive whose title is a better one. We cannot easily distinguish, said the stranger ; and even of the worthless, are there not many whose imprudence, or whose vice, may have been one dreadful consequence of misfortune ? Harley looked again in his face, and blessed him- self for his skill in phisiognomy. By this time they had reached the end of the walk, the old gentleman leaned on the rails to take breath, and in the meantime they were joined by a younger man, whose figure was much above the appearance of his dress, which was poor and shabby : Harley's former companion addressed hira as an acquaintance, and they turned on the walk together. The elder of tho strangers complained of the MAN OF FEELING. 41 : closeness of the evening, and asked the other, If he ■ would ■ go with him into the house hard by, and ? take one draught of excellent cider. The man who keeps this house, said he to Harley, was once a servant of mine : I could not think of turning loose g upon the world a faithful old fellow, for no other f reason but that his age had incapacitated him : so I gave him an aiAiuity of ten pounds, with the help of which he has set up this little place here, and his daughter goes and sells milk in the city, while her father manages his tap-room, as he calls it, at ■ home. I can't well ask a gentleman of your ap- pearance to accompany me to so paltry a place. f — Sir, replied Harley interrupting him, I would i much rather enter it than the most celebrated tavern in town : to give to the necessitous may sometimes be a weakness in the man ; to encourage indsutry is a duty in the citizen. They entered the house accordingly. On a table at the corner of the room lay a pack of cards, loosely thrown together. The old gentle- man reproved the man of the house for encourag- ing so idle an amusement. Harley attempted to defend him, from the necessity of accommodating himself to the humour of his guests, and, taking up the cards, began to shuffle them backwards and forwards in his hand. Nay, I don't think cards so unpardonable , an amusement as some do, replied I the other ; and now and then, about this time of the evening, when my eyes begin to fail me for my book, I divert myself with a game at piquet, with- out finding my morals a bit relaxed by it. Do you play piquet, sir ? (to Harley.) Harley answered in I 42 MAN' OF FEELING. tlie affirmative ; upon wliicli the other proposed plajdng a pool at a shilling a game, doubling the stakes ; adding, that he never played higher with any body. Harley's good-nature could not refuse the bene- volent old man ; and the younger stranger, though he at first pleaded prior engagements, yet, being ea3:*nestly solicited by his friend,^at last yieided to solicitation. When they began to play, the old gentleman, somewhat to tlie surprise of Harley, produced ten shillings to serve for markers of his score. He had no change for the beggar, said Harley to himself ; but I can easily account for it : it is curious to ob- serve the affection that inanimate things v/ill create in us by a long acquaintance : if I may judge from my own feelings, the old man would not part with one of these counters for ten times its intrinsic value ; it even got the better of his benevolence ! I myself have a pair of old brass sleeve-buttons — Here he was interrupted by being told that the old gentleman had beat the younger, and that it was his turn to take up the conqueror. Your game has been short, said Harley. I repiqued him, answer- ed the old man, with joy sparkling in his coun- tenance. Harley v^dshed to be repiqued too, but he was disappointed ; for he had the same good for- tune against his opponent. Indeed, never did for- tune, mutable as she is, delight in mutability so much as at that moment : the victory was so quick, and so constantly alternate, that the stakes in a short time amounted to no less a sura than £10, Harley's proportion of which was within half a MAN OF FEELING, 43 guinea of tlie money he had in his jiocket. He had before i)roposed a division, but the old gentleman I opposed it with such a pleasant warmth in his : manner, that it was alwaj^s overruled. Now, how- i ever, he told them that he had an appointment with 1; some gentlemen, and it was within a few minutes of [ his hour. The younger stranger had gained one game, and was engaged in the second with the other ; they agreed, therefore, that the stake should : be divided, if the old gentleman won that ; which was more than probable, as his score was 90 to 35, f and he was elder hand : but a momentous repique decided it in favour of his adversary, who seemed } to enjoy his victory mingled with regret for having i won too much ; while his friend, with great ebul- lience of paision, many praises of his own good play, and many maledictions on the power of chance, took up the cards and threw them into the fire. CHAPTER XXVI. The Man of Feeling in a Brothel, The company he was engaged to meet were assem- bled in Fleet Street. He had walked some time I along the Strand, amidst a crowd of those wretches who wait the uncertain wages of prostitution, with ideas of pity suitable to the scene around him, and ■ the feelings he possessed, and had got as far as Somerset House when one of them laid hold of his I 44 MAN OF FEELING. arm, and, with a voice tremulous and faint, asked.; him for a pint of wine, in a manner more supplica- . tory than is usual with those whom the infamy of f their profession has deprived of shame : he turned - round at the demand, and looked steadfastly on the person who made it. She was above the common size, and elegantly formed; her face was thin and hollow, and showed • the remains of tarnished beauty. Her eyes w^ere black, but had little of their lustre left : her cheeks , had some paint laid on without art, and productive | of no advantage to her complexion, which exhibited | a deadly paleness on the other parts of her face. Harley stood in the attitude of hesitation; which she interpreting to her advantage, repeated her: request, and endeavoured to force a leer of invita- tion into her countenance. He took her arm, and I they walked on to one of those obsequious taverns - in the neighbourhood, where the dearness of the wine is a discharge in full for the character of the house. From what impulse he did this we do not ^ mean to inquire ; has it has ever been against our ^ nature to search for motives where bad ones are to be found.- — They entered, and a Avaiter showed them a room, and placed a bottle of claret on the table. Harley filled the lady's glass ; which she had no sooner tasted than, dropping it on the floor, and eagerly catching his arm, her eye grew fixed, her lip assumed a clayey whiteness, and she fell back lifeless in her chair. Harley started from his seat, and, catching her in his arms, supported her from falling to the MAN OF FEELING. 45 I (ground, looking wildly at the door, as if he want- ^ ed to run for assistance, but durst not leave the miserable creature. It was not till some minutes after that it occurred to him to ring the bell, which at last however he thought of, and rang with re- peated violence even after the waiter appeared. Luckily the waiter had his senses somewhat more about him ; and snatching up a bottle of water, ' which stood on a beaufet at the end of the room, he sprinkled it over the hands and face of the dying figure before him, She began to revive, and with the assistance of some hartshorn drops, which Harley now for the first time drew from his loocket, was able to desire the waiter to bring her a crust of \ bread, of which she swallowed some mouthfuls with the appearance of the keenest hunger. The waiter ■ withdrew; when, turning to Harley, sobbing at the same time, and shedding tears, I am sorry, sir, that I should have given you so much trouble ; but you will pity me when I tell you that till now I have not tasted a morsel these two days past. — He fixed his ' eyes on hers — every circumstance but the last was forgotten ; and he took her hand with as much respect as if she was a duchess. It was ever the privilege of misfortune to be revered by him. — Two da;^s ! — I said he ; and I have fared sumptuously every day ! i — He was reaching to the bell; she understood his I meaning, and prevented him. I beg, sir, said she, i| that you would give yourself no more trouble about a wretch who does not wish to live ; but, at present, I could not eat a bit; my stomach even rose at the " last mouthful of that crust.— He offered to call a chair, saying that he hoped a little rest would relieve 46 MAN OF FEELING, lier. — He liad one half guinea left : I am sorry, lie said, that at present I should be able to make you , an offer of no more than this paltry sum. — She| burst into tears. Your generosity, sir, is abused ;| to bestow it on me is to take it from the virtuous : ! I have no title but misery to plead ; misery of my \ own procuring. No more of that, answered Harley, ' there is virtue in those tears ; let the fruit of them ; be virtue. — He rang, and ordered a chair. — Though I I am the vilest of beings, said she, I have not for- gotten every virtue; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have left, did I but know who is my benefactor. — My name is Harley — Could I ever have an opportunity — You shall, and a glorious one too ! your future conduct — but I do not mean to re- j)roach you — if I say it will be the noblest reward — I will do myself the i)leasure of seeing you again. — Here the waiter entered, and told them the chair was at the door. The lady informed Harley of her lodgings, and he promised to wait on her at ten next morning. He led her to the chair, and returned to clear with the waiter, without ever once reflecting that he had no money in his pocket. He was ashamed to make an excuse ; yet an excuse must be made : he was beginning to frame one, when the waiter cut him short, by telling him that he could not run-; scores ; but that, if he would leave his watch, or ; any other pledge, it would be as safe as if it lay in his pocket. Harley jumped at the i)roposal, and, pulling out his watch delivered it into his hands immediately ; and having, for once, had the i)re- caution to take a note of the lodging he intended to MAN OF FEELING. 47 [visit next morning, sallied forth witli a blush of 'triumph on his face, without taking notice of the ' sneer of the waiter, who twirling the v/atch in his hand, made him a profound bow at the door, and . whispered to a girl, who stood in the passage, some- thing, in which the word cully was honoured with la particular emi)hasis. CHAPTER XXVIL His Skill in Phisiognomy is doubted, i After he had been sometime with the company he fhad appointed to meet, and the last bottle was called 'for, he first recollected, that he would be again at a loss how to discharge his share of the reckoning. He applied therefore to one of them, with whom he was most intimate, acknowledging that he had not a farthing of money about him ; and, upon be- ing jocularly asked the reason, acquainted them with the two adventures we have just now related. One of the company asked him, If the old man in Hyde Park did not wear a brownish coat, with a j narrow gold edging, and his companion an* old ^reen frock, with a buif-coloured waistcoat. Upon Harley's recollecting that they did, Then, said he, you may be thankful you have come off so well ; they are two as noted sharpers, in their way, as any 'in town, and but t'other night took me in for a much larger sum : I had some thoughts of applying to a .justice, but one does not like to be seen in those j matters. 48 MAN OF FEELING. Harley answered, That lie could not but fancy the gentleman was mistaken, as he never saw a face promise more honestly than that of the old man he had met with. — His face 1 said a grave-looking man, who sat opposite to him, squirting the juice of his tobacco obliquely into the grate. There was something very emphatical in the action : for it was followed by a burst of laughter round the table. Gentlemen, said Harley, you are disposed to be merry ; it may be as you imagine, for I confess myself ignorant of the town ; but there is one thing which makes me bear the loss of my money with temper ; the young fellow who won it must have been miserably poor : I observed him borrow money for the stake from his friend : he had distress and hunger in his countenance : be his character what it may, his necessities at least X)lead for him. — At this there was a louder laugh than before. Gentlemen, said the lawyer, one of whose conversa- tions with Harley we have already recorded, here's a very pretty fellow for you ; to have heard him talk some nights ago, as I did, you might have sworn he was a saint ; yet now he games with shari3ers, and loses his money ; and is bubbled by a fine story invented by a v/hore, and pawns his watch : — here are sanctified doings with a witness I Young gentleman, said his friend on the other side of the table, let me advise you to be a little more cautious for the future ; and as for faces — you may look into them to know whether a man's nose be a long or a short one. MAN OF FESLING. 49 CHAPTER XXVIII. He keeps his Appointment. The last night's raillery of his companions was recalled to his remembrance when he awoke, and the colder homiiies of prudence begp.n to suggest some things which were nowise favourable for a performance of his promise to the unfortunate female he had met with before. He rose uncertain of his purpose ; but the torpor of such considera- tions was seldom prevalent over the warmth of his nature. He walked some turns backvv^ards and for- wards in his room ; he recalled the languid form of the fainting wretch to his mind : he wept at the recollection of her tears. " Though I am the vilest of beings, I have not forgotten every virtue ; gra- titude, I hope, I shall still have left." — He took a larger stride — Powers of mercy that surround me ! cried he, do ye not smile upon deeds like these ? to calculate the chances of deception is too tedious a business for the life of man ! — the clock struck ten ! When he was got down stairs, he found that he had forgot the note of her lodgings ; he gnawed his lips at the delay : he vv^as fairly on the pavement, when he recollected having left his purse ! he did l^but just prevent himself from articulating an im- ! precation. He rushed a second time up into his chamber. What a wretch I am ! said he : ere this time, perhaps — 'Twas a perhaps not to be borne ; —two vibrations of a pendulum would have served 50 IVIAN OF FEELING. liim to lock his bureau ; — but they could not be spared. When he reached the house, and inquh^ed for Miss Atkins (for that was the lady's name), he was shown up three pair of stairs into a small room lighted by one narrow lattice, and patched round with shreds of different-coloured paper. In the darkest corner stood something like a bed, before which a tattered coverlet hung by way of curtain. He had not waited long when she appeared. Her face had the glister of new washed tears on it. I am ashamed, sir, said she, that you should have taken this fresh piece of trouble about one so little worthy of it : but, to the humane, I know there is a pleasure in goodness for its own sake ; if you have patience for the recital of my story, it may palliate, though it cannot excuse my faults. Harley bowed, as a sign of assent ; and she began as follows : I am the daughter of an officer, whom a service of forty years had advanced no higher than the rank of captain. I have had hints from himself, and been informed by others, that it was in some j measure owing to those principles of rigid honour which it was his boast to possess, and which he early inculcated on me, that he had been able to arrive at no better station. My mother died when I was a child ; old enough to grieve for her death, but incapable of remembering her precepts. Though my father was dotingly fond of her, yet there were some sentiments in which they materially differed; she had been bred from her infancy in the strictest principles of religion, and took the morality of her conduct fi'om the motives which an adherence to MAN OF FEELING. 51 those principles suggested. My fatlier, who had been in the army from his youth, affixed an idea of pusillanimity to that virtue which was formed by the doctrines, excited by the rewards, or guarded by the terrors of revelation ; his darling idol was the honour of a soldier ; a term which he held in such reverence that he used it for his most sacred asseveration. When my mother died, I was suf- fered to continue in those sentiments which her instructions had produced ; but soon after, though from respect to her memory, my father did not ab- solutely ridicule them, yet he showed, in his dis- course to others, so little regard to them, and at times suggested to me motives of action so different, that I was soon weaned from opinions, which I '; began to consider as the dreams of superstition, or \ the artful inventions of designing hypocrisy. My ; mother's books were left behind at the different • quarters we removed to, and my reading was prin- ci]^ally confined to plays, novels, and those poetical descriptions of the beauty of virtue and honour I which the circulating libraries easily afforded. As I was generally reckoned handsome, and the quickness of my parts extolled by all our visitors*, my father had a pride in showing me to the world. I was young, giddy, open to adulation, and vain of those talents which acquired it. After the last war, my father was reduced to 1 half-pay ; with which we retired to a village in the country, which the acquaintance of some genteel families who resided in it, and the cheapness of living, particularly recommended. My father rent- ed a small house, a piece of ground sufficient to 52 MAN OF FEELING. keep a hoi'se for him, and a cow for the benefit of his family. An old man-servant managed his ground ; while a maid who had formerly been my mother's^ and had since been mine, undertook the care of our little dairy : they were assisted in each of their provinces by my father and me ; and we passed our time in a state of tranquillity, which he had always talked of with delight, and my train of reading had taught me to admire. Though 1 had never seen the polite circles of the metropolis, the company my father had introduced me into had given me a degree of good-breeding which soon discovered a superiority over the young ladies of our village. I was quoted as an example of politeness, and my company courted b}^ most of the considerable families in the neighbourhood. Amongst the houses to which I was frequently invited, was 'Sir George Winbrooke's. He had two daughters nearly of my age, with whom, though they had been bred up in those maxims of vulgar doctrine which my superior understanding could not but despise, yet as their good-nature led them to an imitation of my manners in every thing else, I cultivated a particular friendship. Some months after our first acqupJntance, Sir George's eldest son came home from his travels. His figure, his address, and conversation, were not unlike those warm ideas of an accomplished man which my favourite novels had taught me to form ; and his sentiments on the article of religion were as liberal as my own ; when any of these happened to be the topic of our discourse, I, who had before been silent, from a fear of being single in opposi- MAN OF FEELING. 53 tion, novv' kindled at the fire he raised, and defended our mutual opinions with all the eloquence I was mistress of. He would be respectfully attentive all the while, and when I had ended, would raise his eyes from the ground, look at me with a gaze of admiration, and express his applause in the highest strain of encomium. This was an incense the more pleasing, as I seldom or never had met with it before : for the young gentlemen who visit- ed Sir George were for the most part of that com- mon race of country 'squires, the pleasure of whose lives is derived from fox-hunting : these are seldom solicitous to please the women at all ; or, if they were, would never think of applying their flattery to the mind. Mr. Winbrooke observed the weakness of my soul, and took every occasion of improving the esteem he had gained. He asked my opinion of every author, of every sentiment, with that submis- sive diffidence which showed an unlimited con- fidence in my understanding. I saw myself revered, as a superior being, by one whose judgment my vanity told me was not likely to err : preferred by him to all other visitors of my sex, whose fortunes and rank should have entitled them to a ''much higher degree of notice ; I saw their little jealousies at the distinguished attention, he paid me ; it was gratitude, it was pride, it was love ! love which had made too fatal a progress in my heart, before any declaration on his part should have warranted a return : but I interpreted every look of attention, every expression of compliment, to the passion I imagined him inspired with, and imputed to his 54 MAN OF FEELING. sensibility that silence wliieli was the effect of art and design. At length, however, he took an oppor- tunity of declaring his love : he now expressed himself in srch ardent terms that prudence might have suspected their sincerity : hut prudence is rarely found in the situation I had been unguardedly led into ; besides that the course of reading to which I had been accustomed did not lead me to conclude, that his expressions could be too warm to be sincere : nor was I even alarmed at the man- ner in which he talked of marriage, a subjection, he often hinted, to which genuine love should scorn to be confined. The woman, he would often say, who had merit like mine to fix his affection could easily command it for ever. That honour too which I revered was often called in to enforce his senti- ments. I did not, however, absolutely assent to them : but I found my regard for their opposites diminish by degrees. If it is dangerous to be convinced, it is dangerous to listen ; for our reason is so much of a machine, that it will not always be able to resist when the ear is perpetually assailed. In short, Mr. Harley (for I tire you with a rela- tion, the catastrophe of which you will have already imagined), I fell a prey to his artifices. He had not been able so thoroughly to convert me that my conscience was silent on the subject; but he was so assiduous to give repeated proofs of unabated affec- tion, that I hushed its suggestions as they rose. The world, however, I knew was not to be silenced ; and therefore I took occasion to express my uneasi- ness to my seducer, and entreat him, as he valued the peace of one to whom he professed such attach- II MAN OF FEELING. 55 [ ment, to remove it by a marriage. He made r excuses from his dependence on the will of his \ father, but quieted my fears by the promise of [ endeavouring to win his assent, f My father had been some days absent on a visit I to a dying relation, from whom he had considerable [ expectations. I was left at home, with no other \ company than my books : my books I found were ( not now such companions as they used to be : I was restless, melancholy, unsatisfied with myself, • But judge my situation when 1 received a billet • from J\Ir. Winl^rooke, informing me, that he had ij sounded Sir George on the subject we had talked I of, and found him so averse to any match so un- I equal to his own rank and fortune that he was ; obliged with whatever reluctance, to bid adieu to a place, the remembrance of which should ever be - dear to him. 1 read this letter a hundred times over. Alone, helpless, conscious of guilt, and abandoned by every better thought, my mind was one motley scene of terror, confusion, and remorse. A thousand expedients suggested themselves, and a thousand fears told me they would be in vain ; at last, in an agony of despair, I packed up a few clothes* took what money and trinkets were in the house, and set out for London, whither I understood he was gone, pretending to m}^ maid, that I had received I letters from my father requiring m}' immediate attendance. I had no other companion than a boy, a servant to the man from whom I hired my horses. I arrived in London within an hour of Mr. Win- I 5G MAN OF FEELING. brooke, and accidentally alighted at the very inn where he was. He started and turned pale when he saw me; but recovered himself time enough to make many new protestations of regard, and begged me to i make myself easy under a disappointment which 1 1 was equally afflicting to him. He procured me lodgings, where, I slept, or rather endeavoured to sleep, for that night. Next morning I saw him * again : he then mildly observed on the imprudence | of my precipitate flight from the country, and pro- | posed my removing to lodgings at another end of | the town, to elude the search of my father, till he ' should fall upon some method of excusing my con- duct to him, and reconciling him to my return. We took a hackney coach, and drove to the house | he mentioned. T I It was situated in a dirty lane, furnished with a tawdry affectation of finery, with some old family pictures hanging on walls which their own cobwebs would better have suited. I was struck with a secret dread at entering ; nor was it lessened by the appearance of the landlady, who had that look of selfish shrewdness, which of all others, is the most hateful to those whose feelings are untinctured with the world. A girl, who she told us was her niece, sat by her, playing on a guitar, while herself was at work, with the assistance of spectacles, and had a prayer book, with the leaves folded down in several places, lying on the table before her. Per- haps, sir, I tire you with my minuteness ; but the X^lace, and every circumstance about it, is so im- pressed on rny mind, that I shall never forget it. MAN OF FEELING. 57 1 clinoci that day with Mr. Winbrooke alone. He : lost by degrees that restraint which I perceived \ too well to hang about him before, and with his former gaiety and good humour, repeated the flattering things which, though they had once been ; fatal, I durst not now distrust. At last, taking my f hand and kissing it, it is thus, said he, that love will last, while freedom is preserved ; thus let us ever be blessed, without the galling thought that ; we are tied to a condition where we may cease to ' be so. I answered, that the world thought other- ';. wise ; that it had certain ideas of good fame, whic?i i it was impossible not to wish to maintain. The ; world, said he, is a tyrant ; they are slaves who obey it : let us be happy without the pale of the world. To-morrow I shall leave this quarter of it for one where the talkers of the world shall be foiled, and lose us. Could not my Emily accompany me; my friend, my companion, and the mistress of my soul ! Nay, do not look so, Emily ! your father may grieve for a while, but your father shall be taken care of ; this bank bill I intend as the comfoi-t for his daughter. I could contain myself no longer : Wretch ! I exclaimed, dost thou imagine that my father's Heart I could brook dependence on the destroyer of his child, and tamely accept of a base equivalent for her honour and his own ? Honour, my Emily, said ^ he, is the v/ord of fools, or of those wiser men who cheat them. 'Tis a fantastic bauble that does not suit the gravity of your father's age ; but, whatever ' it is, I am afraid it can never be perfectly restored to you : exchange the word then, and let pleasure I 58 MAN OF FEELING. be your object now. At these words he clasped me m his arms, and pressed his lips rudely to my bosom. I started from my seat. Perfidious villian ! said 1 5 who darest insult the weakness thou hast undone; were that father here, thy coward soul would shrink from the vengeance of his honour ! Cursed be that wretch who has deprived him of it ! oh ! doubly cursed, who has dragged on his hoary head the infamy which should have crushed her own ! I snatched a knife which lay beside me, and would have ijlundged it in my breast: but the monster prevented my i^urpose, and smiling with a grin of barbarous insult. Madam, said he, I confess, you are rather too much in heroics for me : I am sorry we should differ about trifles ; but as I seem somehov\r to have offended you, I would willingly | remedy it by taking my leave. You have been put to some foolish expense in this journey on my account: allow me to reimburse you. So saying, he laid a bank bill, of what amount I had no patience to see, upon the table. Shame, grief, and indig- nation eholced my utterance ; unable to speak my wrongs, and unable to hear them in silence, I fell in a swoon at his feet. What happened in the interval I cannot tell; but when I came to myself, I was in the arms of the landlady, with her niece chafing my temples, and doing all in her power for my recovery. She had much compassion in her countenance : the old woman assumed the softest look she \7as capable of, and both endeavoured to bring me comfort, i They contined to show me many civilities, and ! even the aunt began to be less disagreeable in my| ^ MAN OF FEELING. 59 Mglit. To the m^etched, to the forloriij as I was, ^^mall offices of kmdness are endearin^^. ' Meantime my money was far spent, nor did I ^attempt to conceal my wants from their knowledge. j[ had frequent thoughts of returning to my father; [but the dread of a life of scorn is insurmountable. |l avoided therefore going abroad when I had a ' bhance of being seen by any former acquaintance, ' nor indeed did my health for a great while permit tit; and suffered the old women, at her own sug- pestion. to call me niece at home, where we now |ind then saw (when they could prevail on me to leave my room) one or two other elderly women, and sometimes a grave businesslike man, who d great compassion for my indisposition, and J me very obligingly an offer of a room at his i 30uatry house, for the recovery of my health. This Dffer I did not choose to accept; but told my land- lady, that I should be glad to be employed in any I way of business which my skill in needlework could ^ mmend to; confessing, at the same time, that afraid I should scarce be able to pay her . iiiit I already owed for board and lodging; and ] :hat for her other good offices I had nothing but dianks to give her. My dear child, said she, do not talk of paying ; Alice 1 lost my own sweet girl (here she wept), your very picture she was, Miss Emily, I have no- |3ody except my niece, to whom I should leave any ittle thing I have been able to save : you shall live A'ith me, my dear ; and I have sometimes a little ' nillinery work, in which, when you are inclined to t, you may assist us. By the way, here are a pair I 60 MAN OF FEELING. of ruffles we have just finished for that gentleman you saw here at tea; a distant relation of mine, and a worthy man he is. 'Twas pity you refused the offer of an apartment at his country house ; my niece, you know, was to have accompanied you, and you might have fancied yourself at home : a most sweet place it is, and but a short mile beyond Hampstead. Who knows, Miss Emily, what effect such a visit might have had ! if I had half your beauty, I should not waste it pining after e'er a worthless fellow of them all. I felt my heart swell at her words; I would have been angry if I could; but I was in that stupid state v/hich is not easily awakened to anger : when I would have chid her, the reproof stuck in my throat; I could only weep ! Her want of respect increased as I had not spirit to assert it : my work was now rather imposed than offered, and I became a drudge for the bread I ate : but my dependence and servility grew in proportion, and I was now in a situation which could not make any extraordinary exertions to disengage itself from either; — I found myself with child. At last the wretch, who had thus trained me to destruction, hinted the purpose for which those means had been used. I discovered her to be an artful procuress for the pleasures of those, who are men of decency to the world in the midst of debauchery. I roused every spark of courage within me at the horrid i^roposal. She treated my passion at first somewhat miidly ; but when I continued to exert it, she resented it with insult, and told me 1 I MAN OF FEELING. C)l ' |)lainly, tliat if I did not soon comply with her f desires, I should pay her every farthing I owed, ov rot in a jail for life. I trembled at the thought; still however, I resisted her importunities, and she put her threats in execution. I was conveyed to Ijprison, weak from my condition, weaker from fthat struggle of grief and misery which for some /time I had suffered. A miscarriage was the con- sequence. J Amidst all the horrors of such a state, surrounded Ivith wretches totally callous, lost alike to humanity und to shame, think, Mr. Harley, think what I en- I lured ; nor wonder that I at last yielded to the i^iolicitations of that miscreant I had seen at her iiouse, and sunk to the prostitution which hetempt- ^3d. But that was happiness compared to what I pave suffered since. He soon abandoned me to the iommon use of the town, and I was cast among .hose miserable beings in whose society I have fiince remained. Oh ! did the daughters of virtue knov/ our sufFer- ngs ; did they see our hearts torn with anguish i imidst the affectation of gaiety which your faces i ire obliged to assume ! our bodies tortured »by [lisease, our minds with that consciousness which ey cannot lose ! Did they know, did they think „if this, Mr. Harley ! — their censures are just; but heir pity perhaps might spare the wretches whom •heir justice should condemn ! 1 Last night, but for an exertion of benevolence ! /hich the infection of our infamy prevents even i'l the humane, I had been thrust out from this j miserable place wdiich misfortune has yet left me; i 62 MAN OF FEELING. exposed to the brutal insults of drunkenness, our dragged by that justice which 1 could not bribe, to the punishment which may correct, but alas ! can never amend the abandoned objects of its terrors. From that, Mr. Harley, your goodness has relieved me. He beckoned with his hand : he would have stop- ped the mention of his favours; but he could not speak, had it been to beg a diadem. She saw his tears ; her fortitude begain to fail at the sight, when the voice of some stranger on the stairs awakened her attention. She listened for i moment; then starting up, exclaimed, Mercifu: God ! my father's voice ! She had scarce uttered the word, when the dool burst open, and a man entered in the garb of au officer. When he discovered his daughter and Harley, he started back a few paces ; his lool^ assumed a furious wildness, he laid his hand onj his sword. The two objects of his wrath did not utter a syllable. Villain, he cried, thou seest a father who had once a daughter's honour to pre-^ serve; blasted as it now is, behold him ready to avenge his loss ! Harley had by this time some power of utteri ance. Sir, said he, if you v/ill be a moment calm— Infamous coward ! interrupted the other, dost thoii preach calmness to wrongs like mine 1 He drew his sword. Sir, said Harley, let me tell you — the blood ran quicker to his cheek — his pulse beat one — no more — and regained the temperament cq humanity ! — You are deceived, sir, said he, yox| are much deceived ; but I forgive suspicions whicli I MAN OF FEELING. 63 lyour misfortunes have justified : I would not ( wrong you, upon my soul I would not for the ■dearest gratification of a thousand worlds ; my , heart bleeds for you ! I His daughter was now prostrate at his feet. fStrike, said she^ strike here a wretch, whose misery |cannot end hut with that death she deserves. Her Jhair had fallen on her shoulders ; her look had the horrid cahnness of out-breathed despair. Her father Jwould have spoken ; his lips quivered, his cheek igrew pale ? his eyes lost the lightning of their fury : ithere was a reproach in them, but with a mingling )of pity. He turned them up to Heaven — then on ihis daughter. — He laid his left hand on his heart — Jthe sword dropped from his right — he burst into itears, I : CHAPTER XXIX. I The distresses of a Father, 1 Harley kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate {daughter : Allow me, sir, said he, to entreat your pardon for one whose offences have been already -io signally punished. I know, I feel, that those :;ears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more [Ireadful to her than all the punishments your ^)Word could have inflicted : accept the contrition of \h child whom heaven has restored to you. Is she cjiot lost, ansv»^ered he, irrecoverably lost % Damna- tion % a common prostitute to the meanest ruffian ! t-Calmly, my dear sir, said Harley, did you know \by what compUcated misfortunes she had fallen to 64 MAN OF FEELING. that miserable state in which you now behold her, I should have no need of words to excite your com- passion. Think, sir, of what once she was ! Would! you abandon her to the insults of an unfeeling world, deny her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her own ! Speak, said he, address- ing himself to his daughter ; speak, I will hear thee. — The desperation that supported her was lost : she fell to the ground, and bathed his feet with her tears. Harley undertook her cause : he related the treacheries to which she had fallen a sacrifice, and again solicited the forgiveness of her father. He looked on her for some time in silence : the pride of a soldier's honour checked for a while the yearn- ings of his heart ; but nature at last prevailed, he fell on her neck, and mingled his tears with hers. Harley, who discovered from the dress of the stranger that he was just arrived from a journey, beggecl that they would both remove to his lodg- ings, ti^l he could procure others for them. Atkins looked at him with some marks of surprise. His daughter now first recovered the power of speech : Wretch as I am, said she, yet there is some grati- tude due to the preserver of your child. See him now before you. To him I owe my life, or at least the comfort of imploring your forgiveness before I die. Pardon me, young gentleman, said Atkins, I fear my passion wronged you. Never, never, sir ! said Harley ; if it had, your reconciliation to your daughter were an atonement a thousand fold. He then repeated his request that MAN OF FEELING. 65 tl'iat lie miglit be allowed to conduct them to his lodgings; to which Mr. Atkins at last consented. He took his daughter's arm. Come, my Emily, said he, we can never, never recover that happiness we have lost ; but time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with patience. When they arrived at the house where Harley lodged, he was informed the first floor was then ' vacant, and that the gentleman and his daughter might be accommodated there. While he was upon this inquiry, Miss Atkins informed her father more particularly what she owed to his benevolence. When he turned into the room where they were, Atkins ran and embraced him ; begged him again to forgive the offence he had given him, and made the warmest protestations of gratitude for his favours. We would attempt to describe the joy which Harley felt on this occasion, did it not occur ■ to us, that one half of the world could not under- stand it though we did ; and the other half will, by this time, have understood it without any descrip- tion at all. Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the violence of the emotions' she had suffered. When she was gone, her father, addressing himself to Harley, said. You have a right, sir, to be informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your compassion for his misfortunes. My daughter I find has informed you what that was at the fatal juncture when they began. Her distresses you have heard, you have pitied then as they deserved ; with mine, perhaps, I ^cannot so eabily make you acquainted. You have 60 MAM OF FEELING. a feeling heart, Mr. Harley ; I bless it that it has saved my child ; but you never were a father, a father torn by that most dreadful of calamities, the dishonour of a child he doted on ! You have been already informed of some of the circumstances of her elopement. 1 was then from home, called by the death of a relation, who, though he would never advance me a shilling on the utmost exigency in his lifetime, left me all the gleanings of his frugality at his death. I would not write this intelligence to my daughter, because I intended to be the bearer myself ; and as soon as my business would allow me, I set out on my return, winged with all the haste of paternal affection. I fondly built those schemes of future happiness, which present pros- perity is ever busy to suggest : my Emily was con- cerned in them all. As I approached our little dwelling, my heart throbbed with the anticipation of joy and welcome. I imagined the cheering fire, the blissful contentment of a frugal meal, made luxurious by a daughter's smile : I painted to my- self her surprise at the tidings of our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal of them. The road was shortened by the dreams of hap- piness I enjoyed, and it began to be dark as I reached the house : I alighted from my horse, and walked softly up stairs to the room we commonly sat in. I was somewhat disappointed at not finding my daughter there. I rang the bell, her maid appeared, and showed no small signs of wonder at the summons. She blessed herself as she entered the room : I smiled at her surprise. Where is Miss Emily, sir I said she.— Emily 1— Yes, sir; she MAN OF FEELING. 07 has been gone hence some days, upon receipt of those letters you sent her. Letters ! said I. Yes, sir ; so she told me, and went off in all haste that very night. I stood aghast as she spoke ; but was able so far to recollect myself as to put on the affectation of calmness ; and telling her there was certainly some mistake in the affair, desired her to leave me. When she was gone I threw myself into a chair, in that state of uncertainty which is of all others the most dreadful. The gay visions with which I had delighted myself vanished in an instant : 1 was tortured with tracing back the same circle of doubt and disappointment. My head grew dizzy as I thought : I called the servant again, and asked her a hundred questions to no purpose ; there was not room even for conjecture. Something at last arose in my mind, which we call hope, without knowing what it is. I wished myself deluded by it, but it could not prevail over my returning fears. 1 rose and walked through the room. My Emily's spinet stood at the end of it, open, with a book of music folded down at some of my favourite lessons. I touched the keys ; "there was a vibration in the sound that froze my blood : I looked around, and methought the family pictures on the walls gazed on me with compassion in their faces. I sat down again with an attempt at more composure ; I started at every creaking of the door, and my ears rang with imaginary noises ! I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival of a friend, who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end to my doubts, by the F 2 68 MAN OF FEELING. recital of my daughter's dishonour. He told me he had his information from a young gentleman, to whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced | her. I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and without knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my servant to load my pistols and saddle my horses. My friend, however, with much difficulty, persuaded me to comi)ose myself for that night, promising to accompany me, on the morrow, to Sir George Winbrooke's in quest of his son. The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little distant from madness. We went as early as decency would allow to Sir George's : he received me with politeness, and indeed compassion ; pro- 1 tested his abhorrence of his son's conduct, and told me that he had set out some days before for Lon- don, on which i)lace he had procured a draft for a large sum, on pretence of finishing his travels ; but that he had not heard from him since his depar- ture. I did not wait for any more either of information or comfort, but, against the united remonstrances of Sir George and my friend, set out instantly for London with a frantic uncertainty of purpose : but there all manner of search was in vain. I could trace neither of them any further than the inn where they first put up on their arrival ; and, after some days fruitless inquiry, returned home destitute of every little hope that had hitherto supported me. The journeys I had made, the restless nights I had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had MAN OF FEELING. 69 the effect which naturally might be expected ; a very dangerous fever was the consequence. From this, however, contrary to the expectations of my physicians, I recovered. It was now that I first felt something like calmness of mind ; probably from being reduced to a state which could not pro- duce the exertions of anguish or despair. A stupid melancholy settled on my soul ; I could endure to live with an apathy of life ; at times I forgot my resentment, and wept at the remembrace of my child. Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal moment when these misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I received a letter from a friend in town, acquainting me of her present situation. Could such tales as mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes suggested to the daughters of levity, did they but know wdth what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the child he loves, they would be less apt to construe into harshness that delicate concern for their conduct, which they often com- plain of as laying restraint upon things, to the young, the gay, and the thoughtless, seemingly harmless and indifferent. Alas ! I fondly imagined *that I needed not even these common cautions ! my Emily was the joy of my age, and the pride of my soul ! — Those things are now no more ! they are lost for ever ! Her death I could have borne ! but the death of her honour has added obloquy and shame to that sorrow which bends my gray hairs to the dust ! As he spoke these last words, his voice trembled in his throat ; it was now lost in his tears. He sat 70 MAN OF FEELING. with his face half turned from Harley, as if he would have hid the sorrow which he felt. Harley was in the same attitude himself ; he durst not meet his eye with a tear ; but gathering his stifled breath, Let me entreat you, sir, said he, to hope better things. The world is ever tyrannical ; it warps our sorrows to edge them with keener afflic- tion : let us not be slaves to the names it affixes to motive or to action. I know an ingenuous mind cannot help feeling when they sting : but there are considerations by which it may be overcome : its fantastic ideas vanish as they rise : they teach us — to look beyond it. A FRAGMENT. Showing Ms Success with the Baronet. * * * The card he received was in the politest style in which disappointment could be commu- nicated : the baronet was under a necessity of giving up his appli^tion for Mr. Harley as he was informed that the lease was engaged for a gentle- man who had long served his majesty in another capacity, and whose merit had entitled him to the first lucrative thing that should be vacant. Even Harley could not murmur at such a disposal. Per- haps, said he to himself, some wayworn officer, who, like poor Atkins, had been neglected from reasons which merited the highest advancement ; whose MAN OF FEELING. 71 honour could not stoop to solicit the preferment he deserved : perhaps, with a family, taught the prin- ciples of delicacy, without the means of supporting it ; a wife and children gracious heaven ! whom my wishes would have deprived of bread ! — He was interrupted in his reverie by some one tapping him on the shoulder ; and, on turning round, he discovered it to be the very man who had explained to him the condition of his gay companion at Hyde Park corner. I am glad to see you, sir, said he ; I believe we are fellows in dis- appointment. Harley started, and said that he was at a loss to understand him. Poh ! you need not be so shy, answered the other ; every one for him- self is but fair, and I had much rather you had got it than the rascally ganger. Harley still protested his ignorance of what he meant. Why, the lease of Bancroft manor ; had not you been applying for it ? — I confess T was, replied Harley ; but I cannot conceive how you should be interested in the mat- ter. —Why, I was making interest for it myself, said he, and I think 1 had some title : I voted for this same baronet at the last election, and made some of my friends do so too ; though I wotdd not have you imagine that I sold my vote ; no, I scorn it, let me tell you I scorn it ; but I thought as how this man was staunch and true, and I find he's but a doubled-faced fellow after all, and speechifies in the house for any side he hopes to make most by. Oh ! how many fine speeches and squeezings by the hand we had of him on the canvass ! And if ever I shall be so happy as to bave an op- portunity of serving you--a murrain on the smooth 72 MAN OF FEELING. tongued knave ! and after all to get it for this pimp of a ganger. — The ganger! there mnst be some mistake, said Harley : he writes me, that it was engaged for one whose long services — Services ! interrupted the other, you shall hear : Services ! Yes, his sister arrived in town a few days ago, and is now a sempstress to the baronet. A ijlague on all rogues ! says honest Sam Wrightson ; I shall but just drink damnation to them to-night, in a crown's worth of Ashley's, and leave London to- morrow by sunrise. — I shall leave it too, said Har- ley ; and so he accordingly did. In passing through Piccadilly, he had observed on the window of an inn a notification of the depar- ture of a stage coach for a place in his road home- wards ; in the way back to his lodgings, he took a seat in it for his return. CHAPTER XXXIII. He leaves London. — Characters in a Stage CoacJi, The company in the stage coach consisted of a grocer and his wife, who were going to pay a visit to some of their country friends ; a young officer, who took this way of marching to quarters ; a mid- dle aged gentlewoman, who had been hired as housekeeper to some family in the country ; and an elderly well-looking man with a remarkable old- fashioned perriwig. Harley, upon entering, discovered but one vacant MAN OF FEELING, 73 seat, next the grocer's wife, which, from his natural shyness of temper, he made no scruple to occupy, however aware that riding backwards always dis- agreed with him. Though his inclination to physiognomy had met with some rubs in the metropolis, he had not yet lost his attachment to that science : he set himself therefore to examine, as usual, the countenances of his companions. Here indeed he was not long in doubt as to the preference ; for besides that the elderly gentleman, who sat opposite to him, had features by nature more expressive of good dispo- sitions, there was something in that perriwig we mentioned, pecuKarly attractive of Harley's re- gard. He had not been long employed in these specu- lations, when he found himself attacked with that faintish sickness which was the natural consequence of his situation in the coach. The paleness of his countenance was first observed by the housekeeper, who immediately made offer of her smelling bottle, which Harley however declined, telling at the same time the cause of his uneasiness. The gentleman on the opiiosite side of th^ coach now first turned his eye from the side-direction in which it had been fixed, and begged Harley to ex- change places with him, expressing his regret that he had not made the proposal before. Harley I thanked him, and, upon being assured that both seats were alike to him, was about to accept of his offer, when the young gentleman of the sword, putting on an arch look, laid hold of the other's arm. So, my old boy, said he, I find you have still 74 MAN OF FEELING. some youthful blood about you, but with your leave, I will do myself the honour of sitting by this lady ; and took his place accordingly. The grocer stared him as full in the face as his own short neck would allow ; and his wife, who was a little round-faced woman, with a great deal of colour in her cheeks, drew up at the compliment that was paid to her, looking first at the officer, and then at the housekeeper. This incident was productive of some discourse ; for before, though there was sometimes a cough or a hem from the grocer, and the officer now and then humm'd a few notes of a song, there had not a single word i)assed the lips of any of the com- pany. Mrs. Grocer observed, how ill-convenient it was for people who could not be drove backwards to travel in a stage. This brought on a dissertation on stage-coaches in general, and the pleasure of keeping a chay of one's own ; which led to another on the great riches of Mr. Deputy Bearskin, who, according to her, had once been of that industrious order of youths who sweep the crossings of the streets for the conveniency of passengers, but, by various fortunate accidents, had now acquired an immense fortune, and kept his coach and a dozen livery servants. All this afforded ample fund for conversation, if conversation it might be called, that was .carried on solely by the before-mentioned lady, nobody offering to interrupt her, except that the officer sometimes signified his approbation by a variety of oaths, a sort of praseology in which he seemed extremely versant. She appealed indeed MAN OF FEELING. 75 frequently to her husband for the authenticity of certain facts, of which the good man as often pro- tested his total ignorance ; but as he was always called fool, or something very like it, for his pains, he at last contrived to support the credit of his v/ife without prejudice to his conscience, and signified his assent by a noise not unlike the grunting of tha.t animal which m shape and fatness he somewhat re- sembled. The housekeer, and the old gentleman who sat next to Harley, were now observed to be fast asleep ; at which the lady, who had been at such pains to entertain them, muttered some words of displeasure, and, upon the officer's whispering to smoke the old put, both she and her husband pursed up their mouths into a contemptuous smile. Harley looked sternly on the grocer : You are come, sir, said he, to those years when you might have learned some reverence for age : as for this young man, who has so lately escaped from the nursery, he may be allowed to divert himself. Dam'me, sir, said the officer, do you call me* young ? striking up the front of his hat, and stretching forvvard on his seat, till his face almost touched Harley's. It is probable, however, that he discovered something there which tencled to pacify him ; for, on the lady's entreating them not to quarrel, he very soon resumed his posture and calmness together, and was rather less profuse of his oaths during the rest of the journey. It is possible the old gentleman had waked time i enough to hear the last part of this discourse ; at f least (whether from that cause, or that he too was a 76 IMAN OF FEELING. physiognomist), he wore a look remarkably com- placent to Harley, who, on his part, showed a par- ticular observance of him : indeed they had soon a better opportunity of making their acquaintance, as the coach arrived that night at the town where the officer's regiment lay, and the places of destination of their other fellow travellers, it seems, were at no great distance ; for next morning the old gentle- man and Harley were the only passengers remain- ing. When they left the inn in the morning, Harley, pulling out a little pocket-book, began to examine the contents, and make some corrections with a pencil. This, said he, turning to his companion, is an amusement with which I sometimes pass idle hours at an inn ; these are quotations from those humble poets who trust their fame to the brittle tenure of windows and drinking-glasses. From our inns, returned the gentleman, a stranger might imagine that we were a nation of poets : machines at least containing poetry, which the motion of a journey emptied of their contents : Is it from the vanity of being thought geniuses, or a mere me- chanical imitation of the custom of others, that we are tempted to scrawl rhyme upon such places ? Whether vanity is the cause of our becoming rhymesters or not, answered Harley, it is a pretty certain effect of it. An old man of my acquaint- ance, who deals in apophthegms, used to say. That he had known few men without envy, few wits without ill nature, and no poet without vanity ; and I believe his remark is a pretty just one : vanity has been immemorially the charter of poets. MAN OF FEELING. 77 In this the ancients were more honest than we are: the old poets frequently made boastful predictions of the immortality their works will obtain for them ; ours, in their dedications and prefatory discourses employ much eloquence to praise their patrons, and much seeming modesty to condemn themselves, or at least to apologize for their productions to the world : but this, in my opinion, is the more assum- ing manner of the two ; for, of ail the garbs 1 ever saw Pride put on, that of her humility is to me the most disgusting. It is natural enough for a poet to be vain, said the stranger : the little worlds which he raises, the inspiration which he claims, may easily be pro- ductive of self-importance ; though that inspiration is fabulous, it brings on egotism, which is always the parent of vanity. It may be supposed, answered Harley, that in- spiration of old was an article of religious faith ; in modern times it may be translated a propensity to compose ; and I believe it is not always most readily found where the poets have fixed its resi- dence, amidst groves and plains, and the scenes of pastoral retirement. The mind may be there un- bent from the cares of the world ; b^t it will fre- quently, at the same time, be unnerved from any great exertion ; it will feel imperfection, and wan- der without effort over the regions of reflection. There is at least, said the stranger, one advantage in the poetical inclination, that it is an incentive to philanthropy. There is a certain poetic ground, on which a man cannot tread without feelings that enlarge the heart ; the causes of human depravity 78 MAN OF FEELING. vanish before the romantic enthusiasm he pro- fesses, and many, who are not able to reach the Parnassian heights, may yet approach so near as to be bettered by the air of the climate. I have always thought so, replied Harley, but this is an argument with the prudent against it : they urge the danger of unfitness for the world. 1 allow it, returned the other ; but I believe it is not always rightfully imputed to the bent for poetry : that is only one effect of the common cause. — Jack, says his father, is indeed no scholar ; nor could all the drubbings from his master ever bring him one step forward in his accidence or syntax ; but I in- tend him for a merchant. — Allow the same in- dulgence to Tom — Tom reads Virgil and Horace when he should be casting accounts ; and but t'other day he pawned his great coat for an edition of Shaksp^are. — But Tom would have been as he is, though Virgil and Horace had never been born, though Shakspeare had died a linkboy ; for his nurse will tell you, that when he was a child, he broke his rattle, to discover what it was that sounded within it ; and burned the sticks of his go-cart, because he liked to see the sparkling of timber in the ^re. — 'Tis a sad case ; butwhatisto be done ?— Why, Jack shall make a fortune, dine on venison, and drink claret. — Ay, but Tom — Tom shall dine with his brother, when his pride will let him ; at other times, he shall bless God over a half- pint of ale and a Welsh-rabbit ; and both shall go to heaven as they may. — That's a poor i)rospect for Tom, says the father. — To go to heaven I 1 cannot agree with him. MAN OF FEELING. 79 PerliapSj said Harley, we now a-days discourage the romantic turn a little too much. Our boys are prudent too soon. Mistake me not, I do not mean to blame them for want of levity or dissipation ; but their pleasures are those of hacknied vice, blunted to every finer emotion by the repetition of debauch ; and their desire of pleasure is warped to the desire of wealth, as the means of procuring it. The immense riches acquired by individuals have erected a standard of ambition, destructive of private morals and of public virtue. The weak- nesses of vice are left us ; but the most allowable of our failings we are taught to despise. Love, the passion most natural to the sensibility of youth, has lost the plaintive dignity he once possessed, for the unmeaning simper of a dangling coxcomb ; and the only serious concern, that of a dowry, is settled, even amongst the beardless leaders of the dancing- school. The Frivolous and the Interested (might a satirist say) are the characteristical features of the age ; they are visible even in the essays of our philosophers. They laugh at the pedantry of our fathers, who complained of the times in which they lived ; they are at pains to persuade us how much those were deceived, they pride themselves in de- fending things as they find them, and in exploding the barren sounds which had been reared into motives for action. To this their style is suited ; and the manly tone of reason is exchanged for the perpetual eftbrts at sneer and ridicule. This I hold to be an alarming crisis in the corruption of a state ; when not only is virtue declined and vice prevail- ing^ but when the praises of virtue are forgotten, and the infamy of vice unfelt. 80 MAN OF FEELING. They soon after arrived at the next inn upon the route of the stage coach, when the stranger told Harley, that his brother's house, to which he was returning, lay at no great distance, and he must therefore unwillingly bid him adieu. I should like, said Harley, taking his hand, to have some word to remember so much seeming worth by : My name is Harley. — I shall remember it, answered the old gentleman, in my prayers ; mine is Silt on. And Silton indeed it was ! Ben Silton himself ! Once more my honoured friend, farewell ! Born to be happy without the world, to that peaceful happiness which the world has not to bestow ! Envy never scowled on thy life, nor hatred smiled on thy grave. CHAPTER XXXIV. He meets an old acquaintance. When the stage coach arrived at the place of its destination, Harley began to consider how he should proceed the remaining part of his journey. He was very civilly accosted by the master of the inn, who offered to accommodate him either with a post-chaise or horses, to any distance he had a mind ; but as he did things frequently in a way different from what other people call natural, he refused these offers, and set out immediately a-foot, having nrst put a spare shirt in his pocket, and MAN OF FEELING. 81 given directions for the forwarding of his portman- teau. This was a method of traveUing which he was accustomed to take ; it saved the trouble of provision for any animal but himself, and left him at liberty to choose his quarters either at an inn or at the first cottage in which he saw a face he liked : nay, when he was not peculiarly attracted by the reasonable creation, he would sometimes consort with a species of inferior rank, and lay himself down to sleep by the side of a rock, or on the banks of a rivulet. He did few things without a motive, but his motives were rather eccentric; and the useful and expedient were terms which he held to be very indefinite, and which therefore he did not always apply to the sense in which they are com- nionl}^ understood. The sun was now in his decline, and the evening remarkably serene, when he entered a hollow part of the road, which winded between the surround- ing banks, and seamed the sward in different lines as the choice of travellers had directed them to tread it. It seemed to be little frequented now, for some of those had partly recovered their former verdure. The scene was such as induced Harley to stand and enjoy it; when, turning round, his notice was attracted by an object, which the fixture of his eye on the spot he walked had before pre- vented him from observing. An old man, who from his dress seemed to have been a soldier, lay fast asleep on the ground ; a knapsack rested on a stone at his right hand, while his staff and brass-hilted sword were crossed at his left. G I 82 MAN OF FEELING, Harley looked on him with the most earnest at- tention. He was one of those figures which Salva- tor would have drawn ; nor was the surrounding scenery unlike the wilderness of that painter's back-grounds. The banks on each side were covered with fantastic shrub-wood, and at a little distance, on the top of one of them, stood a finger- post to mark the directions of two roads which diverged from the point where it was placed. A rock, with some dangling wild-flowers, jutted out above where the soldier lay ; on which grew the stump of a large tree, white with age, and a smgle twisted branch shaded his face as he slept. His face had the marks of manly comeliness impaired by time ; his forehead was not altogether bald, but his hairs might have been numbered ; while a few white locks behind crossed the brown of his neck with a contrast the most venerable to a mind like Harley's. Thou art old, said he to himself; but age has not brought thee rest for its infirmities ; I fear those silver hairs have not found shelter from thy country, though that neck has been bronzed in its service. The stranger waked. He looked at Harley with the appearance of some confusion : it was a pain the latter knew too well to think of causing in another; he turned and went on. The old m.an re-adjusted his knapsack, and followed in one of the tracks on the opposite side of the road. When Harley heard the tread of his feet behind him, he could not help stealing back a glance at his fellow traveller. He seemed to bend under the weight of his knapsack ; halted on his walk, and one of his arms was supported by a sling, and lay MAN OP FEELING. 83 motionless across his breast. He had that steady- look of sorrow, which indicates that its owner has gazed upon his griefs till he has forgotten to lament them; yet not without those streaks of compla- cency, which a good mind will sometimes throw into the countenance, through all the incumbent load of its depression. He had now advanced nearer to Harley, and, with an uncertain sort of voice, begged to know what it was o'clock; I fear, said he, sleep has be- guiled me of my time, and I shall hardly have light enough left to carry me to the end of my journey. Father ! said Harley (who by this time found the romantic enthusiasm rising within him), how far do you mean to go ? But a little way, sir, returned the other ; and indeed it is but a little way I can manage now ; 'tis just four miles from the height to the village, whither I am going. I am going thither too, said Harley ; we may make the road shorter to each other. You seem to have served your country, sir ; to have served it hardly too ; 'tis a character I have the highest esteem for. T would not be impertinently inquisitive ; but there is that in your appearance which excites my curiosity to know something more of you : in the mean time, suffer me to carry that knapsack. The old man gazed on him : a tear slood in his eye. Young gentleman, said he, you are too good ; may Heaven bless you for an old man's sake, who has nothing but his blessing to give ! but my knapsack is so familiar to my shoulders that I should walk the worse for wanting it ; and it would be trouble- some to you, who have not been used to its weight. G 2 84 MAN OF FEELING. Far from it, answered Harley, I should tread the lighter ; it would be the most honourable badge I ever wore. Sir, said the stranger, who had looked earnestly in Harley's face during the last part of his dis- course, is not your name Harley 1 It is, replied he ; I am ashamed to say I have forgotten yours. You may well have forgotten my face, said the stranger : — 'tis a long time since you saw it; but possibly you may remember something of old Edwards. Edwards ! cried Harley, oh ! hea- vens ! and sprung to embrace him ; let me clasp those knees on which I have sat so often: Edwards ! — I shall never forget the fire-sid, round which I have been so happy ! But where, where have you been? where is Jack? where is your daugh- ter ? How far has it fared with them, when fortune, 1 fear, has been so unkind to you ? — 'Tis a long tale, replied Edwards ; but I will try to tell it you as we walk. When you were at school in the neighbourhood, you remember me at South -hill : that farm had been possessed by my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, which last was a younger bro- ther of that very man's ancestor who is now lord of the manor. I thought I managed it, as they had done, with prudence : I paid my rent regularly as it became due, and had always as much behind as gave bread to me and my children. But my last lease was out soon after you left that part of the country ; and the 'squire, who had lately got a London attorney for his steward, would not renew it, because, he said, he did not choose to have any MAN OF FEELING. 85 farm under £300 a-year value on his estate ; but offered to give me the preference on the same terms with another, if I chose to take the one he had marked out, of which mine was a part. What could I do, Mr. Harley ? I feared the un- dertaking was too great for me ; yet to leave, at my age, the house I had lived in from my cradle ! I could not, Mr. Harley, I could not ; there was not a tree about it that I did not look on as my father, my brother, or my child : so 1 even ran the risk, and took the squire's offer of the whole. But I had soon reason to repent of my bargain ; the steward had taken care that my former farm should be the best land of the division ; I was obliged to hire more servants, and I could not have my eye over them all ; some unfavourable seasons followed one another, and I found mj affairs en- tangling on my hands. To add to my distress, a considerable corn-factor turned bankrupt with a sum of mine in his possession : I failed jiaying my rent so punctually as I was wont to do, and the same steward had my stock taken in execution in a few days after. So, Mr. Harley, there was an end to my prosperity. However, there was as much produced from the sale of my effects as paid my debts and saved me from a jail : I thank God I wronged no man, and the world could never charge me with dishonesty. Had you seen us, Mr. Harley, when we were turned out of South-hill, I am sure you would have wept at the sight. You remember old Trusty, my shag house-dog ; I shall never forget it while I live ; the poor creature was blind with age, and 86 MAN OF FEELING. could scarce crawl after us to the door ; he went however as far as the gooseberry -bush, which you may remember stood on the left side of the yard : he was wont to bask in the sun there ; when he had reached that spot, he stopped ; we went on : I called him ; he wagged his tail, but did not stir : I called again ; he lay down : I whistled, and cried Trusty ; he gave a short howl, and died ! 1 could have laid down and died too ; but God gave me strength to live for my children. The old man now paused a moment to take breath. He eyed Harley's face ; it was bathed with tears : the story was grown familiar to him- self ; he dropped one tear, and no more. Though I was poor, continued he, I was not alto- gether without credit. A gentleman in the neigh- bourhood, who had a small farm unoccupied at the time, offered to let me have it, on giving se- curity for the rent ; which I made shift to procure. It was a piece of ground which required manage- ment to make any thing of ; but it was nearly within the compass of my son's labour an^J^my own. We exerted all our industry to bring it into some heart. We began to succeed tolerably, and lived contented on its produce, when an unlucky acci- dent brought us under the displeasure of a neigh- bouring justice of the peace, and broke all our family happiness again. My son was a remarkably good shooter; he had always kept a pointer on our former farm, and thought no harm in doing so now ; when one day, having sprung a covey in our own ground, the dog, of his own accord, followed them into the justice's. MAN OF FEELING. 87 My son laid down his gun, and went after his dog to bring him back : the game-keeper, who had marked the birds, came up, and, seeing the pointer, shot him just as my son approached. The creature fell; my |on ran up to him : he died with a sort of complaining cry at his master's feet. Jack could bear it no longer ; but, flying at the game-keeper, wrenched his gun out of his hand, and with the but end of it felled him to the ground. He had scarce got home, when a constable camo with a warrant, and dragged him to prison ; there he lay, for the justices would not take bail, till he was tried at the quarter-sessions for the assault and battery. His fine was hard upon us to pay; we contrived, however, to live the worse for it, and make up the loss by our frugality ; but the justice was not content with that punishment, and soon after had an opportunity of punishing us indeed. An officer with press-orders came down to our country, and, having met with the justices, agreed they should pitch on a certain number, who could more easily be spared from the county, of whom lie would take care to clear it ; my son's name was in the justices' list. 'Twas on a Christmas-eve, and the birth-day too of my son's little boy. The night was piercing cold, and it blew a storm, with showers of haifand snow. We had made up a cheering fire in an inner room ; I sat before it in my wicker chair, blessing Provi- dence, that had still left a shelter for me and my children. My son's two little ones were holding their gambols around us; my heart warmed at the sight; I brought a bottle of my best ale, and all our misfortunes were forgotten. 88 MAN OF FEELING. It had long been our custom to play a game at blind-man's buff on that night, and it was not omitted now; so to it we fell, I and my son, and his wife, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, who happened to be with us at the time, the tw^ children, and an old maid servant who had lived with me from a child. The lot fell on my son to be blindfolded : we had continued some time in our game, when he groped his way into an outer room in pursuit of some of us, who, he imagined, had taken shelter there ; we kept snug in our places, and enjoyed his mistake. He had not been long there, when he was suddenly seized from behind; I shall have you now, said he, and turned about. Shall you so, master? answered the ruffian who had laid hold of him ; we shall make you play at another sort of game by-and-by. — At these words Harley started with a convulsive sort of motion, and grasping Edwards' sword drew it out of the scabbard, with a look of the most frantic wildness. Edwards gently replaced it in its sheath, and went on with his relation. On hearing these words in a strange voice, we all rushed out to discover the cause : the room by this time was almost full of the gang. My daughter-in- law fainted at the sight; the maid and I ran to assist her, while my poor son remained motionless, gazing by turns on his children and their mother. We soon recovered her to life, and begged her to retire and wait the issue of the affair ; but she flew to her husband, and clung round him in an agony of terror and grief. In the gang was one of a smoother aspect, whom, MAx\ OF FEELING. 89 by his dress, we discovered to be a serjeant of foot; he came up to me, and told me that my son had his choice of the sea or land service, whis^jering at the same time, that if he chose the land, he might get off on procuring him another man, and paying a certain sum for his freedom. The money we could just muster up in the house, by the assistance of the maid, who produced, in a green bag, ail the little saving of her service ; but the man he could not expect to find. My daughter-in-law gazed upon her children with a look of the wildest despair: My poor infants ! said she, your father is forced from you ; who shall now labour for your bread ? or must your mother beg for herself and you ? I prayed her to be patient ; but comfort I had none to give her. At last, calling the serjeant aside, I asked him if I was too old to be accepted in place of my son ? Why, I don't know, said he; you are rather old, to be sure, but yet the money may do much. I put the money in his hand ; and coming back to my children, Jack, said I, you are free; live to give your wife and these little ones bread ; I will go, my child, in your stead : I have but little life to lose, and if I staid I should add one to the wretches you left behind. No, replied my son, I am not that coward you imagine me ; heaven for- bid that my father's gray hairs shoufd be thus exposed, while I sat idle at home ! I am young, and able to Endure much, and God will take care of you and my family. Jack, said I, I will put an end to this matter; you have never hitherto dis- obeyed me; I will not be contradicted in this; stay at home, I charge you, for my sake, be kind to my children. 90 MAN OF FEELING. Our parting, Mr. Harley, I cannot describe to you; it was the first time we ever had parted; the very press-gang could scarce keep from tears; but the Serjeant, who had seemed the softest before, was now the least moved of them all. He conducted me to a party of new raised recruits, who lay at a village in the neighbourhood ; and we soon after joined the regiment. I had not been long with it, when we were ordered to the East Indies, where I was soon made a serjeant, and might have picked up some money, if my heart had been as hard as some others were ; but my nature was never of that kind, that could think of getting rich at the expense of my conscience. Amongst our prisoners was an old Indian, whom some of our officers supposed to have a treasure hidden somewhere ; which is no uncommon prac- tice in that country. They i^ressed him to discover it. He declared he had none ; but that would not satisfy them : so they ordered him to be tied to a stake, and suffer fifty lashes every morning till lie should learn to speak out, as they said. Oh ! Mr. Harley, had you seen him, as I did, with his hands bound behind him, suffering in silence, while the big drops trickled down his shrivelled cheeks, and wet his gray beard; which some of the inhuman soldiers plucked in scorn ! I could not bear it, I could not for my soul ; and one morning, when the rest of the guard were out of the way, I found means to let him escape. I was tried by a court- martial for negligence of my post, and ordered, in compassion of my age, and having got this wound in my arm, and, that in my leg, in the service, only MAN OF FEELING. 91 to suffer 300 lashes, and be turned out of the regi- ment; but my sentence was mitigated as to the lashes, and I had only 200. When I had suffered these, I was turned out of the camp, and had be- twixt three and four hundred miles to travel before I could reach a seaport, without a guide to conduct me, or money to buy me provisions by the way. I set out, however, resolved to walk as far as I could, and then to lay myself down and die. But I had scarce gone a mile, when 1 was met by the Indian whom I had delivered. He pressed me in his arms, and kissed the marks of the lashes on my back a thousand times ; he led me to a little hut, where some friend of his dwelt; and after I was recovered of my wounds, conducted me far on my journey himself, and sent another Indian to guide me through the rest. When we parted, he pulled out a purse with two hundred pieces of gold in it : Take this, said he, my dear preserver, it is all I have been able to procure. I begged him not to bring himself to poverty for my sake, who should probably have no need of it long; but he insisted on my accepting it. He embraced me : — You are an Englishman, said he, but the Great Spirit has given you an Indian heart; may he bear up the weight of your old age, and blunt the arrow that brings it rest ! We parted : and not long after I made shift to get my passage to England. 'Tis but about a week since I landed, and I am going to end my days in the arms of my son. This sum may be of use to him and his children ; 'tis all the value I put upon it. I thank heaven I never was covetous of wealth, I never had much, but was always so happy as to be content with my little 92 Man of feeling. When Edwards had ended his relation, Harley stood awhile looking at him in silence ; at last he pressed him in his arms ; and when he had given vent to the fulness of his heart by a shower of tears, Edwards, said he, let me hold thee to my bosom; let me imprint the virtue of thy suffer- ings on my soul. Come, my honoured veteran ! let me endeavour to soften the last days of a life worn out in the service of humanity : call me also thy son, and let me cherish thee as a father. Edwards, from whom the recollection of his own sufferings had scarce forced a tear, now blubbered like a boy ; he could not speak his gratitude, but by some short exclamations of blessings upon Harley. CHAPTER XXXV. He misses an old acquaintance. — An adventure con- sequent upon it. When they had arrived within a little way of the village they journeyed to, Harley stopped short, and looked steadfastly on the mouldering walls of a ruined house that stood on the road side. Oh, heaven ! he cried, what do I see ? silent, nnroofed, and desolate ! Are all thy gay tenants gone ? Do I hear their hum no more ? Edwards, look there, look there ! the scene of my infant joys, my ear- liest friendships, laid waste and ruinous ! That was the very school where I was boarded when yon were at South-hill ; 'tis but a twelvemonth MAN OF FEELING. 93 since I saw it standing, and its benches filled with . cherubs ; the opposite side of the road was the green on which they sported ; see it now ploughed up ! I would have given fifty times its value to have saved it from the sacrilege of that plough. Dear sir, replied Edwards, perhaps they have left it from choice, and may have got another spot as good. They cannot, said Harley, they cannot ; I shall never see the sward covered with its daisies, nor pressed by the dance of the dear in- nocents : I shall never see that stump decked with the garlands which their little hands had gathered. These two long stones which now lie at the foot of it were once the supports of a hut I myself assisted to rear : 1 have sat on the sods within it, when we had spread our banquet of apples before us, and been more blessed oh ! Edwards ! infinitely more blessed than ever I shall be again. Just then a woman passed them on the road, and discovered some signs of wonder at the attitude of Harley, who stood, with his hands folded together, looking with a moistened eye on the fallen pillars of the hut. He was too much entranced in thought to observe her at all ; but Edwards civilly accosted her, desired to know, if that had not been the school-house, and how it came into that condition in which they now saw it ? Alack-a-day ! said she, it was the school-house indeed ; but to be sure, sir, the 'squire has pulled it down, because it stood in the way of his prospects. — What ! how ! pros- pects ! pulled down ! cried Harley. Yes, to be sure, sir ; and the green, where the children used to play, he has ploughed up, because, he said, they 94 MAN OF FEliLING. hurt his fence on the other side of it. Curses on his narrow heart, cried Harley, that could violate a right so sacred ! Heaven blast the wretch ! " And from his derogate body never spring A babe to honour him ! ' ' But I need not, Edwards, I need not (recovering himself a little), he is cursed enough already : to him the noblest source of happiness is denied ; and the cares of his sordid soul shall gnaw it, while thou sittest over a brown crust, smiling on those mangled limbs that have saved thy son and his children ! If you want any thing with the schoolmistress, sir, said the woman, I can show you the way to her house. He followed her, without knowing whither he went. They stopped at the door of a siHig habitation ; where sat an elderly woman with a boy and girl before her, each of whom held a supper of bread and milk in their hands. There, sir, is the school- mistress. Madam, said Harley, was not an old venerable man schoolmaster here some time ago ? Yes, sir, he was ; poor man ! the loss of his former school-house, I believe, broke his heart, for he died soon after it was taken down ; and as another has not yet been found, 1 have that charge in the mean- time. — And this boy and girl, I presume, are your pupils ? — Ay, sir, they are poor orphans, put under my care by the parish ; and more promising chil- dren I never saw. Orphans ! said Harley. Yes, sir, of honest creditable i^arents as any in the parish : and it is a shame for some folks to forget their relations, at a time when they have most need MAN OF FEELING, 95 to remember them. Madam, said Harley, let us never forget that we are all relations. He kissed the children. Their father, sir, continued she, was a farmer here in the neighbourhood, and a sober industrious man he was ; but nobody can help misfortunes : what with bad crops, and bad debts, which are worse, his affairs went to wreck ; and both he and his wife died of broken hearts. And a sweet couple they were, sir ; there was not a properer man to look on in the county than John Edwards, and so indeed were all the Edwardses, What Edwardses ? cried the old soldier hastily. The Edwardses of South-hill ; and a worthy family they were. — ■ South-hill ! said he in a languid voice, and fell back into the arms of the astonished Harley. The schoolmistress ran for some water and a smelling bottle, with the assistance of which they soon re- covered the unfortunate Edwards. He stared wildly for some time, then folding his orphan grand- children in his arms, Oh ! my children,my children I he cried, have I found you thus ? My poor Jack ! art thou gone ; I thought thou shouldst have car- ried thy father's gray hairs to the grave ! and these little ones — his tears choked his utterance, and he fell again on the necks of the children. My dear old man ! said Harley, Providence has sent you to relieve them ; it will bless me, if I can be the means of assisting you. — Yes, indeed, sir, answered the boy ; father, when he was a dying, bade God bless us ; and prayed, that if grandfather lived, he might send him to support us. Where did they lay my boy ^ said Edwards. In the old 96 MAN OF FEELING. churchyard, replied the woman, hard by his mother. — I will show it you, answered the boy : for I have wept over it many a time, when first I came amongst strange folks. He took the old man's hand : Harley laid hold of his sister's, and they walked in silence to the churchyard. There was an old stone, with the corner broken off, and some letters, half covered with moss, to denote the names of the dead : there was a cipher- ed R. E. plainer than the rest ; it was the tomb they sought. Here it is, grandfather, said the boy. Edwards gazed upon it without uttering a word : the girl, who had only sighed before, now wept out- right : her brother sobbed, but he stifled his sob- bing. I have told sister, said he, that she should not take it to heart : she can knit already, and I shall soon be able to dig : we shall not starve, sister, indeed we shall not, nor shall grandfather neither. — The girl cried afresh ; Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, and wept between every kiss. CHAPTER XXXVI. He returns home. — A description of his return. It was with some difficulty that Harley prevailed on the old man to leave the spot where the re- mains of his son were laid. At last, with the assistance of the schoolmistress, he prevailed ; and she accommodated Edwards and him with beds in MAN OF FEELIiXG. 97 iier house, there being nothing like an inn nearer than the distance of some miles. In the morning, Harley persuaded Edwards to come with the children to his house, which was dis- tant but a short day's journey. The boy walked in his grandfather's hand : and the name of Edwards procured him a neighbouring farmer's horse, on which a servant mounted, with the girl on a pillion before him. With this train, Harley returned to the abode of his fathers : and we cannot but think that his en- joyment Avas as great as if he had arrived from the tour of Europe, with a Swiss valet for his com- X^anion, and half a dozen snuff boxes with invisible hinges in his pocket. But we take our ideas from sounds which folly has invented ; Fashion, Bon Ton, and Virtu, are the names of certain idols, to which we sacrifice the genuine pleasures of the soul : in this world of semblance, we are contented with personating happiness ; to feel it is an art beyond us. It was otherwise with Harley ; he ran up stairs to his aunt, with the history of his fellow travellers glowing on his lips. His aunt was an economist ; but she knevv the pleasure of doing charitable things, and withal was fond of her nephew, and solicitous to oblige him. Slie received old Edwards, therefore, with a look of more complacency than is perhaps natural to maiden ladies of threescore, and was remarkably attentive to his grandchildren : she roasted apples with her own hands for their supper, and made up a little bed beside her own for the girl. Edwards made some attempts towards an ac- H 98 MAN OP FEELING. knowledgmeiit for these favours ; but bis young friend stopped them in their beginnings. ' Who- soever receiveth any of these children' said his aunt ; for her acquaintance with her bible was habitual. Early next morning, Harley stole into the room where Edwards lay ; he exyjected to have found him abed ; but in this he was mistaken ; the old man had risen, and was leaning over his sleeping grand- son, with the tears flowing down his cheeks. At first he did not perceive Ha^rley ; when he did, he endeavoured to hide his grief, and, crossing his eyes with his hand, expressed his surprise at seeing him so early astir. I was thinking of you, said Harley, and your children : I learned last night that a small farm of mine in the neighbourhood is now vacant : if you will occupy it, I shall gain a good neighbour, and be able, in some measure, to repay the notice you took of me when a boy ; and as the furniture of the house is mine, it will be so much trouble saved. Edwards's tears gushed afresh, and Harley led him to see the place he in- tended for him. The house upon this farm was indeed little better than a hut ; its situation, however, was pleasant ; and Edwards, assisted by the beneficence of Harley, set about improving its neatness and convenience. He staked out a piece of the green before for a garden, and Peter, who acted in Harley's family as valet, butler, and gardener, had orders to furnish him with parcels of the different seeds he choose to sow in it. I have seen his master at work in this little spot, with his coat off', and his dibble in his MAN OF FEELING. 99 hand : it was a scene of tranquil virtue to have stopped an angel on his errands of mercy ! Harley had contrived to lead a little bubbling brook through a green walk in the middle of the ground, ui)on which he had erected a mill in miniature for the diversion of Edwards's infant grandson, and made shift in its construction to introduce a pliant bit of wood, that answered with its fairy clack to the murmuring of the rill that turned it. I have seen him stand, listening to these mingled sounds, with his eye fixed on the boy, and the smile of con- scious satisfaction on his cheek ; while the old man, with a look half turned to Harley and half to heaven, breathed an ejaculation of gratitude and piety. Father of mercies ! I also would thank thee ! that not only hast thou assigned eternal rewards to virtue, but that, even in this bad world, the lines of our duty and our happiness are so frequently woven together. A FRAGMENT. The Man of Feeling talks of ichat he does inot under- stand. — An incident, * Edwards, said he, I have a proper regard for the prosperity of my country ; every native of it approi)riates to himself some share of the power, or the fame, which, as a nation, it acquires; but I cannot throw off the man so much as to rejoice at H 2 iOO MAN OF FEELING. our conquests in India. You tell me of immense territories subject to the English; I cannot think of their possessions, without being led to inquire, by what right they possess them. They came there as traders, bartering the commodities they brought for others which their purchasers could spare; and however great their profits were, they were then equitable. But what title have the subjects of another kingdom to establish an empire in India ? to give laws to a country where the inhabitants received them on the terms of friendly commerce ? You say they are happier under our regulations than the tyranny of their own petty princes. I must doubt it, from the conduct of those by whom these regulations have been made. They have drained the treasuries of nabobs, who must fill them by oppressing the industry of their subjects. Nor is this to be wondered at, when we consider the motive upon which those gentlemen do not deny their going to India. The fame of conquest, barbarous as that motive is, is but a secondary consideration : there are certain stations in wealth to which the warriors of the East aspire. It is there indeed where the wishes of their friends assign their eminence, where the question of their country is pointed at their return. When shall I see a commander return from India in the pride of honourable poverty ? — You describe the victories they have gained ; they are sullied by the cause in which they fought; you enumerate the sj)oils of those victories; they are covered with the blood of the vanquished ! Could you tell me of some conqueror giving peace MAN OF FEELING. lOi f and happiness to the conquered ; did he accept the gifts of their princes to use them for the com- fort of those whose fathers, sons, or husbands, fell ^ in battle ; did he use his power to gain security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery ; did he endear the British name by examples of generosity, which the most barbarous or most de- praved are rarely able to resist ; did he return with the consciousness of duty discharged to his country, and humanity to his fellow-creatures ; did he return with no lace on his coat, no slaves in his retinue, no chariot at his door, and no burgundy at his table ; — these were laurels which princes might envy — which an honest man would not condemn ! Your maxims, Mr. Harley, are certainly right, said Edwards. I am not capable of arguing with you ; but 1 imagine there are great temptations in a great degree of riches, which it is no easy matter to resist : those a poor man like me cannot describe, because he never knew them; and perhaps I have reason to bless God that I never did; for then it is likely I should have withstood them no better than my neighbours. For you know, sir, that it is not the fashion now, as it was in former times, that I have read of in books, when your grea^t generals died so poor that they did not leave wherewithal to buy them a coffin ; and people thought the better of their memories for it : if they did so now-a-days, I question if anybody excei^t yourself, and some few like you, would thank them. I am sorry, replied Harley, that there is so much truth iii. what you say ; but however the general 102 MAN OF FEELING. current of opinion may point, the feelings are not yet lost that applaud benevolence, and censure in- humanity. Let us endeavour to strengthen them in ourselves ; and we, who live sequestered from the noise of the multitude, have better opportunities of listening undisturbed to their voice. They now approached the little dwelling of Ed- wards. A maid servant, whom he had hired to assist him in the care of his grandchildren, met them a little way from the house: There is a young lady within with the children, said she. Edwards expressed his surprise at the visit: it was, however, not the less true ; and we mean to account for it. This young lady then was no other than Miss Walton. She had heard the old man's history from Harley, as we have already related it. Curiosity, or some other motive, made her desirous to see his grandchildren; this she had an opportunity of gratifying soon, the children in some of their walks, having strolled as far as her father's avenue. She put several questions to both ; she was delighted with the simplicity of their answers, and promised, that if they continued to be good children, and do as their grandfather bid them, she would soon see them again, and bring some present or other for their reward. This promise she had performed now : she came attended only by a maid, and brought w ith her a complete suit of green for the boy, and a chintz gown, a cap, and a suit of ribands, for his sister. She had time enough, with her maid's assistance, to equip them in their new habiliments before Harley and Edwards returned. MAN OF ELING. 103 The boy heard his grandfather's voice, and with that silent joy which his present finery inspired, ran to the door to meet him : putting one hand in his, with the other pointed to his sister, See, said he, what Miss Walton has brought us !— Edwards gaxed on them. Harley fixed his eyes on Miss Walton; hers were turned to the ground;— in Ed- wards's was a beamy moisture— He folded his hands together— I cannot speak, young lady, said he to thank you. Neither could Harley. There were a thousand sentiments; but they gushed so impetuously on his heart, that he could not utter a syllable. ^ * * CHAPTER XL. The Man of Feeling jealous. The desire of communicating knowledge or intelli- gence is an argument with those who hold that man is naturally a social animal. It is indeed one of the earliest propensities we discover ; but it may be doubted whether the pleasure (for pleasure there certainly is) arising from it be not often more selfish than social : for we frequently observe the tidings of ill communicated as eagerly as the an- nunciation of good. Is it that we delight in observ- ing the eff*ects of the stronger passions ? for we are all philosophers in this respect; and it is perhaps amongst the spectators at Tyburn that the most genuine are to be found. 104 MAN OF FEELING. Was it from this motive that Peter came one morning into his master's room with a meaning face of recital ? His master indeed did not at first observe it; for he was sitting with one shoe buckled, delineating portraits in the fire. I have brushed those clothes, sir, as you ordered me, — Harley nodded his head ; but Peter observed that his hat wanted brushing too; his master nodded again. At last Peter bethought him, that the fire needed stirring; and, taking up the poker, demolished the turban'd head of a Saracen, while his master was seeking out a body for it. The morning is main cold, sir, said Peter. Is it ? said Harley. Yes, sir ; I have been as far as Tom Dawson's, to fetch some barberries he had picked for Mrs. Margery. There was a rare junketing last night at Thomas's among Sir Harry Benson's servants; he lay at Squire Walton's, but he would not suffer his servants to trouble the family : so, to be sure, they were all at Tom's, and had a fiddle and a hot supper in the big room where the justices meet about the destroying of hares and partridges, and them things; and Tom's eyes looked so red and so bleared when I called him to get the barberries ! — And I hear as how Sir Harry is going to be married to Miss Walton. How, Miss Walton married ! said Harley. Why it mayn't be true, sir, for all that; but Tom's wife told it me, and to be sure the servants told her, and their master told them, as I guess, sir ; but it mayn't be true for all that as I said before. — Have done with your idle in- formation, said Harley; is my aunt come down i MAN OF FEELING. 105 Iinto the parlour to breakfast ? — Yes, sir. Tell her I I'll be with her immediately. i When Peter was gone, he stood with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the last words of his in- telligence vibrating in his eai^. Miss Walton married ! he sighed — and walked down stairs, with his shoe as it was, and the buckle in his hand. His aunt, however, was pretty well accustomed to those appearances of absence; besides that the natural gravity of her temper, which was commonly called into exertion by the care of her household con- cerns, was such as not easily to be discomposed by any circumstances of accidental impropriety. She too had been informed of the intended match be- tween Sir Harry Benson and Miss Walton. I have been thinking, said she, that they are disiant rela- tions; for the great grandfather of this Sir Harry Benson, who was knight of the shire in the reign of Charles the First, and one of the cavaliers of those times, was married to a daughter of the Walton family. Harley answered dryly, that it might be so; but that he never troubled himself about those matters. Indeed, said she, you are to blame, nephew, for not knowing a little more of them : before I was near your age, I had sewed the pedigree of our family in a a set of chaiij-bottoms, that were made a present of to my grandmother, w^ho was a very notable woman, and had a proper regard for gentility, I'll assure you; but now-a- days it is money, not birth, that makes people respected ; the more shame for the times ! Harley was in no very good humour for entering into a discussion of this question; but he always 106 MAN OF FEELING. entertained so much filial respect for his aunt as to attend to her discourse. We blame the pride of the rich, said he ; but are not we ashamed of our poverty I Why, one would not choose, replied his aunt to make a much worse figure than one's neighbours ; but, as I was saying before, the times (as my friend Mrs. Dorothy Walton observes) are shamefully degenerated in this respect. There was but t'other day, at Mr. Walton's, that fat fellow's daughter, the London merchant, as he calls himself, though I have heard he was little better than the keeper of a chandler's shop : — we were leaving the gentlemen to go to tea. She had a hoop forsooth, as large and as stiff — audit showed a pair of bandy legs, as thick as two — I was nearer the door by an apron's length, and the pert hussy brushed by me, as who should say, Make way for your betters, and with one of her London bobs — but Mrs. Dorothy did not let her pass with it ; for all the time of drinking tea, she spoke of the i)recedency of family, and the dis- parity there is between people who are come of something, and your mushroom-gentry who wear their coats of arms in their purses. Her indignation was interrupted by the arrival of her maid with a damask table-cloth, and a set of napkins, from the loom, which had been spun by her mistress's own hand. There was the family crest in each corner, and in the middle a view of the battle of Worcester, where one of her ancestors had been a captain in the king's forces ; and with a mrt of poetical license in perspective, there was MAN OF FEELING. 107 seen the Royal Oak, with more wig than leaves upon it. On all this the good lady was very copious, and took up the remaining intervals of filling tea, to describe its excellences to Harley ; adding, that she intended this as a present for his wife when he should get one. He sighed and looked foolish, and commending the serenity of the day, walked out into the garden. He sat down on a little seat which commanded an extensive prospect round the house. He leaned on his hand, and scored the ground with his stick : Miss Walton married ! said he ; but what is that to me ? May she be happy ! her virtues deserve it ; to me her marriage is otherwise indifferent : I had romantic dreams ! they are fled ! it is per- fectly indifferent. Just at that moment he saw a servant, with a knot of ribands in his hat, go into the house. His cheeks grew flushed at the sight. He kept his eye fixed for some time on the door by which he had entered ; then starting to his feet hastily followed him. When he approached the door of the kitchen, where he supposed the man had entered, his heart throbbed so violently that when he would have called Peter his voice failed in the attempt. He stood a moment listening in this breathless state of palpitation : Peter came out by chance. Did your honour want any thing ? — Where is the ser- vant that came just now from Mr. Walton's- — From Mr. Walton's, sir ! there is none of his servants here, that I know of. — Nor of Sir Harry 108 MAN OF FEELING. Benson's ? — He did not wait for an answer ; but having by this time observed the hat with its party-coloured ornament hanging on a peg near the door, he pressed forwards into the kitchen, and, addressing himself to a stranger whom he saw there, asked him, with no small tremor in his voice, if he had any commands for him I The man looked silly, and spJd that he had nothing to trouble his honour v/ith. — Are not you a servant of Sir Harry Benson's ? — No, sir. — You'll pardon me, young man ; I judged by the favour in your hat. — Sir, I'm his majesty's servant, God bless him ! and these favours we always wear when we are recruit- ing. Recruiting ! his eyes glistened at the word : he seized the soldier's hand, and, shaking it violent- ly, ordered Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt's best dram. The bottle was brought : You shall drink the king's health, said Harley, in a bumper ■ The king and your honour. — Nay, you shall drink the king's health by itself ; you may drink mine in another. Peter looked in his master's face, and filled with some little reluctance. Now to your mistress, said Harley : every soldier has a mistress. The man excused himself — To your mis- tress ! you cannot refuse it. 'Tvvas Mrs. Margery's best dram ! Peter stood with the bottle a little in- clined, but not so as to discharge a drop of its con- tents : Fill it, Peter, said his master, fill it to the brim. Peter filled it ; and the soldier, having named Suky Simpson, dispatched it in a twinkling. Thou art an honest fellow, said Harley, and I love thee ; and, shaking his hand again, desired Peter to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up MAN OF FEELING. 100 into his room with a pace much quicker and more springy than usual. This agreeable disappointment however he was not long suffered to enjoy. The curate happened that day to dine with him : his visits indeed were more properly to the aunt than the nephew ; and many of the intelligent ladies in the parish, who, like some very great philosophers, have the happy knack at accounting for every thing, gave out, that there was a particular attachment between them, which wanted only to be matured by some more years of courtship to end in the tenderest con- nexion. In this conclusion indeed, supposing the premises to have been true, they were somewhat justified by the known opinion of the lady, who frequently declared herself a friend to the ceremo- nial of former times, when a lover might have sighed seven years at his mistress's feet before he was allowed the liberty of kissing her hand. 'Tis true, Mrs. Margery was now about her grand cli- mactric : no matter, that is just the age when we expect to grow younger. But I verily believe there was nothing in the report : the curate's connexion was only that of a genealogist, for in that charac- ter he was no way inferior to Mrs. Margery her- self. He dealt also in the present tim^, for he w^as a politician and a newsmonger. He had hardly said grace after dinner, when he told Mrs. Margery that she might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as Sir Harry Benson, he was very well informed, was just going to be married to Miss Walton. Harley spilt the wine he was carrying to his mouth : he had time, however, to 110 MAN OF FEELING. recollect himself before the curate had finished the elifFerent particulars of his intelligence : and sum- ming up all the heroism he was master of, filled a bumper, and drank to Miss Walton. With all my heart, said the curate, the bride that is to be. Harley would have said Bride too, but the word Bride stuck in his throat. His confusion indeed was manifest ; but the curate began to enter on some point of descent with Mrs. Margery, and Harley had very soon after an opportunity of leav- ing them, while they were deeply engaged in a ques- tion, whether the name of some great man in the time of Henry the Seventh was Richard or Humph- rey. He did not see his aunt again till supper : the time in between he spent in walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place where his treasure lay. He went as far as a little gate, that led into a copse near Mr. Walton's house, to which that gentleman had been so obliging as to let him have a key. He had just begun to open it, when he saw, on a terrace below. Miss Walton walking with a gentleman in a riding-dress, whom he immediately guessed to be Sir Harry Benson. He stopped of a sudden : his hand shook so much that he could hardly turn the key ; he opened the gate, however, and advanced a few paces. The lady's lap-dog pricked up his ears and barked ; he stopped again— " the little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me." His resolution failed ; he slunk back, and locking the gate as softly as he could, stood on the tiptoe MAN OF FEELING. Ill looking over the wall till they were gone. At that instant a shepherd blew his horn : the romantic melancholy of the sound quite overcame him : — it was the very note that wanted to be touched — he sighed ! — he dropped a tear ! — and returned. At supper his aunt observed that he v/as graver than usual, but she did not suspect the cause ; in- deed, it may seem odd that she was the only jjerson in the family who had no suspicion of his attach- ment to Miss Walton. It was frequently matter of discourse among the servants : perhaps her maiden-coldness — but for these things we need not account. In a day or two he was so much master of him- self as to be able to rhyme on the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighbouring house where we were visiting ; and as I filled the tea-i3ot after him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of forgetfuiness. It is such as might be expected from a man who makes verses for amuse- ment. I am pleased with somewhat of good nature that runs though it, because I have commonly ob- served the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led ^ them to prefer another to the poet himself : I do not doubt the vehemence of their passion ; but, alas ! the sensations of love are something more than the returns of gratitude. MAN OF FEELING. LAVINIA. A PASTORAL. WHY steals from my bosom a sigh ? Why fix'd is my gaze on the ground? Come, give me my pipe, and I'll try To banish my cares with the sound. Erewhiie were its notes of accord With the smile of the flower- footed Muse ; Ah ! why, by its master implored, Should it now the gay carol refuse ? *Twas taught by Lavinia's sweet smile In the mirth-loving chorus to join ? Ah, me ! how unwilhng the while I Lavinia — can never be mine I Another, more happy, the m.aid By fortune is destined to bliss Though the hope has forsook that betray' d, Yet why should I love her the less ? Her beauties are bright as the morn, With rapture I counted them o'er; Such virtues these beauties adorn, I knew her, and praised them no more. I term'd her no goddess of love, I call'd her not beauty divine: These far other passions may prove, But they could not be figures of mine. It ne'er was appparel'd with art, On words it would never rely ; It reign'd in the throb of my "heart, It gleamed in the glance of my eye. Oh fool 1 in the circle to shine That Fashion's gay daughters approve, You must speak as the fashions incline j — Alas ! are there fashions in love ? Yet sure they are simple who prize The tongue that is smoth to deceive ; Yet sure she had sense to despise The tinsel that folly may weave. MAN OF FEELING. 113 When I talk'd, I have seen her recline With an aspect so pensively sweet, Though I spoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were ashamed to repeat. She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lip of the sweet-scented pea ; Perhaps when she smiled upon all, I have thought that she smiled upon me. But why of her charms should I tell ? Ah me I whom her charms have undone ; Yet I love the reflection too well The painful reflection to shun. Ye souls of more delicate kind, Who feast not on pleasure alone. Who wear the soft sense of the mind. To the sons of the world still unknown ; Ye know, though I cannot express. Why I foolishly dote on my pain ; Nor will ye believe it the less. That I have not the skill to complain. I lean on my hand with a sigh, My friends the soft sadness condemn ; Yet, methinks, though I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them. When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn, Methought all the region look'd bright ; Has sweetness forsaken the lawn? For, methinks I grow sad at the sight. When I stood by the stream, I have thought There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound ; But now 'tis a sorrowful note, And the banks are all gloomy around ! '* I have laugh' d at the jest of a friend ; Now they laugh and I know not the cause, Though I seem with my looks to attend, How silly ! I ask what it was ! They sing the sweet song of the May, They sing it with mirth and with glee ; Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, But now 'tis all sadness to me. 1 114 MAN OF FEELING. Oh ! give me the dubious light That gleams through the quivering shade? Oh ! give me the horrors of night, By gloom and by silence array 'd ! Let me walk where the soft rising wave Has pictured the moon on its breast : Let me walk where the new-cover'd grave Allows the pale lover to rest ! When shall I in its peaceable womb Be laid with my sorrows asleep ! Should Lavinia chance on my tomb — I could die if I thought she would weep=. Perhaps, if the souls of the just Revisit these mansions of care, It may be my favourite trust To watch o'er the fate of the fair. Perhaps the soft thought of her breast With rapture more favour 'd to warm ; Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress'd Her sorrow with patience to arm. Then ! then ! in the tenderest part May I whisper, poor Colin was true; And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her Colin pursue. THE PUPIL. A FRAGMENT. * * * But as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, the culture of the mind ; — let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forth to its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. The world " Will smile, and smile, and be a villain MAN OF FEELING. 115 I and the youth who does not support its deceit will be content to smile with it. His teachers will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue. I have not, under these gray hairs, forgotten that I was once a young man warm in the pursuit of [ pleasure, but meaning to be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, i which I had never been at the pains to define ; but I felt my bosom, heave at the thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is im- possible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined. I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my fortune to travel : I had a travelling tutor, which is the fashion too : but my tutor was a gentleman, which it is not always the fashion for tutors to be. His gentility indeed was all he had from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a shilling to support it. I have a favour to ask of you, my dear Mount- ford, said my father, which I will not be refused : You have travelled as became a man ; neither France nor Italy have made any thing of Mountford which Mountford before he left England would have been ashamed of : My son Edward goes abroad, would you take him under your protection ? — He blushed — my father's face was scarlet — he pressed his hand to his bosom, as if he had said, — my heart does not mean to offend you. Mount- ford sighed twice 1 am a proud fool, said he, and you will pardon it ; — there ! (he sighed again) I can hear of dependence, since it is dependence on I 2 116 MAN OF FEELING. my Sedley. Dependence ! answered my father ; there can be no such word between us : what is there in £9,000 a-year that should make me un- worthy of Mountford's friendship ? — They em- braced ; and soon after I set out on my travels with Mountford for my guardian. We were at Milan, where my father happened to have an Italian friend, to whom he had been of some service in England. The count, for he was of quality, was solicitous to return the obligation by a particular attention to his son : we lived in his palace, visited with his family, were caressed by his friends ; and I began to be so well pleased with my entertainment that I thought of England as of some foreign country. The count had a son not much older than myself. At that age a friend is an easy acquisition : we were friends the first night of our acquaintance. He introduced me into the company of a set of young gentlemen, whose fortunes gave them the command of pleasure, and whose inclinations in- cited them to the purchase. After having spent some joyous evenings in their society, it became a sort of habit which I could not miss without uneasi- ness ; and our meetings, which before were fre- quent, were now stated and regular. Sometimes, in the pauses of our mirth, gaming was introduced as an amusement : it was an art in which I was a novice : I received instruction, as other novices do, by loosing pretty largely to my teachers. Nor was this the only evil which Mount- ford foresaw would arise from the connexion I had formed ; but a lecture of sour injunctions was not MAN OF FEELI?^G. 117 Ills method of reclaiming. He sometimes asked me questions about tlie company : but they were such as the curiosity of any indifferent man miglit have prompted : I told him of their wit, their elo- quence, their warmth of friendship, and their sen- sibility of heart : And their honour, said I, laying my hand on my breast, is unquestionable. Mount- ford seemed to rejoice at my good fortune, and begged that I would introduce him to their ac- quaintance. At the next meeting I introduced him accordingly. The conversation was as animated as usual ; they displayed all that sprightliness and good humour which my praises had led Mountford to expect ; subjects too of sentiment occurred, and their speeches, particularly those of our friend the son of Count Kespino, glowed with the warmth of licnour, and softened into the tenderness of feeling. Mountford was charmed with his companions : when we parted he made the highest eulogiums upon them : When shall we see them again ? said he. I was delighted with the demand, and promis- ed to reconduct him on the morrow. In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little out of the road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a young statuary. WJien we were near the house in which Mountford said he lived, a boy of about seven years old crossed us in the street. At sight of Mountford he stopped, and grasping his hand. My dearest sir, said he, my father is likely to do well : he will live to pray for you, and to bless you : yes, he will bless you, though you are an Englishman, and some other hard word that the 118 MAN OF FEELING. monk talked of this morning, which I have forgot, hut it meant that you should not go to heaven : But he shall go to heaven, said I, for he has saved my father : come and see him, sir, that we may he happy. — My dear, I am engaged at present with this gentleman. — But he shall come along with you ; he is an Englishman too, I fancy ; he shall come and learn how an Englishman may go to heaven. — Mountford smiled, and we followed the boy together. After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a prison. I seemed surprised at the sight ; our little conductor observed it. Are you afraid, sir ? said he. I was afraid once too, but my father and mother are here, and I am never afraid when I am with them. He took my hand, and led me through a dark passage that fronted the gate. When we came to a little door at the end, he tapped ; a boy still younger than himself opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a look in which was pictured the benign assura^nce of a superior being. I followed in silence and amazement. On something like a bed lay a man, with a face seemingly emaciated with sickness, and a look of patent dejection ; a bundle of dirty shreds served him for a pillow ; but he had a better support — the arm of a female who kneeled beside him, beautiful as an angel, but with a fading languor in her coun- tenance, the still-life of melancholy, that seemed to borrow its shade from the object on which she gazed. There was a tear in her eye ! — the sick man kissed it off in its bud, smiling through the dimness of his own ! — When she saw Mountford she crawled forward on the ground, and clasped his knees ; he MAN OF FEELING, Faised her from the floor ; she threw her arms round his neck, and sobbed out a speech of thankfulness, eloquent beyond the power of language. Comi)ose yourself, my love, said the man on the bed ; but he whose goodness has caused that emo- tion will pardon its effects. — How is this, Mount- ford ? said I ; what do I see ; what must I do I — You see, replied the stranger, a wretch sunk in poverty, starving in prison, stretched on a sick bed ! but that is little : — there are his wife and children, wanting the bread which he has not to give them I Yet you cannot easily imagine the conscious sere- nity of his mind; in the gripe of affliction, his heart swells with the pride of virtue ! it can even look down with pity on the man whose cruelty has wrung it almost to bursting. You are, I fancy, a friend 'of Mr. Mountford's : come nearer, and I'll tell you : for, short as my story is, I can hardly command breath enough for a recital. The son of Count Respino (I started as if I had trod on a viper) has long had a criminal passion for my wife ; this her prudence had concealed from me ; but he had lately the boldness to declare it to myself. He promised me affluence in exchange for honour, and threat- ened misery, as its attendant, if I kept it. I treated him with the contempt he deserved : the conse- quence was, that he hired a couple of bravos (for I am pursuaded they acted under his direction) who attempted to assassinate me in the street ; but I made such a defence as obliged them to fly, after having given me two or three stabs, none of which were mortal. But his revenge was not to be thus disappointed ; in the little dealings in my trade I 120 MAN OF FEELING. had contracted some debts, of which he had made himself master for my ruin : I was confined here at his suit, when not yet recovered from the wounds I had received : the dear woman and these two boys followed me, that we might starve together ; but Providence interposed, and sent Mr. Mountford to our support : he has relieved my family from the gnawings of hunger, and rescued me from death, to which a fever consequent on my wounds, and increased by the want of every necessary, had al- most reduced me. Inhuman villain ! I exclaimed, lifting up my eyes to Heaven. Inhuman indeed ! said the lovely woman who stood at my side : Alas, sir, wha had we done to offend him ? what had these little ones done, that they should perish in the toil s of his vengeance ? — I reached the pen which stood in the inkstand at the bedside — May I ask what is the amount of the sum for which you are impri- soned I — I was able, he replied, to pay all but 500 crowns. I wrote a draft on the banker with whom I had a credit for my father for 2500 crowns, and presenting it to the stranger's wife — You will re- ceive, madam, on presenting this note, a sum more than sufficient for your husband's discharge; the remainder I leave for his industry to improve. I would have left the room ; each of them laid hold of one my hands : the children clung to my coat : — Oh ! Mr. Harley, methinks I feel their gentle vio- lence at this moment : it beats here with delight inexpressible ! — Stay, sir, said he, I do not mean attempting to thank you (he took a pocket book from under his pillow) ; let me but know what name MAN OF FEELING. 121 I shall place here next to Mr. Mountford ?— Sedley — He writ it down — An Englishman too I i)resume. — He shall go to heaven, notwithstanding, said the boy who had been our guide. It began to be too much for me ; I squeezed his hand that was clasp- ed in mine ; his wife's I pressed to my lips, and burst from the place, to give vent to the feelings that laboured within me. Oh ! Mountford ! said T, when he had overtaken me at the door. It is time, replied he, that we should think of our appoint- ment ; young Respino and his friends are waiting us. — Damn him, damn him ! said I ; let us leave Milan instantly. — But soft — I will be calm ; Mount- ford, your pencil. I wrote on a slip of paper "to signor respino, "When you receive this, I am at a distance from Milan. Accept of my thanks for the civilities I have received from you and your family. As to the friendship with which you were pleased to honour me, the prison which I have just left, has exhibited a scene to cancel it for ever. You may possibly be merry with your companions at my wepJcness, as I suppose you will term it. I give you leave for derision : you may affect a triumph ; I shall feel it. ' " EDV/ARD SEDLEY." You may send this if you will, said Mountford coolly ; but still Hespino is a man of honour! the world will continue to call him so. — It is probable, I answered, they may ; I envy not the appellation. 1-22 MAN OF FEELING. If this if the world's honour, if these men are the guides of its manners Tut ! said Mountford, do you eat macaroni ? [At this place had the greatest depredations of the curate begun. There are so few connected pas- sages of the subsequent chapters remaining that even the partiality of an Editor could not offer them to the Public. I discovered from some scat- tered sentences, that they were of much the same tenor with the preceding ; recitals of little adven- tures, in which the dispositions of a man, sensible to judge, and still more warm to feel, had room to unfold themselves. Some instruction, and some example, I make no doubt they contained ; but it is likely that many of those whom chance has led to a perusal of what I have alread}^ presented may have read it with little pleasure, and will feel no disappointment from the want of those parts which I have been unable to procure : to such as may have expected the intricacies of a novel, a few incidents in a life undistinguished, except by some features of the heart, cannot have afforded much entertainment. Harley's own story, from the mutilated passages I have mentioned, as well as from some inquiries I was at the trouble of making in the country, I found to have been simple to excess. His mistress, I could perceive, was not married to Sir Harry Ben- son : but it would seem by one of the following chapters, which is still entire, that Harley had not profited on the occasion, by making any declaration MAN OF FEELING. of his own passion, after those of the other had been unsuccessful. The state of his health, for some part of this period, appears to have been such as to forbid any thoughts of that kind : he had been seized with a very dangerous fever, caught by attending old Edwards in one of an infectious kind. From this he had recovered but imperfectly: and though he had no formed complaint, his health was manifestly on the decline. It appears that the sagacity of some friend had at length pointed ont to his aunt a cause from which this might be supposed to proceed, to wit, his hope- less love for Miss Walton ; for, according to the conceptions of the world, the love of a man of Harley's fortune for the heiress of £4000 a year is indeed desperate. Whether it was so in this case may be gathered from the next chapter, which, with the two subsequent, concluding the perform- ance, have escaped those accidents that proved fatal to the rest. CHAPTER LV. He sees Miss Walton, and is happy, Harley was one of those few friends whom the malevolence oi fortune had yet left me ; I could not therefore but be sensibly concerned for his present indisposition ; there seldom passed a day on which I did not make inquiry about him. The physician who attended him had informed 124 MAN OF FEELING. me the evening before, that he thought him consi- derably better than he had been for some time past. I called next morning to be confirmed in a piece of intelligence so welcome to me. When 1 entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, leaning on his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude of thoughtful inspiration. His look had always an open benig- nity which commanded esteem ; there was now something more a gentle triumph in it. He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave him the good accounts , I had had from his physician, — I. am foolish enough, said he, to rely but little, in this instance, upon physic : ray presentiment may be false ; but I think I feel my- self approaching to my end by steps so easy that they woo me to approach it. Tiiere is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time when the infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, my dear Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. I was not formed for the bustle of the busy nor the dissipa- tion of the gay ; a thousand things occurred, where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to have done otherwise. It was a scene of dissimulation, of restraint, of disap- pointment. I leave it to enter on that state which I have learned to believe is replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue. I look back on the tenor of my life with the consciousness of few great offences, to account for. There are blemishes, I confess, which deform in some degree the picture ; MAN OF FEELING. 125 but I know the benignity of the Supreme Being, and rejoice at the thoughts of its exertion in my favour. My mind expands at the thought I shall enter into the society of the blessed, wise as angels, with the simplicity of children. He had by this time clasped my hand, and found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon it. — His eye began to moisten too — we sat for some time silent. At last, with an attempt to a look of more composure — There are some remembrances, said Harley, which rise involuntarily on my heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed v/ith a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. 1 recollect, with the tenderest emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have passed among them ; but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings which perhaps are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world is in general selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation of romance or melancholy on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot think but in those regions which I comtem- plate, if there is any thing of mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist ; they are called — perhaps they are — weaknesses here ; but there may be some better modifications of , them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues. He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them when the door opened, and his aunt appeared leading in Miss Walton. My dear, says she, here is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come and inquire for you herself. I could observe a transient glow upon his face. He 1-26 MAN OF FEELING. rose from his seat. If to know Miss Walton'^ goodness, said he, be a title to deserve it, 1 have some claim. She begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my leave. Mrs. Margery accompanied me to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone. She inquired anxiously about his health. I believe, said he, from the accounts which my physicians un- willingly give me, that they have no great hopes of my recovery. She started as he spoke ; but, re- collecting herself immediately, endeavoured to flatter him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. I know, said he, that it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes, which your kindness suggests : but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man is a privilege bestowed on few. — I would en- deavour to make it mine ; nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it than now : it is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its approach. Those sentiments, answered Miss Walton, are just ; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will own, that life has its proper value. As the province of virtue, life is ennobled ; as such, it is to be desired. To virtue has the Supreme Director of all things assigned rewards enough even here to fix its at- tachment. The subject began to overpower her. — Harley lifted his eyes from the ground. — There are, said he in a very low voice, there are attachments, Miss Walton — His glance met hers. — They both betray- ed a confusion, and were both instantly withdrawn. He paused some moments. — I am in such a state MAN OF FEELING, m j. as calls for sincerity, let that also excuse it. — It is \ perhaps the last time we sliall ever meet. I feel j something particularly solemn in the acknowiedg- I ment ; yet my heart swells to make it, awed as it I is by a sense of my presumption, by a sense of your ; perfections. — He paused again. — Let it not offend I you, to know their power over one so unworthy. — j It will, I believe, soon cease to beat, even with that ! feeling which it shall loose the latest. — To love Miss Walton could not be a crime ; — if to declare it is ; one, the expiation will be made. — Her tears were I now flowing without control. — Let me entreat you, f said she, to have better hopes — Let not life be so ■ indifferent to you ; if my wishes can put any value on it — I will not pretend to misunderstand you — I [ know your worth — I have known it long — I have esteemed it — What would you have me say ? — I have loved it as it deserved. — He seized her hand — a languid colour reddened his cheek — a smile brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her it grew dim, it fixed, it closed — He sighed, and fell back on his seat — Miss Walton screamed at the sight — His aunt and the servants rushed into the room — they found them lying motionless together, — His physician happened to call at that instant. Every art was tried to recover them — Wjth Miss Walton they succeeded— but Harley was gone for ever ! I 128 MAN OF FEELING. CHAPTER LVI. The Emotions of the Heart. I ENTERED the rooiii where his body lay; I ap- proached it with reverence, not fear : I looked ; the recollection of the past crowded upon me. I saw that form which, but a little before, was animated with a soul which did honour to humanity, stretched without sense or feeling before me. 'Tis a connexion we cannot easily forget : I took his hand in mine ; 1 repeated his name involuntarily; I felt a pulse in every vein at the sound. I looked earnestly in his face ; his eye was closed, his lip pale and motionless. There is an enthusiam in sorrow that forgets im- possibility ; I wondered that it was so. The sight drew a prayer from my heart : it was the voice of frailty and of man ! the confusion of my mind began to subside into thought ; 1 had time to weep ! I turned with the last farewell upon my lips, when I observed old Edwards standing behind me. 1 looked him full in the face, but his eye was fixed on another object. He pressed between me and the bed, and stood gazing on the breathless remains of his benefactor. I spoke to him, I know not what; but he took no notice of what I said, and remained in the same attitude as before. He stood some minutes in that posture, then turned and walked towards the door. He paused as he went ; he re- turned a second time ; I could observe his lips move as he looked : but the voice they v/ould have uttered was lost. He attempted going again : and a third time he returned as before. I saw him wipe MAN OF FEELING. 129 ilis cheek ; then, covering his face with las hands, his breast heaving with the most convulsive throbs, he flung out of the room. THE CONCLUSION. He had hinted that he should like to be buried in a certain spot near the grave of his mother. This is a weakness ; but it is universally incident to humanity ; it is at least a memorial for those who survive : for some, indeed, a slender memorial will serve ; and the soft affections, when they are busy that way, will build their structures, were it but on the paring of a nail. He was buried in the place he had desired. It was shaded by an old tree, the only one in the churchyard, in which was a cavity worn by time. I have sat with him in it, and counted the tombs. The last time we passed there, methought he looked wistfully on the tree : there was a branch of it that bent towards us, waving in the wind ; he waved his hand, as if he mimicked its motion. There was something i)redictive in his look I perhaps it is foolish to remark it, but there are times and places when I am a child at those things. I sometimes visit his grave ; I sit in the hollow of the tree. It is worth a thousand homilies ; every noble feeling rises within me ! every beat of my heart awakens a virtue ! — but it will make you hate the world — No : there is such an air of gentleness around, that I can hate nothing; but, as to the world — I pity the men of it. END OF THE MAN OF FEELING. K THE MAN OF THE WOELD, IN TWO PARTS. BY HENRY MACKENZIE, ESQ, HALIFAX: JOSEPH HARTLEY, OLD MARKET PLACE, MDCCCXL, THE MAN OF THE WOULD. PART I. INTRODUCTION. THOUGH the world is but little concerned to know, in what situation the author of any perform- ance that is offered to its perusal may be ; yet, I believe, it is generally solicitous to learn some cir- cumstances relating to him : for my own part, I have always experienced this desire in myself ; and read the advertisement at the beginning, and the postscript at the end, of a book, if they contain any information of that sort, with a kind of melancholy inquietude about the fate of him, in whose company, as it were, I have passed some harmless hours, and whose sentiments have been unbosomed' to me with the openness of a friend. The life of him who has had an opportunity of presenting to the eye of the public the following tale, though sufficiently chequered with vicissitude, has been spent in a state of obscurity, the recital of which could but little excite admiration, or gratify 2 MAN OF THE WORLD. curiosity : the manner of his procuring the story contained in the following sheets, is all he thinks himself entitled to relate. After some wanderings, at that time of life which is most subject to wandering, I had found an op- portunity of revisiting the scenes of my earlier at- tachments ; and returned to my native spot with that tender emotion, which the heart, that can he moved at all, will naturally feel, on approaching it. The remembrance of my infant days, like the fancied vibration of pleasant sounds in the ear, was still alive in my mind ; and I flew to find out the marks, by which even inanimate things were to be known : as the friends of my youth, not forgotten, though long unseen ; nor lessened, in my estima- tion, from the pride of refinement, or the compari- son of experience. In the shade of an ancient tree, that centered a circle of elms, at the end of the village where I w^as born, I found my old acquaintance, Jack Ryland He was gathering moss, with one hand ; while the other held a flannel bag, containing earthworms, to be used as bait in angling. On seeing me, Ryland dropped his moss on the ground ; and ran with all the warmth of friendship, to embrace me. My dear Tom, said he, how happy I am to see you ! you have travelled, no doubt, a woundy long way, since we parted — You find me in the old way here ! — I believe, they have but a sorry notion of sport in Italy — While I think on it, look on this menow ; I'll be hanged if the sharpest-eyed trout in the river can know it from the natural. It was but yesterday^ now— You remember the cross-tree MAN OF THE WORLD. 3 ( pool, just below the parsonage — there I hooked ,^ him ; played him half an hour by the clock ; and , landed hira. at last, as far down as the church way t: ford. As for the size — Lord ! how unlucky it is that I have not my landing-net here ; for, now, I recollect that I marked his length on the outside of ' the pole : but, you shall see it some other time. I Let not my reader be impatient at my friend [ Ryland's harangue. I give it him, because 1 would have characters develope themselves. To throw, however, some light upon Ryland's — He was first-cousin to a gentleman who possess- ed a considerable estate in our county ; born to no fortune, and not much formed by nature for ac- quiring one. He found, pretty early, that he should never be rich ; but that he might, possibly, be happy : and happiness, to him, was obtained with- out effort, because it was drawn from sources which it required little exertion to supply. Trifles were the boundaries of his desire ; and their attainment, the goal of his felicity. A certain neatness of. all those little arts in which the soul has no share ; an immoderate love of sport, and a still more immo- derate love of reciting its progress ; with the addi- tion of one faculty, which has some small connec- tion with letters — to wit, a remakable paemory for puzzles and enigmas ; made up his character : and he enjoyed a privilege, uncommon to the happy ; that no one envied the means, by which he attained what every one pursues. I interrupted his narrative, by some inquiries about my former acquaintance in the village : for, Ryland was the recorder of the place ; and could 4 MAN OF THE WORLB. have told the names, families, relations, and inter- marriages, of the i:)arish5 with much more accuracy than the register. Alack-a-day ! said Jack, there have been many changes among us, since you left this. Here has died the old ganger, Wilson ; as good a cricket- player as ever handled a bat. Rooke, at the Salu- tation, is gone, too : and his wife has left the parish, and settled in London ; where, I am told, she keeps a gin-shop, in some street they call South- wark. And the poor parson, whom you were so intimate with, the worthy old Annesly ! He looked piteously towards the church-yard : and a tear trickled down his cheek. I understand you, said I ; the good man is dead ! Ah ! there is more than you think, about his death, answered Jack : he died of a broken heart ! I could make no reply, but by an ejaculation ! and Ryland ac- companied it with another tear : for, though he commonly looked but on the surface of things, yet Ryland had a heart to feel. In the middle of yon clump of alders, said he, you may remember a small house, that was once farmer Higgins's : it is now occupied by a gentle- woman of the name of Wistanly ; who was, for- merly, a sort of servant-companion to Sir Thomas Sindall's mother, the widow of Sir "William. Her mistress, who died some years ago, left her an an- nuity and that house for life, where she has lived ever since. I am told, that she knov/smore of An- nesly's affairs than any other body ; but she is so silent and shy, that I could never get a word form her on the subject. She is i^eckoned a wonderful MAN OF THE WORLD. sclioiar, by the folks of the village ; and you^ who are a man of reading, might i^erhaps be a greater favourite with her : if you choose it, I shall intro- duce you to her immediately. I accepted his Oifer ; and we went to her house together. We found her sitting in a little parlour, fitted up in a taste much superior to what might have been expected, from the appearance of the house ; with some shelves, on which I observed several of the most classical English and French authors. She rose to receive us, with something in her manner greatly above her seeming rank. Jack introduced me, as an acquaintance of her deceased friend, Mr. Annesly. Then, sir, said she, you knew sl man who had few fellows ! lifting her eyes gently upwards. The tender solemnity of her look an- swered the very movement which the remembrancQ had av/aked in my soul ; and I made no other re- ply, than by a tear. She seemed to take it in good part ; and we met, on the ground, like old friends, who had much to ask, and much to be answered. When we were going away, she begged to have a moment's conversation with me alone. Ryland left us together. If I am not deceived, sir, said she, in the opinion I have formed of you, you^ feelings are very different from those of Mr. Ryland : and, in- deed, of most of my neighbours in the village : you seem to have had a peculiar interest in the fate of that worthiest of men, Mr. Annesly. The history of that life of purity, which he led ; of that cala- mity, by which it was shortened ; might not be an unpleasing, though a melancholy, recital to you : 6 MAN OF THE WORLD. but, in this box, which stands on the table by me, is contained a series of letters, and papers ; which, if you will take the trouble of reading them, will save me the task of recounting his sufferings. You will find many passages, which do not indeed re- late to it ; but, as they are often the entertainment of my leisure hours, I have marked the most inte- resting parts on the margin. This deposit, sir, though its general importance be small, my affec- tion for my departed friend makes me consider as a compliment ; and I commit it to you, as to one in whose favour I have conceived a prepossession, from that very cause. . Those letters, and papers, were the basis of what I now offer to the public. Had it been my intention to make a Book, I might have published them en- tire ; and, I am persuaded, notwithstanding Mrs. Wistanly's remark, that no part of them would have been found more foreign to the general drift of these volumes, than many that have got admittance into similar collections : but I have chosen, rather, to throw them into the form of a narrative ; and contented myself with transcribing such reflections as naturally arise from the events, and such senti- ments as the situations alone appear to have ex- cited. There are, indeed, many suppletory facts, which could not have been found in this collection of Mrs. Wistanly's : these I was at some pains to procure, through other channels. How I was en- abled to procure them the reader may conceive, if his patience can. hold out to the end of the story : to account for that, now, would delay its commence- ment, and anticipate its conclusion ; for both which MAN OF THE WORLD. 7 effects, this introductory chapter may have already been subject to reprehension. CHAPTER I. In which are some Particulars previous to the Commencement of the main Story. Hi CHARD Annesly was the only child of a wealthy tradesman, in London ; who, from the experience of that profit which his business afforded himself, was anxious it should descend to his son. Unfor- tunately, the young man had acquired a certain train of ideas, which were totally averse to that line of life his father had marked out for him. There is a degree of sentiment, which, in the bosom of a man destined to the drudgery of the world, is the source of endless disgust ; of this, young Annesly was unluckily possessed : and, as he foresaw, or thought he foresaw, that it would not only endanger his success, but take from the enjoyment of pros- perity, supposing it attained, he declined following that road which his father had smoothed for his progress ; and, at the risk of those ^temporal ad- vantages which the old gentleman's displeasure, on this occasion, might deny him, entered into the service of the church, and retired to the country, on one of the smallest endowments she has to bestow. That feeling which prevents the acquisition of wealth is formed for the support of ]30verty : the contentment of the poor — I had almost said, their 8 MAN OF THE WOULD. l^ricle — buoys up the spirit, against the depression of adversity ; and gives, to our very wants, the ap- pearance of enjoyment. Annesly looked on happiness as confined to the sphere of sequestered hfe. The pomp of greatness, the pleasures of the affluent, he considered, as only productive of turbulence, disquiet, and remorse : and thanked He^aven for having placed him in his own little shed ; which, in his opinion, was the re- sidence of pure and lasting felicity. With this view of things, his father's ideas did by by no means coincide. His anger against his son continued till his death : and, when that event hap- pened, with the preposterous revenge of many a IJarent, he consigned him to misery, as he thought, because he would not be unhappy in that way which he had insisted on his following ; and cut him off from the inheritance of his birth, because lie had chosen a profession which kept him in poverty without it. Though Annesly could support the fear of po- verty, he could not easily bear the thought of a dying father's displeasure. On receiving intelligence of his being in a dangerous situation, he hasted to London ; with the purpose of wringing from him his forgiveness, for the only offence with which his son had ever been chargeable : but he arrived too late ! His father had breathed his last, on the evening of the day preceding that on which he reached the metropolis ; and his house was already in the possession of a nephew, to whom his son un- derstood he had left every shilling of his fortune. This man had been bred a haberdasher, at- the ex- \. MAN OF THE WORLD. 9 f press desire of old Annesly : and had all that patient I dulness, which qualifies for getting rich ; which, ; therefore, in the eyes of his uncle, was the most estimable of all qualities. He had seldom seen Richard Annesly before ; for, indeed, this last was not very solicitous of acquaintance : he recollected his face, however : and, desiring him to sit down, informed him particularly of the settlement which his relentless father had made. It was unlucky, said the haberdasher, that you should have made choice of such a profession ; but a parson, of all trades in the world, he could never endure. It is possible you may be low in cash, at this time ; if you want a small matter to buy mournings, or so, I shall not scruple to advance you the needful : and I wish you would take them of neighbour Bullock, the woollen draper ; who is as honest a man as any atients. Oh ! for Heaven's sake, no bleedmg, cried Harriet; indeed there is no occasion for it. How, no occasion ? exclaimed the other; I have heard, indeed, some i.2^norants condemn i^hlebotoni}^ in such cases; but it is my practice, and I am very Vv'ell able to defend it. It will be allowed that, in X)icthoric habits — Spare your demonstration, in- terrupted Annesly, and think of your patient. — You shall not blood me, said she; you shall not, in- deed, sir ! — Nay, madam, said he, as you please; you are to know, that the operation itself is no part of my profession: it is only jjroji^rcT necemtatem, for want of chirurgical practitioners, that I sometimes condescend to it in this place. Sir Thomas gave him a hint to leave them; and at the same time, slipped a guinea into his hand. He immediately retired; looking at the unusual appearance of the d with so much transport, that he might pos- :y have as much occasion for bleeding, at that ti-oKient, as the patient for whom he had just j^rer scribed it. Annesly assisted by his friend, used every pos- sible argument to comfort and support his sister. His concern for her had indeed banished, for a while, the considera^tion of his ovm state; and when he came to think of that solemn day on which the trial for his life was appointed, his concern was more interested for its effect on his Harriet, than for that it should have o^j himself. After they had passed great part of the day to- gether, Sir Tho]i3ss observed, that Miss Annesly's present lodgings^ in the house of her fellow travel- Q .04 51 AN 01' THE WORLD. ler's father, were so distant, as to occasion much inconvenience to her in her visits to her brother; and very kindly made offer of endeavouring to procure her others, but a few streets off, under the roof of a gentlev/oman, he said, an officer's widow, of his acquaintance; who, if she had any apart- ment unoccupied at the time, he knew, would be as attentive to Miss Annesly as if she were a daughter of her own. This proposal v/as readily accepted; and Sir Thomas, having gone upon the inquiry, returned in the evening v/ith an account of his having suc- ceeded in procuring the lodgings: that he had taken the liberty to call and fetch Miss Annesly's bag- gage from those she had formerly occupied; and that every thing was ready at Mrs. Eldridge's, that was the widow's name, for her reception. After supper, he conducted her thither accordingly. As he was going out, Annesly whispered to him to return for a few minutes, after he had set down his sister, as he had something particular to com- municate to him. When he came back — You have heard, I fancy. Sir Thomas, said he, that the next day but one is the day of my trial. As to myself I wait it with resignation ; and shall not give any trouble to my country by a false defence ; but I tremble for my sister's knowing it. Could we not contrive some method of keeping her in ignorance of its appointment till it be over; and then prepare her for the event, without subjecting her to the tortures of anxiety and suspense ? Sindall agreed in the propriety of the latter part of his scheme; and they resolved to keep his sister that day at MAN OF THE WORLD. 95 home, on pretence of a meeting in the prison be- tween the lawyers of Annesly and those of his pro- secutor. But he warmly insisted that Annesly should accept the services of Camplin towards con- ducting the cause on his part. Endeavour not to persuade me, my friend, said Annesly; for I now rest satisfied with my determination. I thank Heaven, which has enabled me to rely on its good- ness ; and meet my fate with the full possession of myself. I will not disdain the mercy which my country may think I merit; but I will not entangle myself in chicane and insincerity, to avoid her justice. CHAPTER XIX. Tlie Fate of Annesly determined — SindaWs Friend- ship, and the gratitude of Harriet. Nothing remarkable happened ^ill that day when the fate of Annesly was to be determined by the laws of his country. The project formed by Sindall and himself, for keejiing his sister ignorant of its importance, succeeded to their wish. She spent it at home ; comforting herself with the hope, that the meeting she understood to be held on it, might turn out advantageously for her brother, and soothed by the kindness of her landlady, who had, indeed, fully answered Sir ^thomas's expectations, in the attention she had shown her. Meanwhile, her unfortunate brother was brought Q 2 MAN ped the judge in his reply. Silence obtained, that upright magis- trate, worthy the tribunal of England, spoke to this effect : — I am sincerely sorry, young gentleman, to see one of your figure at this bar, charged with a crime for which the public safety has been obliged to award an examplary punishment. Much as I admire the heroism of your confession, I will not suffer advantage to be taken of it, to your prejudice: reflect on the consequences of a plea of guilt, v/hich takes from you ail opportunity of a legal defence; and speak again, as your own discretion or your friends may best advise you. — I humbly thank your iordbhip, said Anne.sly, for the candour and indul- MAN OF THE WORLD. 07 gence which you show me ; but, I have sj)oken the truth, and I will not allow myself to think of retract- ing- it. — 1 am here, returned his lordship, as the dispenser of justice; and I have nothing but jus- tice to give : the province of mercy is in other hands. If, upon inquiry, the case is circumstanced as I wish it to be, my recommendation shall not be wanting to enforce an application there. Annesly was then convicted of the robbery, and the sentence of the law passed upon him. But the judge, before whom he was tried, was not unmindful of his promise : and having satisfied himself that, though guilty in this instance, he was not habitually flagitious, he assisted so warmly the applications which, through the interest of Sindall (for Sindall was in this sincere), were made in his behalf, that a pardon was obtained for him, on the condition of his suffering transportation for the term of fourteen years. This alleviation of his punishment was procured before his sister was suffered to know that his trial had ever come on, or what had been its event. When his fate was by this means determined, Sin- dall undertook to instruct the lady, in whose house he had placed her, that Miss Annesly should be ac- quainted with the circumstances of it, in such a manner as might least discompose that delicacy and tenderness of which her mind was so suscep- tible. The event answered his expectation : that good woman seemed x:)ossessed of as much address as humanity; and Harriet, by the intervention of ])oth, v/as led to the knov/ledge of her brother's h liuatioD with so much prudence, that she bore it 98 MAN OP THE WORLD. at first with resignation, and afterwards looked upon it with thankfulness. After that acknowledgment to Providence, which she had been early instructed never to forget, there was an inferior agent in this affair to whom her warmest gratitude was devoted. Besides that her- self had the highest opinion of Sindall's good offices, her obliging landlady had taken every opportunity, since their acquaintance began, to trumpet forth his praises in the most extravagant strain ; and on the present occasion, her encomiums were loud, in proportion as Harriet's happiness was concerned in the event. Sir Thomas, therefore, began to be considered by the young lady as the worthiest of friends. His own language bore the strongest expressions of friend- ship; of friendship, and no more: but 'the widow would often insinuate that he felt more than he ex- pressed, and when Harriet's spirits could bear a little raillery, her landlady did not want for jokes on the subject. These suggestions of another have a greater eff'ect than is often imagined; they are heard with an ease which does not alarm, and the mind habi- tuates itself to take up such a credit on their truth as it would be sorry to loose, though it is not at the trouble of examining. Harriet did not seriously think of Sindall as of one that was her lover, but she began to make such arrangements as not to be surprised if he should. One morning when Sir Thomas had called to conduct her on a visit to her brother, Mrs. Eldridge rallied him at breakfast on his being still a bache- MAN OF THE WORLD. 99 lor. What is your opinion, Miss Annesly ? said she, is it not a shame for one of Sir Thomas's for- tune not to make some worthy woman happy in the l)articipation of it ? Sindali submitted to be judged by so fair an arbitress. He said, the manners of the court ladies, whose example had stretched un- happily too far, were such, as made it a sort of ven- ture to be married; he then paused for a moment, sighed, and fixing his eyes upon Harriet, drew such a picture of the woman whom he would choose for a wife, that she must have had some sillier quali- ties tham mere modesty about her, not to have made some guess at his meaning. In short, though she was as little wanting in de- licacy as most women, she began to feel a certain interest in the good opinion of Sindali, and to draw some conclusions from his deportment, which, for the sake of my fair readers, 1 would have them re- member, are better to be slowly understood than hastily indulged ! CHAPTER XX. An Accident, ichich may i^ossibly he imagined some- ivhat more than accidental. Though the thoughts of Annesly's future situation could not but be distressful to his sister and him ; yet the deliverance fi'om greater evils which they had experienced served to enlighten the prospect of those they feared. His father, whose consolation 100 MAN OF THE WORLD, always attended the calamity he could neither pre- vent nor cure, exhorted his son, in an ansYver to the account his sister and he had transmitted him of the events contained in the preceding chapter, to have a proper sense of tlie mercy of his Ciod and his king; and to bear what was a mitigation of his l)unishment, with a fortitude and resignation be- coming the sul)ject of both. The same letter in- formed his children that, though he was not well enough recovered to be able to travel, yet he was gaining ground on his distemper, and hoped, as the season advanced, to get the better of it altogether. He sent that blessing to his son which he was pre- vented from bestowing personally, with a credit for any sum v/hich he might have occasion for, against his approaching departure. His children received additional comfort from the good accounts of their father wdiich this letter contained, and even in Annesly's prison there were some intervals in which they forgot the fears of parting and indulged themselves in temporary hap- piness. It was during one of these that Sindail observed to Harriet how little she possessed the curiosity her sex ^vas charged with, who had never once thought of seeing any thing in London that stran- gers were most solicitous to see; and proposed, that very night, to conduct her to the playhouse, where the royal family were to be present at the repre- sentation of a new comedy. Harriet turned a melancholy look towards her "brother; and made answer, that she could not think MAN OF TilE WOULD, 101 of any amusement that should subject him to liours of solitude in a prison. Upon this, Annesly was earnest in pressinj^ her to accept Sir Thomas's invitation : he said, she knew how often he choose to be alone, at times when he could most command society; and that he should find an additional pleasure in theirs, when they returned to him, fraught with the intelligence of the play. But there is something unbecoming in it, said Harriet, in the eyes of others. That objection, replied Sindall, will be easily re- moved ; we shall go, accompanied by Mrs. Eldridge, to the gallery, where even those who have many acquaintance in town are dressed so much in the incognito way as never to be discovered. Annesly repeated his entreaties; Mrs. Eldridge seconded, Sindall enforced them : and all three urged so many arguments, that Harriet was at last overcome, and to the play they accordingly vv-ent. Though this was the first entertainment of the sort at which Harriet had ever been present; yet the thoughts of her absent brother, in whose com- pany all her former amusements had been enjoyed, so much damped the pleasure she should have felt from this, that as soon as the play was over she begged of her conductor to return, much against the desire of Mrs. Eldridge, who entreated them to indulge her by staying the farce. But Harriet seemed so uneasy at ^ the thoughts of a longer a.b- sence from her brother, that the other's solicita- tions were at last overruled; and, making shift to 102 MAN OF THE WORLD. get through the crowd, they left the house, and set out in a hackney coach on their return. They had got the length of two or three streets on their way, when the coachman — who, indeed, had the appearance of being exceedingly drunk — drove them against a post, by which accident one of the wheels was broken t.o pieces, and the carriage itself immediately overturned. Sindail had luckily put down the glass on that side, but a moment be- fore, to look at something ; so that they escai)ed any mischief which might have ensued from the break- ing of it : and, except the ladies being extremely frightened, no bad consequences followed. The disaster happened just at the door of a tavern; the mistress of which, seeing the discomposure of the ladies, very politely begged them to step into her own room till they could readjust themselves and procure another coach from a neighbouring stand, for which she j)romised immediately to dispatch one of her servants. All this while, Sir Thomas was venting his wrath against the coachman, con- tinuing to cane him most unmercifully, till stopped by the intercession of Harriet and Mrs. Eldridge, and prevailed upon to accompany them into the house, at the obliging request of its mistress. He asked pardon for giving way to his passion, which apprehension for their safety, he said, had occa- sioned; and taking Harriet's hand, with a look of the utmost tenderness, inquired if she felt no hurt from the fall ? Upon her answering that, except the fright, she was perfectly well — Then ail is well ! said he, pressing her hand to his bosom; which rose to meet it with a sigli. MAIN OF THE WORLD. 103 He then called for a bottle of Madeira, of which his companions each drank a glass; but ni>on his presenting another, Mrs. Eldridge declared she never tasted anything between meals, and Harriet said that her head was already affected by the glass she had taken. This however, he attributed to the effects of the overturn, for which another bumper was an infallible remedy ; and on Mrs. Eldridge's setting the example, though with the utmost re- luctance, Harriet was prevailed upon to follow it. She was seated on a settee at the upper end of the room, Sindall sat on a chair by her, and Mrs. Eldridge, from choice, was walking about the room. It somehow happened that, in a few minutes, the last mentioned lady left her companions by them- selves. Sindall, whose eyes had not been idle before, cast them now to the ground, with a look of the most feeling discomposure ; and gently lifting them again, — I know not, said he, most lovely of women, whether I should venture to express the sensations of my heart at this moment : that respect, which ever attends a love so sincere as mine, has hitherto kept me silent; but the late accident, in which all that I hold dear was endangered, has opened every sluice of tenderness in my soul, and I were more or less than man, did I resist the impulse of declaring it. — This is no place, sir — , said Harriet, trembling, and covered with blushes. Every place, cried Sin- dall, is sacred to love v/here my Harriet is. At the same time he threw himself on his knees before her, and imprinted a thousand burning kisses on her hand. Let go my hand, Sir Thomas ! she cried^ y.AS 01/ THE \V0IILD. her voice faltering, and lier cheek overspread with a still higher glow. Never thou cruel one, said he — raising himself gently, till he had gained a place on the settee by her side — never till you listen to the dictates of a. passion too violent to be longer resisted. At that instant,- some bustle was heard at the door, and presently after a voice, in a country accent vociferating — It is my neighbour's own daughter, and I must see her immediately ! The door burst open, and discovered Jack Ryland — Mrs. Eldridge following him, with a countenance not the most expressive of good humour. Ryland ! exclaimed the baronet, wdiat is the meaning of this ? advancing towards him with an air of fierceness and indignation, which the other returned with a hearty shake by the hand, saying, he was rejoiced to find Miss Harriet in so good comppaiy. Dear Mr. Ryland, said she, a little confusedly, I am happy to see you; but it is odd — I cannot conceive— tell us, as Sir Thomas w^as just now asking, how you came to find us out here ? Why, you must understand, Miss, returned Jack, that I liave got a little bit of legacy left me, by a relation here in London. As I w as coming up on that business, 1 thought 1 could not do less than ask your worthy father's commands for you and Mr. William. So we settled matters that, as our times, I believe, will agree well enough, I should have the pleasure, if you are not otherwise engaged, of conducting you home again. I came to town only this day ; and after having eaten a mutton chop at the inn where I lighted, and got myself into a little decent trim, I set out from a place they call MA.N OF Tin: WOLliD. 105 'ceadiiiy, 1 think, asking every body 1 met, which t\ lis the shortest way to Newgate, where I under- stood your brother was to be found. But I was like to make a ma^rvelious long journey on it; for besides that it is a huge long way, as I was told, I ]iardly met with one person that would give a mannerly answer to my questions. To be sure, tliey are the most humoursome people here, in London, that ever I saw in my life ! When I asked the road to Newgate, one told me I was not likely to be long in finding it; another bade me cut the first throat I met, and it would show me : and a deal of such out of the way jokes. At last, while I was looking round for some civil like body to inquire of, who should I see whip past me in a coach but yourself, with that lady, as I take it ? Upon which I hallooed out to the coachman to stop ; but he did not hear me, as I suppose, and drove on as hard as ever. 1 followed him close at the heels for some time ; till, the street he turned into being nmch darker than where I saw you first, Ijy reason til ere were none of your torches blazing there, I fell headlong into a rut in the middle of it, and lost j^i;>ht of the carriage before I could recover myself ; however, 1 ran down a right hand road, wliicli I guessed you had taken, asking any body I thought would give me an answer, if they had seen a coach with a handsome young woman in it, drawn by a pair of dark bays ? But I was only laughed at for my pains, till I fell in by chance with a simple countryman like myself, who informed me that he had seen such a one overturned just before this here large house; and the door being opeuj I 106 MAx\ OF THE WORLD. step^»ed in without more ado, till 1 happened to hear this lady whispering something to another about Sir Thomas Sindall, when I guessed that you might be with him, as acquaintances will find one another out, you know ! — And so here I am, at \our service and Sir Thomas' ! This history afforded as little entertainment to its hearers, as it may have done to the greatest part of my readers; but it gave Sir Thomas and Harriet time enough to recover from that confusion into which the appearance of Ryland had thrown both of them; though with this difference — that Harriet's was free from the guilt of Sindall's, and did dot even proceed from the least suspicion of any thing criminal in the intenti^ons of that gentle- man. Sir Thomas pretended great satisfaction in hav- ing met with his acquaintance Mr. Ryland; and, having obtained another hackney coach, they drove together to Newgate; where Jack received a much sincerer, welcome from Annesiy, and they passed the evening with the greatest satisfaction. Not but that there moved something unusual in the bosom of Harriet, from the declaration of her lover; and in his, from the attempt which Provi- dence had interposed to disappoint : he consoled himself, however, with the reflection, that he had not gone such a length as to alarm her simplicity, and took from the mortification of the past by the hope of more successful villany. MAN Oi- THE WORLD. 107 CHAPTER XXI. Ail Account of Anmsly\ DepaHure. It was not long before the timo' arrived in which Annesly was to bid adieu to his native country, for the term which the mercy of his sovereign had allotted for his punishment. He behaved at this juncture with a determined sort of coolness, not easily expected from one of his warmth of feelings, at a time of life when these are in their fullest vigour. His sister, whose gentle heart began to droop under the thoughts of their separation, he employed every argument to comfort. He bade her remember that it had been determined he should be absent for some years, before this neces- sity of his absence had arisen. Suppose me on my travels, said he, my Harriet, but for a longer term, and the sum of this calamity is exhausted ; if there are hardships awaiting me, think how I should otherwise expiate my follies and my crimes ! The punishments of Heaven, our father has often told us, are mercies to its children : mine, I hope, will have a double effect ; to wipe away my former offences, and prevent my oiTending for the future. He was actuated by the same steadiness of spirit in the disposal of what money his father's credit enabled him to command. He called in an exact account of his debts, those of Sindall not excepted, and discharged them* in full; much against the in- clination of Sir Thomas, who insisted, as much as in decency he could, on cancelling every obligation 103 MAN OF THE WOilLl). of that sort to himself. But Aimesly was positive in his resolution ; and after having cleared these incumbrances, he embarked vv'ith only a few sliil- lings in his i^ocket, saying that he would never pinch his father's age to mitigate the punishment which his son had more than deserved. There was another account to settle, vrhich he found a more difficult task. The parting with his sister he knew not how to accomplish, without such a pang as her tender frame could very ill support. At lenf>th he resolved to take at least from its solemnity, if he could not alleviate its anguisli. Having sat, therefore, with Harriet, till past niid- night, on the eve of his departure, which he em- ployed in renewing liis arguments of consolation, and earnestly recommending her to keep up those spirits which should support her father and herself, he pretended a desire to sleep ; appointed an hour for breakfasting with her in the morning; and so soon as he could prevail on her to leave him, lie went on boiu'd the boat which waited to carry him and some unfortunate companions of his voyage to the ship destined to transport them. Sir Thomas accompanied him a little way down the river, till, at the earnest desire of his -friend he v\-as, carried ashore in a sculler wliieli they happen- ed to meet on their way. When they parted, Annesly VvTung lus h?nd, and dropphig a tear on it, which hitherto he liad never ahowed hiir.self to shed — To my faithful Sindall, said he, I leave a trust more {irecious to this bosom than every other earthly good. Be the friend of my father, as you have been that of his undeserving r^on; and x-rotect MAN OF THE WORLD. 109 my Harriet's youth, who has lost that protection a brother should have afforded her. If the prayers of a wretched exile in a foreign land can be heard of Heaven, the name of his friend shall rise, with those of a parent and a sister, in his hourly bene- dictions; and if at any time you should bestow a thought upon him, remember the only comfort of which adversity has not deprived him, the confi- dence of his Sindall's kindness to those whom he has left weeping behind him. Such vv as the charge which Annesly gave, and Sindall received; he received it with a tear, a tear which the better part of his nature had yet reserved from the ruins of principle, of justice, of humanity. It fell involuntarily at the time, and he thought of it afterwards with a blush. Such was the system of self-applause which the refinements of vice had taught him, and such is the honour she has reared for the worship of her votaries ! Annesly kept his eyes on the lights of London, till the increasing distance deprived them of their object. Nor did his imagination fail him, in the picture, after that help v/as taken from him. The form of the weeping Harriet, lovely in her grief, still swam before his sight; on the back ground stood a venerable figure, turning his eyes to Hea- ven; while a tear, that swelled in each, dropped for the sacrifice of his sorrow, and a bending angel accepted it as incense. Thus, by a series of dissipation, so easy in its progress that, if my tale were fiction, it would be thought too simple, was this unfortunate young man lost to himself, his friends, and his country. R 110 MAN OF THE WORLD. Take but a few incidents away, and it is the history of thousands ? Let not those who have escaped the punishment of Annesly, look with indifference on the participation of his guilt, nor suffer the present undisturbed enjoyment of their criminal pleasures to blot from their minds the idea of future retri- bution. CHAPTER XXIL Harriet is mformed of her Brother^ s Departure — Bhe leares London^ on her 7'eturn Home, SiNDALL took upon himself the charge of commu- nicating the intelligence of Annesly's departure to his sister. She received it with an entrancement of sorrow which deprived her of its expression; and when, at last, her tears found their way to utter it — Is he gone ? said she ; and shall I never see him more ? Cruel Billy ! — Oh, Sir Thomas, I had a thousand things to say ! and has he left me with- out a single adieu ? — It was in kindness to you. Miss Annesly, answered the baronet, that he did so. — I believe you, said she; I know it was; and yet methinks he should have bid me farewell ! T could have borne it; indeed, I could — I am not so weak as you think me; yet, Heaven knows, I have need of strength ! — and she burst into tears again. Sir Thomas did not want for expressions of com- fort, or of kindness; nor did he fail, amidst the as- surances of his friendship, to suggest those tender MAN OF THE WORLD. Ill sensations which his bosom felt on account of Miss Annesly. She gave him a warmth of gratitude in return ; which, though vice may sometimes take advantage of it, virtue can never blame. His protestations were interrupted by the arrival - of Ryland, who had accidentally heard of Annesly 's embarkment. Jack had but few words to commu- nicate his feelings by, but his eyes helped them out, with an honest tear. Your brother, I hear, is gone, Miss Harriet ! said he. Well, Heaven bless him, wherever he goes ! Harriet begged to know, when it would suit his convenience to leave London; saying, that every day she staid there, now, would reproach her ab- sence from her father. Jack made answer, that he could be ready to attend her at an hour's warning : for, that his business in London was finished, and as for pleasure, he could find none in it. It was agreed, therefore, contrary to the zealous advice of Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Eldridge, that Harriet should set off, accompanied by Mr. Ryland, the very next morning. Their resolution was accomplished, and they set out by the break of day. Sindall accompanied them on horseback several stages, and they dined to- gether about forty miles from London. Here, hav- ing settled their route, according to a plan of Sir Thomas's, who seemed to be perfectly versant in the geography of the country through which they were to pass, he was prevailed on, by the earnest entreaty of Harriet, to* return to London, and leave her to perform the rest of the journey under the protection of Mr. Ryland. R 2 112 MAN OF THE WORLD. \ On their leaving the inn at which they dined^ there occurred an incident, of which, though the reader may have observed me not apt to dwell on trifling circumstances, I cannot help taking notice. While they were at dinner, they were frequently disturbed by the boisterous mirth of a company in the room immediately adjoining. This, one of the waiters informed them, proceeded from a gentle- man who, he believed, was travelling from London down into the country, and having no companion, had associated with the landlord over a bottle of claret; which, according to the waiter's account, his honour had made so free with, as to be in a merrier, or, as that word may generally be trans- lated, a more noise-making mood, than usual. As Sindall was handing Harriet into the postchaise, they observed a gentleman, whom they concluded to be the same whose voice they had so often heard at dinner, standing in the passage that led to the door. When the lady passed him, he trod, either accidentally or on purpose, on the skirt of her gown behind; and, as she turned about to get rid of the stop, having now got sight of her face, he exclaim- ed with an oath, that she was an angel, and seizing the hand with which she was disengaging her gown, pressed it to his lips, in so rude a manner, that even his drunkenness could not excuse it. At least, it could not, to Sindall ; who, stepping between him and Miss Annesly, laid hold of his collar, and shak- ing him violently, demanded how he dared to affront the lady; and insisted on his immediately asking her pardon. Damme ! said he, hiccuping, not on compulsion, damme ! for you nor any man. MAN OF THE WORLD. 113 damme ! The landlord and Mr. Ryland now inter- posed, and with the assistance of Harriet, pacified Sir Thomas, from the consideration of the gentle- man's beingin astateof temporary insanity. Sindall, accordingly, let go his hold, and went on with Har- riet to the chaise; while the other readjusting his neckcloth, swore that he would have another peep at the girl, notwithstanding. When Harriet was seated in the chaise, Sindall took notice of the flutter into which this accident had thrown her. She confessed that she had been a good deal alarmed, lest there should have been a quarrel on her account; and begged Sir Thomas, if he had any regard for her ease of mind, to think no more of any vengeance against the other gentle- man. Fear not, my adorable Harriet, whispered Sir Thomas ; if I thought there were one kind re- membrance of Sindall in that heavenly bosom — The chaise drove on. — She blushed a reply to this unfinished speech ; and bowed, smiling to its author. CHAPTER XXIII. Harriet proceeds on her Journey with Ryland — A very daring Attach is made upon them — The Con- sequences. Nothing farther happened worthy of recording, till towards the close of that journey which Sir Thomas's direction had marked out for their first 114 MAN OF THE WORLD. day's progress. Ryland had before observed, that Sir Thomas's short roads had turned out very sorry ones : and when it began to be dark, Harriet's fears made her take notice, that they had got upon a large common, where, for a great way round, there was not a house to be seen. Nor was she at all re- lieved by the information of the postboy; who, upon being interrogated by Ryland, as to the safety of the road, answered — To be sure, master, I've known some highwaymen frequent this common; and there stands a gibbet hard by, where two of them have hung these three years. He had scarcely uttered this speech, when the noise of horsemen was heard behind them ; at which. Miss Annesly's heart began to palpitate, nor was her companion's free from unusual agitation. He asked the postboy, in a low voice, if he knew the riders who were coming up behind ? the boy answered in the nega- tive, but that he need not be afraid, as he observed a carriage along with them. The first of the horsemen now passed the chaise in which Ryland and Harriet were ; and at the dis- tance of a few yards, they crossed the road, and made a halt on the other side of it. Harriet's fears were now too much alarmed to be quieted by the late assurance of the postboy. She was not, indeed, long suffered to remain in a state of suspense. One of those objects of her terror called to the driver to stop; which the lad had no sooner complied with, than he rode up to the side of the carriage where the lady was seated, and told her, in a tone rather peremptorily than threatening, that she must allow that gentleman, meaning Ryland, to accept of a MAN OF THE WORLD. 115 seat in anotlier carriage, which was just behind, and do him and his friends the honour of taking one of them for her companion. He received no answer to this demand ; she to w horn it was made having fainted in the arms of her terrified fellow traveller. In this state of insensibility, Hyland was forced by the inhuman ruffian and his asso- ciates to leave her, and enter a chaise which now drew up to receive him ; and one of the gang, whose appearance bespoke something of a higher rank than the rest, seated himself by her, and w^as very assiduous in using proper means for her recovery. When that was effected, he begged her in terms of great politeness, not to make herself in the least uneasy, for that no harm was intended. Oh, heaven ! she cried, where am I ? what would you have ? whither v/ould you carry me ? where is Mr. Ryland ? — If you mean the gentleman in whose company you were, madam, you may be assured that nothing ill shall happen to him, any more than to yourself. — Nothing ill ! said she ; merciful God t what do you intend to do with me 1 — I would not do you a mischief for the world, answered he : and if you will be patient for a little time, you shall be satisfied that you are in danger of none. All this w4iile, they forced the postboy to drive on full speed ; and there was light enough for Harriet to discover, that the road they took had so little ap- pearance of a frequented one, that there was but a very small chance of her meeting with any relief. In a short time after, however, when the moon shining out made it lighter, she found they were obliged to slacken their pace^ from being met in a 116 MAN OF THE WORLD. narrow part of the road, by some persons on horse- back. The thought of relief, recruited a little her exhausted spirits, and having got down the front glass, she called out as loud as she was able, beg- ing their assistance to rescue a miserable creature from ruffians. One who attended the carriage, by the way of guard, exclaimed, that it was only a poor wretch out of her senses, whom her friends were conveying to a place of security : but Harriet, notwithstanding some endeavors of the man in the chaise to prevent her, cried out with greater vehe- mence than before, entreating them, for God's sake, to pity and relieve her. By this time, one who had been formerly behind, came up to the front of the party they had met, and overhearing this last speech of Harriet's — Good God ! said he, can it be Miss Annesly I Upon this, her com- panion in the carriage jumped out with a pistol in his hand, and presently she heard the report of fire-arms; at which, the horses taking fright, ran furiously across the fields for a considerable way, before their driver was able to stop them. He had scarcely accomplished that, when he was accosted by a servant in livery, who bade him fear nothing, for that his master had obliged the villains to make off. Eternal blessings on him ! cried Harriet, and to that Providence, whose instrument he is ! — To have been of any service to Miss Annesly, replied a gentleman, who now appeared leading his horse, rewards itself. — It was Sindall. Gracious powers ! exclaimed the astonished Harriet; can it be you, Sir Thomas ? — Compose yourself, my dear Miss An- nesly, said he; lest the surprise of your deliverance MAN OF THE WORLD. 117 should overpower you spirits. He had opened the door of the chaise; and Harriet, by a natural mo- tion, made room for him to sit by her. He accord- ingly ^ave his horse to a servant, and stepped into the chaise; directing the driver to strike down a particular path, which would lead him to a small inn, where he had sometimes passed the night when a hunting. When he pulled up the glass— Tell me, tell me, Sir Thomas, said Harriet, what guardian angel di- rected you so unexpectedly to my relief? — That guardian angel, my fairest, which I trust will ever direct us to happiness; my love, my impatient love, that could not bear the tedious days which my Harriet's presence has ceased to brighten. When she would have expressed the warmth of her grati- tude for his services — Speak not of them, said he; I only risked a life in thy defence, which without thee it is nothing to possess. They now reached that inn to which Sindall had directed them; where if they found a homely, yet it was a cordial reception. The landlady, who had the most obliging and attentive behaviour in the world, having heard of the accident which had befallen the lady, produced some waters, which she said were highly cordial, and begged Miss An- nesly to take a large glass of them ; informing her, that they were made after a recipe of her grand- mother's, who was one of the most notable doc- tresses in the country. Sir Thomas, however, was not satisfied with this prescription alone, but dis- patched one of his servants to fetch a neighbouring surgeon; as Miss Annesly's alarm, he said, might 118 MAN OF THE WORLD. have more serious consequences than i^eople, ig- norant of such things, could imagine. For this surgeon, indeed, there seemed more employments than one: the sleeve of Sir Thomas's shirt was dis- covered to be all over blood, owing, as he imagined, to the grazing of a pistol-bail which had been fired at him. This, himself treated very lightly, but it awakened the fears and tenderness of Harriet in the liveliest manner. The landlady now put a question — which, indeed, might naturally have suggested itself before; to wit, — whom they suspected to be the instigators of this outrage ? Sir Thomas answered — that, for his part, he could form no probable conjecture about the matter; and turning to Miss Annesly, asked her opinion on the subj ect. Surely, said he, it cannot have been that ruffian, who was rude to you at the inn where we dined ! Harriet ansvvered, that she could very well suppose it might; adding, that though, in the confusion, she did not pretend to have taken very distinct notice of things, yet she thought there was a person standing at the door, near to that drunken gentleman, who had some resemblance of the man that sat by her in the chaise. They were interrupted by the arrival of the sur- geon; which, from the vigilance of the servant, happened in a much shorter time than could have been expected: and Harriet peremptorily insisted that, before he took any charge of her, he should examine and dress the wound on Sir Thomas's arm. To this, therefore, the baronet was obliged to consent; and after having been some time with the operator in an adjoining chamber, they returned together, MAN OF THE WORLD. 119 Sir Thomas's arm bein^ slung in a piece of crape ; and the surgeon declaring, highly to Miss Annesly's satisfaction, that with proper care there was no sort of danger; though, he added that, if the shot had taken a direction but half an inch more to the left, it would have shattered the bone to pieces. This last declaration drove the blood again from Har- riet's cheek ; and contributed, perhaps, more than anything else, to that quickness and tremulation of pulse, which the surgeon, on applying his finger to her wrist, pronounced to be the case. He ordered his patient to be undressed, which was accordingly done, the landlady accommodating her with a bed- gown of her own : and then, having mulled a little wine, he mixed in it some powders of his own com- position ; a secret, he said, of the greatest efficacy in readjusting any disorders in the nervous system ; of which draught, he recommended a large teacup ful to be taken immediately. Harriet objected strongly against these powders: till the surgeon seemed to grow angry at her refusal ; and recapi- tulated, in a very rapid manner, the success which their administration had in many great families, who did him the honour of employing him, Harriet, the gentleness of whose nature could offend no one living, overcame her reluctance, and swallowed the dose that was offered her ! The indignation of my soul has with difficulty submitted so long, to this cool description of a scene of the most exquisite villany ! the genuineness of my tale needs not the aid of surprise, to interest the feelings of my readers 1 It is with horror I tell them, that the various incidents, which this and MAN OF THE WORLD. the preceding chapter contain, were but the prekide of a design, formed by Sindall, for the destruction of that innocence which was the dowry of Annesly's daughter. He had contrived a route the most pro- per for the success of his machinations, which the ignorance of Ryland was prevailed on to follow; he had bribed a set of banditti, to execute that sham rape which his seeming valour was to prevent; he had scratched his wrist with a penknife, to make the appearance of being wounded in the cause ; he had trained his victim to the house of a wretch, whom he had before employed in purposes of a si- milar kind ; he had dressed one of his own creatures to personate a surgeon; and that surgeon, by his directions, had administered certain powders, of which the damnable effects were, to assist the exe- cution of his villany. Beset with toils like these, his helpless prey was, alas ! too much in his power, to have any chance of escape: and that guilty night completed the ruin of her whom, but the day before, the friend of Sin- dall, in the anguish of his soul, had recommended to his care and protection 1 — Let me close this chapter, on the monstrous deed ! that such things are is a thought distressful to humanity — their detail can gratify no mind that deserves to be gratified. MAN OF THE WORLD. 121 CHAPTER XXIV. The Situation of Harriet, and the Conduct of Sindall — They proceed homeward — Some Incidents in their Journey, I WOULD describe, if I could, the anguish which the recollection of the succeeding day brought on the mind of Harriet Annesly. But it is in such passages that the expression of the writer will do little justice even to his own feelings; much must, therefore, be left to those of the reader. The poignancy of her own distress was doubled by the idea of her father's: a father, whose pride, whose comfort, but a few week's ago, she had been; to whom she was now to return, deprived of that innocence which could never be restored. I should rather say, that honour; for guilt it could not be called, under the circumstances into which she had been betrayed: but the world has little distinction to make; and the fall of her, whom the deepest villany has circumvented, it brands with that com- mon degree of infamy which, in its justice, it always imputes to the side of the less criminal party. Sindall's pity, for we will do him no injustice, might be touched; his passion was but little abated: and he employed the language of both, to comfort the affliction he had* caused. From the violence of what, by the perversion of words, is termed love, he excused the guilt of his past conduct, and pro- tested his readiness to wipe it away, by the future. 122 MAN OF THE WORLD. He begged that Harriet would not suffer her de= licacy to make her unhappy, under the sense of their connection ; he vowed, that he considered her as his wife ; and that, as soon as particular circum- stances would allow him, he would make her what the world called so, though the sacredness of his attachment was above being increased by any form whatever. There was something in the mind of Harriet, which allowed her little ease, under all these pro- testations of regard: but they took off the edge of her present affliction; and she heard them, if not with warmth of hope, at least with an alleviation of despair. They now set out on their return to the peaceful mansion of Annesly. How blissful in any other circumstances, had Harriet imagined the sight of a father, whom she now trembled to behold ! They had not i^roceeded many miles, when they were met by Ryland, attended by a number of rustics whom he had assembled for the purpose of searching after Miss Annesly. It was only, indeed, by the lower class, that the account he gave had been credited: for which, those who did not be- lieve it cannot much be blamed, when we consider its improbability; and likewise, that Jack's per- suasive powers were not of a sort that easily in- duces persuasion, even when not disarranged by the confusion and fright of such an adventure. His joy, at finding Harriet safe in the protection of Sir Thomas, was equally turbulent with his for- mer fears for her welfare. After rewarding his present associates with the greatest part of the MAN OF THE WORLD, 12^ money in his pocket, he proceeded, in a manner not the most distinct, to give an account of what befel himself, subsequent to that violence which I had torn him from his companion. The chaise, he \ said, into which he was forced, drove by several I cross roads, about three or four miles from the place where they were first attacked: it then stop- ping, his attendant commanded him to get out, and pointing to a farm-house, which by the light of the moon was discernible at some distance, told him that, if he went thither, he would find accommoda- tion for the night, and might pursue his journey with safety in the morning. He now demanded, in his turn, a recital from Harriet, of her share of their common calamity; which she gave him, in the few words the present state of her spirits could afford. When she had ended, Ryland fell on his knees, in gratitude to Sir Thomas for her deliverance. Harriet turned on Sindall a look infinitely expressive, and it was fol- lowed by a starting tear. They now proceeded to the next stage, on their way homeward; Sindall declaring that, after what had happened, he would on no account, leave Miss Annesly, till he had delivered her safe into the hands of her father. She heard this speech with a sigh so deep, that if Ryland had possessed much penetration, he would have made conjectures of something uncommon on her mind: but he was guiltless of imputing to others what his honesty never experienced in himself. Sir Thomas observed it better, and gently chid it, by squeezing her hand in his. 124 MAN OF THE WORLD. At the inn where they first stopped, they met with a gentleman; who made the addition of a fourth person to their party ; being an officer who was going dov/n to the same part of the country on recruiting orders, and happened to be a particular acquaintance of Sir Thomas Sindall: his name was CampUn. He afforded to their society an ingredient of which, at present, it seemed to stand i)retty much in need; to wit, a proper share of mirtli and humour: for which nature seemed, by a profusion of animal spirits, to have very well fitted him. She had not, perhaps, bestowed on him much sterh'ng wit, but she had given him abundance of that counterfeit assurance, which frequently passes more current than the real. In this com-psmj to which chance had associated him, he had an ad- ditional advantage, from the presence of Ryland, whom he very soon discovered to be of that order of men, called Butts: those easy cushions, to bor- row a metaphor of Otway's, on whom the wits of the world repose and fatten. Besides all this, he had a fund of conversation, arising from the adventures of a life, which accord- ing to his own account, he had passed equally in the perils of war and the luxuries of j)eace : his me- moirs affording repeated instances of his valour, in dangers of the field ; his address, in the society of the great; and his gallantry, in connexions with the fair. But, lest the reader should imagine that the real portraiture of this gentleman was to be found in those lineaments which he drew of himself, I will V.AN OF THE WORLD. 1-25 ; take the liberty candidly, though briefly, to com- [ municate some particulars relating to his quality, I his situation, and his character. He was the son of a man who called himself an attorney, in a village adjoining to Sir Thomas Sin- l dall's estate. His father, Sir William, with whom ; I made my readers a little acquainted in the be- ginning of my story, had found this same lawyer useful in carrying on some proceedings against his X3oor neighbours, which the delicacy of more es- tablished practitioners in the law might possibly ; have boggled at; and he had grown into conse- I quence with the baronet, from that pliancy of dis- ' position which was so suited to his service. Not that Sir William was naturally cruel, or oppressive; but he had an exalted idea of the consequence which a great estate confers on its possessor, which was irritated beyond measure when any favourite scheme of his was opposed by a man of little for- I tune, however just or proper his reasons for oppo- I sition might be; and though a good sort of man , as I have before observed, his vengeance was implac- able. Young Camplin, who was nearly of an age with master Tommy Sindall, was frequently at Sir Wil- liam's, in quality of a dependant companion to his son : and before the baronet died, he had procured him an ensign's commission, in a regiment which, some years after, was stationed in one of our gar- . risons abroad; whene Camplin, much against his \ inclination, was under a necessity of joining it. Here he happened to have an opportunity of obliging the chief in command, by certain little of- s f MAN OF THE WORLD. HcGS which, though not strictly honourable in them- selves, are santified by the favour and countenance of many honourable men : and so much did they at- tach his commander to the ensign, that the latter v/as very soon x>romoted, by his interest, to the rank of a lieutenant; and not long after, was en- abled to make a very advantageous purchase of a company. With this patron, also, he returned to England, and v/as received, at all times, in a very familiar manner into his house : where he had the honour of carving good dishes, which he was sometimes ^4 permitted to taste; of laughing at jokes, which he was sometimes allowed to make; and carried an obsequious face into all companies, who were not treated with such extraordinary respect as to pre- clude his approach. About this time, his father, whose business in the country had not increased since the death of Sir William Sindall, had settled in London; where the reader will recollect having met with him, in a former chapter : but the captain, during his pa- tron's residence there, lived too near St. James's, to make many visits to Gray's Inn; and after that gentleman left the town, he continued to move amidst a circle of men of fashion, with whom he contrived to live in a manner which has been often defined by the expression of— nobody knows how. Which sort of life he had followed uninterruptedly, without ever joining his regiment; till he was now obliged, by the change of a colonel, to take some of the duty in his turn, and was ordered a recruiting, as I have taken due occasion to relate. MAN OF THE WORLD. 127 In this company, did Harriet return to her father. As the news of disaster is commonly speedy in its course, the good man had ah^eady been con- fusedly informed of the attack which ha^ been made on his daughter. To him, therefore, this meeting was so joyful, as almost to blot from his remembrance the calamities which had lately be- fallen his family. But far different were the sen- sations of Harriet : she shrunk from the sight of a, parent, of whose purity she now conceived herself unworthy; and fell, blushing on his neck, which she bathed with a profusion of tears. This he imagined to proceed from her sensibility of those woes which her unhappy brother had suffered : and he forbore to take notice of her distress, any otherwise than by maintaining a degree of cheer- fulness, himself, much above what the feelings of his heart could warrant. He was attended, when her fellow-travellers ac- companied Miss Annesly to his house, by a gentle- man, wliom he now introduced to her by the name of Rawlinson ; saying, he was a very worthy friend of his, who had lately returned from abroad. Har- riet, indeed, recollected to have heard her father mention such a one in their conversations before. Though a good deal younger than Annesly, he had been a very intimate school-fellow of his in Lon- don : from which place, he was sent to the East Indies; and returned, as was common in those days, with some thoueand pounds, and a good con- science, to his native country. A genuine plainness of manners, and a warm benevolence of heart, neither the refinements of life nor the subtleties of s2 128 MAN OF THE WORLD. traffic had been able to weaken in Rawlinson ; and he set out, under the imi^ression of both, immedi- ately after his arrival in England, to visit a comj)a- nion, whose virtues he remembered with venera- tion, and the value of whose friendship he had not forgotten. Annesly received him with that wel- come, which his fireside ever afforded to the worthy ; and Harriet, through the dimness of her grief, smiled on the friend of her father. CHAPTER XXV. Something farther of Mr. Rawlinson, Rawlinson found his reception so agreeable, that he lengthened his visit much beyond the limits which he at first intended it; and at the earnest re- quest of Annesly, to whom his friend's company was equally pleasing, extended them still a little farther. During this period, he had daily opportunities of observing the amiable disi)ositions of Harriet. He observed, indeed, a degree of melancholy about her, which seemed extraordinary in one of her age ; but he was satisfied to account for it, from the re- lation which her father had given him of the situa- tion of his son, and that remarkable tenderness of which his daughter was susceptible. When view- ed in this light, it added to the good opinion which he already entertained of her. His esteem for Miss Annesly shewed itself by MAN OF THE WORLD. \29 V ry mark of attention which a regard for the other sex unavoidably prompts in ours; and a young woman, or her father, who had no more pe- netration in those matters than is common to f many, would not have hesitated to pronounce, that Rawlinson was already the lover of Harriet. But as neither she nor her father had any wishes point- j ing that way, which had been one great index for discovery, they were void of any suspicion of his intentions, till he declared them to Annesly himself. He did this with an openness and sincerity con- formable to the whole of his character. He told his friend that he had now made such a fortune as en- abled him to live independently ; and that he looked for a companion to participate it, whose good sense would improve what were worthy, and whose good nature would bear what were imperfect in him. He had discovered, he said, so much of both, in the mind of Miss Annesly, that there needed not the recommendation of being the daughter of his wor- thiest friend, to determine his choice; and that, though he was not old enough to be insensible to beauty, yet he was wise enough to consider it as the least of her good qualities. He added, that he made this application to her father, not to ask a partial exertion of his interest in his favour, but only as the common friend of both, to reveal his intentions to Miss Harriet. She has seen me, said he, as 1 am. If not a romantic lover, I shall not be a different sort of being, should she accept of me for a husband : if she do*es not, I promise you I shall be far from being offended ; and will always endea- 130 MAN OF THE WORLD. vour to retain her for my friend, whom I have no right to blame for not choosing to be my wife. Annesly communicated this proposal to his daughter with a fairness worthy of that with which it had been intrusted to him. I come not, said he, my Harriet, as a despot, to command; nor as a father, to persude; but merely as the friend of Mr. Rawlinson, to disclose his sentiments : that you should judge for yourself in a matter of the highest importance to you, is the voice of reason and na- ture ; I blush for those parents vvho have thought otherwise. I would not, even with a view to this particular case, obtrude my advice : in general, you have heard my ox)inion before, that the violence which we have been accustomed to apply to love, is not always necessary towards happiness in mar- riage; at the same time, that it is a treason of the highest kind, in a woman, to take him for her hus- band, whom a decent affection has not placed in that situation whence alone she should choose one. — But my Harriet has not merely been taught sen- timents, I know she has learned the art of forming them ; and here she shall be trusted entirely to her own. The feelings of Harriet on this proposal, and the manner in which her father communicated it, were of so tender a kind, that she could not restrain her tears. There wanted, indeed, but little to induce her to confess all that had passed with Sindall, and throw herself on the clemency of her indulgent parent. Had she practised this sincerity — which is the last virtue we should ever part with — how happy had it been ! But it required a degree of Main OF TilE WORLD. fortitude, aa well as softness, to make this discoA^ery ; besides, that her seducer ha-d, with the tenderest entreaties, and assurances of a speedy reparation of her injuries, prevailed on lier to give him some- thing like a promise of secrecy. Her answer to this offer of Mr. Rawlinson's, ex- pressed her sense of the obligation she lay under to Iiim and to her father : she avowed an esteem for his character equal to its excellence, but tha.t it amounted not to that tender regard which she must feel for the man whom she could think of making her husband. Rawlinson received his friend's account of this determination without discomposure. He said, he knew him.self well enough to believe that Miss An- nesly had made an honest and a proper declaration ; and begged to liave an interview with herself, to shew her that he conceived not the smallest re- sentment at her refusal ; which, on the contrary, though it destroyed his hopes, had increased his veneration for her. Regard me not, said he to her, when they met, with that aspect of distance, as if you had of- fended or affronted me : let me not loose that look of kindness which, as the friend of your father and yourself, I have formerly experienced. I confess, there is one disparit}^ between us, which we elderly men are apt to forget; but which I take no offence at being put in mind of. It is more than probable, that I shall never be married at all. Since I am not a match for ybu, Miss Annesly, I would endea- vour to make you somewhat better, if it is possible, for another : do m.e the favour to accej>t of this 132 MAN OF THE WORLD. paper, and let it speak for me, that I would contri- bute to your happiness, without the selfish consi- deration of its being made one with my own. So saying, he bowed, and retired into an adjoining apartment, where his friend was seated. Harriet, upon opening the paper, found it to contain bank bills to the amount of a thousand pounds. Her sur- prise, at this instance of generosity, held her for a few moments, fixed to the spot : but she no sooner recollected herself, than she followed Mr. Rawlin- son, and putting the paper, with its contents, into his hand — Though I feel, sir, said she, with the ut- most gratitude, those sentiments of kindness and generosity you have expressed towards me, you will excuse me, I hope, from receiving this mark of them. Rawlinson's countenance betrayed some indications of displeasure. You do wrong, said he, young lady; and 1 will be judged by your father ! — This was a present, sir, I intended for the wor- thiest woman, the daughter of my worthiest friend: she is woman still, I see ; and her pride will, no more than her affections, submit itself to my hap- piness. Annesly looked upon the bank bills — There is a delicacy, my best friend, said he, in our situation. The poor must ever be cautious, and there is a certain degree of pride, which is their safest virtue.— Let me tell you, interrupted the other, this is not the pride of virtue. It is that fan- tastic nicety, which is a weakness in the soul ; and the dignity of great minds is above it. Believe me, the churlishness which cannot oblige is little more selfish, though in a diff'erent mode, than the haughtiness which will not be obliged. MAN OF THE WORLD. We are instructed, my child, said Aiinesly, de- livering her the paper : let us shew Mr. Rawlin- son, that we have not that narrowness of mind \ which he has censured, and that we will pay that I last tribute to his worth which the receiving of a favour bestows. Indeed, sir, said Harriet, I little deserve it : I am not, I am not what he thinks me — I am not worthy of his regard ! and she burst into tears. They knew not why she wept; but their eyes shed, each, a sympathetic drop, without asking their reason's leave. Mr. Rawlinson speedily set out for London ; where his presence was necessary, towards des- patching some business he had left unfinished after his return to England. He left his friend, and his friend's amiable daughter, with a tender regret; while they, who in their humble walk of life had few to whom that title would belong, felt his absence with an equal emotion. He promised, however, at his dei^arture, to make them another visit with the return of the spring. CHAPTER XXVI. Captain Camplin is again introduced — The Situation of 3Iiss Annesly, with that Gentleman's Concern in her Affairs.^ His place was but ill supplied, at their winter's fire- side, by the occasional visits of Camplin, whom 134 MAX OF THE WORLD. Siadall had introduced to Annesly's acquaintance. Yet, though his was a character on which Annesly could not bestow much of his esteem, it had some good-humoured qualities, which did not fail to en- tertain and amuse him. But the captain seemed to be less agreeable, in that quarter to which he principally pointed his attention ; to wit, the opinion of Harriet : to whom he took frequent occasion to make those speeches, which have just enough of folly in them to acquire the name of compliments; and sometimes even ventured to turn them in so particular a manner, as if he wished to have them understood to mean somewhat more. The situation of the unfortunate Harriet was such, as his pleasantry could not divert, and his at- tachment could only disgust. As she had lost that peace of mind, which inv»^ard satisfaction alone can bestow; so she felt the calamity doubled, by that obligation to secrecy she w^as under, and the diffi- culty which her present condition, for she was now with child, made such a concealment be attended with. Often had she determined to reveal, either to her father or to Mrs. Winstanly — who, of her own sex, was her only friend — the story of her dis- honour : but Sindall, by repeated solicitations, when in the country, and a constant correspond- ence, when in town, conjured her to be silent, for some little time, till he could smooth the wpty for bestowing his hand on the only woman wdiom he had ever sincerely loved. One principal reason for his postponing their union had always been the ne- cessity for endavouring to gain over the assent of his grandfather by the mother's side, from whom MAN OF THE WORLD. 135 Silidall hild great expectations. He had, from time to time, suggested this as difficult, and only to be attempted Vv^ith caution, from the proud and touchy- disposition of the old gentleman : he now repre- sented him as in a very declining state of health ; and that, probably, in a very short time, his death would remove this obstacle to the warmest wish of a heart that was ever faithful to his Harriet. The flattering language of his letters could not arrest the progress of that time which must divulge the shame of her he had undone : but they soothed the tumults of a soul to whom his villany was yet un- known ; and whose affections his appearance of worth, of friendship, and nobleness of mind, had but too much entangled. However imperfectly he had accounted for de- laying a marriage, which he always professed his intention to perform, the delusion was kept up, in the expectations of Harriet, till that period began to draw near, when it would be impossible any longer to conceal from the world the effects of their intimacy. Then, indeed, her uneasiness was not to be allayed by such excuses as Sindall had before relied on her artless confidence to believe. He wrote her, therefore, an answer to a letter full of the most earnest as well as tender expostulations ; informing her, of his having determined to run any risk of inconvenience to himself, rather than suffer her to remain -longer in a state, such as she had — pathetically, indeed — described ! that he was to set out in a few days for the country, to make himself indissolubly hers ; but that it was absolutely neces- sary that she should allow him to conduct their 136 MAN OF THE WORLD. marriage in a peculiar manner, which he would communicate to her on his arrival; and beg<]^ed, as she valued his peace and her own, that the whole matter might still remain inviolably secret, as she had hitherto kept it. In a few days after the receipt of this letter, she received a note from Camplin, importing his desire to have an interview with her, on some particular business, which related equally to her and to Sir Thomas Sindall. The time he appointed was early in the morning of the succeeding day; and the place, a little walk which the villagers used to fre- quent in holiday times, at the back of her father's garden. This was delivered to her, in a secret manner, by a little boy, an attendant of that gentle- man's; who was a frequent guest in Annesly's kitchen, from his talent at playing the flageolet, which he had acquired in the capacity of a drum- mer to the regiment to which his master belonged. Mysterious as the contents of this note were, the mind of Harriet easily suggested to her, that Camplin had been, in some respect at least, let into the confidence of Sir Thomas. She now felt the want of that dignity, which innocence bestows I She blushed and trembled, even in the presence of this little boy, because he was Camplin's : and with a shaking hand, scrawled a note in answer to that he had brought her, to let his master know, that she would meet him at the hour he had appointed. She met him accordingly. He began with making many protestations of his regard, both for Miss Annesly and the baronet ; which had induced him, he said, to dedicate him- 31 AN OF THE WORLD. 137 self to the service of both, in this affair, though it was a matter of such delicacy as he would not otherwise have chosen to interfere in : and put- ing into her hand a letter from Sindall, told her, he had taken measures for carrying into execution the purpose it contained. It informed her, that Sir Thomas was in the house of an old domestic, at some miles distance, where he waited to be made hers. That he had, for this secrecy, many reasons, with which he could not, by such a conveyance, make her acquainted, but which her own prudence^would probably sug- gest. He concluded, with recommending her to the care and protection of Camplin, whose honour he warmly extolled. She paused a moment, on the perusal of this bil- let. Oh, heavens ! said she, to what have I reduced myself ! — Mr. Camplin, what am 1 to do ? whither are you to carry me ? Pardon my confusion — I scarce know what to say to you. I have a chaise and four ready, answered Camp- lin, at the end of the lane : which in an hour or two, madam, will convey you to Sir Thomas Sin- dall. — But my father: good Heaven ! to leave my father I — Consider, said he, it is but for a little while. My boy shall carry a note, to acquaint him that you are gone on a visit, and will return in the evening. — Return ! methinks I feel a foreboding, that I shall never return ! — He put a piece of paper and a pencil into her hand : the note was written, and despatched by the boy, to whom he beckoned at some distance, where he had waited. Now, madam, said he, let me conduct you. Her 138 MAN OF THE WORLD. laiees knocked so against each other, that it was v/ith difficulty she could walk, even with the sup- port of his arm. They reached the chaise: a ser- vant, who stood by it, opened the door to admit her. She put her foot on the step, then drew it back again. Be not afraid^ madam, said Camplin ; you go to be happy ! She put her foot up again, and stood, in that attitude, a moment. She cast back a look, to the little mansion of her father; whence the smoke was now rolling its volumes, in the calm of a beautiful morning. A gust of tender- ness swelled her heart, at the sight — she burst into tears ! but the crisis of her fate was come — and she entered the carriage ; which drove off at a furious rate, Camplin commanding the postilion to make as much speed as was possible. CHAPTER XXVII. TJie Effects which the Event contained in the preceding Chapter had on Mr. Annesly, The receipt of that note which Harriet was per- suaded by Camplin to write to her father, intimating that she was gone upon a visit to a family in the neighbourhood, and not to return till the evening — though her time of going abroad was somewhat unusual, did not create any surprise in the mind of Annesly : but it happened that Mrs. Wistanly, who called in the afternoon to inquire after her young fi^iend, had just left the very house where 7dAN OF THE WORLD, 139 her message imported lier visit to be made. This set her father on conjecturing ; yet without much anxiety, and with no suspicion : but his fears were redoubled when, having sat up till a very late hour^ no tidings arrived of his daughter. He went to i bed, however, though it could not afford him sleep ; I at every bark of the village dogs, his heart bounded r with the hopes of her return ; but the morning I arose, and did not restore him his Harriet. His uneasiness had been observed by his servants ; to whom he was too indulgent a master, to have his interest considered by them with less warmth than their own. Abraham therefore, who was coeval with his master, and had served him ever since he v/as married, had sallied forth, by daybreak, in search of intelligence. He was met, accidentally, by a huntsman of Sir Thomas Sindall's : who in- formed him that, as he crossed the lane at the back of the village, the morning before, he saw Miss Annesly leaning on Captain Camplin's arm, and walking with him, towards a chaise and four, which stood at the end of it. Abraham's cheeks grew pale, at this intelligence : because he had a sort of instinctive terror for Camplin, who was in use to make his awkward simplicity a fund for many jests, and tricks of mischief, during his visits to Annesly. He hastened home to communicate this discovery to his master, which he did with a faltering tongue^ and many ejaculations of fear and surprise. Annesly received it with less emotion, though not without an increase of uneasitiess. Yonder, said Abraham looking through the window, is the captain's little boy ! and he ran out of the room, to bx^ng him to 140 MAN OF THE WORLD. an examination. The lad, upon being interrogated, confessed that his master had sent him to hire a chaise, which was to be in waiting at the end of that lane I have formerly mentioned, at an early hour in the morning : and that he sawMiss Annesly go into it, attended by the captain; who had not any more than Miss Harriet, been at home, or heard of since that time. This declaration deprived Annesly of utterance ; but it only added to the warmth of Abraham's inquisition : who, now, mingling threats with his questions, drew from the boy the secret of his having privately delivered a letter from his master to Miss Annesly the very night preceding the day of their departure ; and that a man of his acquaintance who had stopped about mid-day at the alehouse where he was quar- tered, told him, by way of conversation, that he had met his master with a lady, whom he supposed, jeeringly, he was running away with, driving at a great rate, on the road towards London. Abraham made a sign to the boy to leave the room — My poor dear young lady ! said he, as he shut the door, and the tears gushed from his eyes. His master's were turned upwards — to that Being, to whom calamity ever directed them ! the maid-servant now entered the room, uttering some broken exclamations of sorrows, which a violent sobbing rendered in- articulate. Annesly had finished his account with Heaven ; and, addressing her with a degree of calmness, which the good man could derive only thence, asked her the cause of her being afflicted in so unusual a manner. Oh, sir ! said she, stifling her tears, I have heard what the captain's boy has MAN OP THE WORLD. 141 ; been telling : I fear, it is but too true ; and worse than you imagine ! — God forgive me, if I wrong Miss Harriet; but, I suspect — I have suspected for some time — she burst into tears again — that my young lady is with child ! Annesly had stretched his fortitude to the utmost — this last blow overcame it; and he fell, senseless, on the floor! Abraham threw himself down by him, tearing his white locks? and acting all the frantic extravagancies of grief. But the maid was more useful to her master ; and having raised him gently, and chafed his temples, [ he began to show some signs of reviving : when ' Abraham recollected himself so far, as to assist his fellow-servant in carrying him to his chamber, and laying him on his bed, where he recovered the powers of life, and the gense of his misfortune. Their endeavours for his recovery were seconded by Mrs. Wistanly ; who had made this early visit, to satisfy some doubts which she, as well as Annesly had conceived, even from the information of the preceding day. When he first regained the use of speech, h e complained of a violent shivering : for which this good lady, from the little skill she possessed in physic, prescribed some simple remedies; and, at the same time, despatched Abra- ham for an apothecary in the neighbourhood, who commonly attended the family. Before this gentleman arrived, Annesly had received so much temporary relief from Mrs. Wistanly 's prescriptions, as to be able to speak with more ease than the* incessant quivering of his lips had before allowed him to do. Alas ! said he, Mrs. Wistanly, have you heard of my Harriet l—l have T 142 MAX OF THE WORLD. sir said she, with equal astonishment and sorrow ; yet let me entreat you not to abandon that hope which the present uncertainty may warrant. I cannot allow mj^self to think, that things are so ill as your servants have informed me. — My foreboding heart said he, tells me, they are ! I remember many cir- cumstances, now, which all meet, to confirm my fears. Oh ! Mrs. Wistanly, she was my darling, the idol of my heart ! pei'haps, too much so — the will of Heaven be done ! The apothecary now arrived; who, upon examin- ing into the state of his patient, ordered some warm applications, to remove that universal coldness he complained of: and left him with a promise of returning in a few hours, when he had finished some visits, which he was under the necessity of making in the village. When he returned, he found Mr. Annesly altered for the worse: the cold which the latter felt before, liaving given place to a burning heat. He, there- fore, told Mrs. Wistanly, at going away, that in the evening he would bring a physician, with whom he had an appointment at a gentleman's not very dis- tant, to see Mr. Annesly ; as his situation appeared o him, to be attended with some alarming cir- cumstances. His fears of danger were justified by the event. When these gentlemen saw Mr. Annesly in the evening, his fever was increased. Next day, after a restless night, they found every bad symptom confirmed. They tried every method, which medical skill could suggest, for his relief; but during four successive days, their endeavours MAN OF THE WORLD. H3 proved ineffectual : and at the expiration of that time, they told his friend, Mrs. Wistanly, who had enjoyed as little sleep as the sick man whom she watched, that unless some favourable crisis should happen soon, the worst consequences were much to be feared. ■ CHAPTER XXVIII. j; The Arrival of Mr. BawUnson — Amiesly^s Discourse [ with him — that Gentleman'' s Account of his Friend^ s Illness, and its Consequences. At this melancholy period it happened, that Mr. Hawlinson arrived ; in pursuance of that promise which Annesly had obtained from him, at the time of his departure for London, i There needed not that warmth of heart, we have formerly described in this gentleman, to feel the accumulated distress to which his worthy friend was reduced. Nor was his astonishment, at the account which he received of Harriet's elopement, less than his pity for the sufferings it had brought upon her father. From the present situation of Annesly 's family, he did not choose to incommode them with any trouble of provision for him. He took up his quarters, therefore, at the only inn — a paltry one, indeed — which the village afforded : and resolved to remain there, till he yaw what issue his friend's present illness should have ; and endeavour to ad- T 2 H4 MAN OF THE WORLD. minister some comfort, either to the last moments of his Hfe, or to that affliction which his recovery- could not remove. In the evening of the day on which he arrived, Annesly seemed to feel a sort of relief from the violence of his disease. He spoke with a degree of coolness, which he had never before been able to command : and, after having talked some little time with his physician, he told Abraham, who seldom quitted his bedside, that he thought he had seen Mr. Rawlinson enter the room in the morning, though he was in a confused slumber at the time, and might have mistaken a dream for the reality. Upon Abraham's informing him that Mr. Rawlin- son had been there, that he had left the house but a moment before, and that he was to remain in the village some time, he expressed the warmest satisfaction at the intelligence; and having made Abraham letch him a paper which lay in his bureau, sealed up in a particular manner, he despatched him to the inn where his friend was, with a message importing an earnest desire to see him as soon as should be convenient. Rawlinson had already returned to the house, and was by this time stealing up stairs to watch at the bedside of his friend, for which task Mrs. Wistanly's former unceasing solicitude had now rendered her unfit. He was met by Abraham with a gleam of joy on his countenance, from the hapi)y change which he thought he observed in his master ; and was conducted to the side of the bed by that faithful domestic, who placed him in J) chair that the doctor had just occupied by his patient. MAN OF THE WORLD. 145 Annesiy stretched out his hands, and squeezed that of Rawlmson between them for some time, without speaking a word. 1 bless God, said he, at last, that he has sent me a comforter, at a moment , when 1 so much need one ! You must by this : time have heard, my friend, of that latest and ' greatest of my family misfortunes, with which ' Providence has afflicted me ! — You know, my dear sir, answered Rawlinson, that no one would more sincerely feel for your sorrows than I ; but at pre- sent it is a subject too tender for you. — Do not say so, replied his friend; it will ease my labouring heart to speak of it to my Rawlinson ; but, in the first place, I have a little business which I will now despatch. Here is a deed, making over all my effects to you, sir — and, at your death, to any one you shall name your executor in that trust — for my children, if I have any children remaining ! Into your hands I deliver it with a peculiar satis- faction ; and I know that there will not need the desire of a dying friend to add to your zeal for their service. — Why should that word startle you 1 Death is to me a messenger of consolation ! He paused. Rawlinson put up the paper in silence, for his heart was too full to allow him the use of words for an answer. When I lost my son, continued Annesiy, I suffer- ed in silence ; and though it preyed on me in secret, I bore up against the weight of my sorrow, that I might not weaken, in myself, that stay which Heaven had i)rof ided for my Harriet. She was then my only remaining comfort, saved like some precious treasure from the shipwreck of my family: 146 MAN OF THE WORLD. and I fondly hoped that my age might go down smoothly to its rest, amidst the endearments of a daughter's care. I have now lived to see the last rest- ing place, which my soul could find in this world, laid waste and desolate ! — Yet, to that Being, whose goodness is infinite as his" ways are inscrutable, let me bend in reverence ! I bless his name that he has not yet taken from me that trust in Him — which, to lose, is the only irremediable calamity ! It is now, indeed, that I feel its efficacy most, when every ray of human comfort is extinguished. As for me — my deliverance is at hand : I feel some- t?iing here, at my heart, that tells me I shall not have long to strive with insufferable affliction ! My poor deluded daughter — I commit to thee, Father of all ! by whom the wanderings of thy unhappy children are seen with pity, and to whom their return cannot be too late to be accepted ! — If my friend should live to see her look back with contrition towards that path from which she has strayed, I know his goodness will lead her steps to find it. Show her her father's grave ! — yet spare her for his sake, who cannot then comfort or support her ! The rest of this narration I will give the reader in Mr. Rawlinson's own words, from a letter of his I have now lying before me ; of which 1 will tran- scribe the latter part, beginning its recital at the close of this pathetic address of his friend. As I have been told, says this gentleman, that he had not enjoyed one sound sleep since his daughter went away ; I left him now to compose himself to rest, desiring his servant to call me instantly if he MAN OF THE WORLD. U7 observed any thing particular about his master. He whispered me— that, when he sat up with hhu the night before, he could overhear him, at times, talk wildly, and mutter to himself, like one si:)eak- ing in one's sleep : that, then, he would start, sigh deeply, and seem again to recollect himself. I went back to his master's bedside, and begged hnn to endeavour to calm his mind, so much as not to prevent that repose which he stood so greatly in need of. 1 have prevailed on my physician, an- swered he, to give me an opiate, for that purpose ; and, I think, 1 now feel drowsy from its effects. I wished him — Good night ! — Good night ! said he. But give me your hand : it is, perhaps, the last time 1 shall ever clasp it ! He lifted up his eyes to Heaven, holding my hand in his; then turned away his face, and laid his head upon his pillow. 1 could not lay mine to rest — Alas, said I, that such should be the portion of virtue like Annesly's ! Yet, to arraign the distribution of Providence had been to forget that lesson which the best of men had just been teaching me — but the doub tings, the darkness, of feeble man, still hung about my heart ! When I sent in the morning, 1 was told that he was still asleep, but that his rest was observed to be frequently disturbed by groans and startings, and that he breathed much thicker than he had ever done hitherto, I went myself to get more perfect intelligence. His faithful Abraham met me at the door — Oh, sir ! said he, my poor master ! — What is the matter ? — I fear, sir, he is not in his perfect senses, for he talks more wildly than ever, and yet he is broad awake ! — He led me into the 148 MAN OF THE WORLD. room. I placed myself directly before him; but his eye, though ifc was fixed on mine, did not seem to acknowledge its object. There was a glazing on it that deadened its look. He muttered something in a very low voice. How does my friend ? said I. He suffered me to take his hand, but answered nothing. After listening some time, I could hear the name of Harriet ! — Do you want anything, my dear sir ? He moved his lips, but I heard not what he said. I repeated my ques- tion : he looked up piteously in my face, then turn- ed his eye round, as if he missed some object ou which it meant to rest. He shivered, and caught hold of Abraham's hand, who stood at the side of the bed opposite me. He looked round again; then uttered, with a feeble and broken voice — Where is my Harriet ? — Lay your hand on my head — This hand is not my Harriet's — she is dead, I know ! You will not speak ! — My poor child is dead ! Yet I dreamed she was alive, and had left me — left me, to die alone ! — I have seen her weep at the death of a linnet ! Poor soul, she was not made for this world — We shall meet in Heaven — Bless her ! bless her ! — There ! may you be as virtuous as your mother, and more fortunate than your father has been ? — My head is strangely confused ! But, tell me, when did she die ? You should have waked me, that I might have prayed by her — Sweet inno- cence ! she had no crimes to confess ! — I can speak but ill ; for my tongue sticks to my mouth ! — Yet — oh !~Most Merciful, strengthen and support- He shivered again — Into thy hands — , He groan- edi and died ! ] MAN OF THE WORLD. 149 j Sindall ! and ye — who, like Sindall But I caii- I not speak ! — speak for me, their consciences ! i I f CHAPTER XXIX. ^- What hefel Harriet Annesly on her leaving her Father. ■ I AM not in a disposition to stop, in the midst of this (part of my recital ; solicitous to embellish, or stu- dious to arrange it. My readers shall receive it : simple, as becomes a tale of sorrow; and 1 flatter myself, they are, at this moment, readier to feel 1 than to judge it ! ] They have seen Harriet Annesly, by the artifice ( of Sindall, and the agency of Camplin, tempted to leave the house of her father, in hopes of meeting the man who had betrayed her, and of receiving that only reparation for her injuries which it was now in his power to make. But Sir Thomas never entertained the most dis- tant thought of that marriage, with the hopes of which he had deluded her. Yet, though he was not subject to the internal principles of honour and morality, he was man of the world enough to know their value in the estimation of others. The virtues of Annesly had so much endeared him to every one within their reach, that this outrage of Sindall's against him,undel'the disguise of sacred friendship and regard, would have given the interest and character of Sir Thomas such a blow, as he could 150 MAxN OF THE WORLD. not easily have recovered, nor conveniently have borne. It is not, therefore, to be wondered at, that he wished for some expedient to conceal it from the eyes of the public. For this purpose, he had formed a scheme, which all the knowledge he had- of the delicacy of Har- riet's affection for him did not prevent his thinking practicable — for, the female who once falls from innocence is held to be sunk into perpetual debase- ment — and that was, to provide a husband for her, in the person of another : and, for that husband, he pitched on Camplin, with whose character he was too well acquainted, to doubt the bringing him over to any baseness which danger did not attend, and a liberal reward was to follow. Camplin, who at this time was in great want of money, and had always an appetite for those pleasures which money alone can purchase, agreed to his proposals : they settled the dowry of his future wife, and the scheme which he undertook to procure her. Part of its execution I have already related; I proceed to relate the rest. When they had been driven, with all the fury which Camplin had enjoined the postilions, for about eight or nine miles they stopped at an inn, where they changed horses. Harriet exj)ressed her surprise at their not having already reached the place where Sir Thomas waited them : on which Camplin told her that it was not a great way off, but that the roads were very bad, and that he observed the horses to be exceedingly jaded. After having proceeded some miles farther, on a road still more wild and less frequented, she re- MAN OF THE WORLD. 151 peated her wonder at the length of the way : on which, Camplin, entreating her i^ardon for being concerned in any how deceiving her, confessed that Sir Thomas was at a place much farther from her father's than he had made her to beheve; which deceit he had begged of him — Camplin — to prac- tise, that she might not be alarmed at the distance which was necessary, he said, for that plan of se- crecy Sir Thomas had formed for his marriage. Her fears were sufficiently roused at this intelli- gence; but it was now too late to retreat, however terrible it might be to go on. Some time after, they stopped to breakfast, and changed horses again, Camplin informing her that it was the last time they should have occasion to do so. Accordingly, in little more than an hour, during which the speed of their progress was no- wise abated, they halted at the door of a house, which Harriet, upon coming out of the chaise, im- mediately recollected to be the fatal one to which Sindall had before conveyed her. She felt, on en- tering it, a degree of horror, which the remem- brance of that guilty night she had before passed under its roof could not fail to suggest; and it was with difficulty she dragged her trembling steps to a room above stairs, whither the landlady, with a profusion of civility, conducted her. Where is Sir Thomas Sindall ? said she, looking about, with terror, on the well remembered objects around her. Camplin, shutting the door of the chamber, told her, with a look of the utmost ten- derness and respect, that Sir Thomas was not then in the house, but had desired him to deliver her a 15-2 MAN OF THE WORLD. letter, which he now put into her hands for her perusal. It contained what follows — It is with inexpressible anguish, I inform my ever- dearest Harriet of my inability to perform engage- ments of which I acknowledge the solemnitj^ and which necessity alone has power to cancel. The cruelty of my grandfather is deaf to all the remon- strances of my love; and having accidentally dis- covered my attachment for you, he insists upon my immediately^ setting out on my travels : a command which, in my present situation, I find myself obliged to comply with. I feel, with the most poignant sorrow and remorse, for that condition to which our ill-fated love has reduced the loveliest of her sex. I would therefore endeavour, if possible, to conceal the shame which the world arbitrarily affixes to it. With this view, I have laid aside all selfish considerations, so much as to yield to the suit of Mr. Camplin that hand, which I had once the happiness of expecting for myself. This step, the exigency of your present circumstances ren- ders highly eligible : if your affections can bend themselves to a man, of whose honour and good qualities I have had the strongest j) roofs; and who has generosity enough to impute no crime to that ardency of the noblest passion of the mind, which has subjected you to the obloquy of the undiscern- ing multitude. As Mrs. Camplin, you v>^ill possess the love and affection of that worthiest of my friends, together with the warmest esteem, and re- gard, of your unfortunate, but ever devoted, hum- ble servant, Thomas Sindall, MAN OF THE WORLD. 153 Camplin was about to offer his commentary upon this letter; but Harriet, whose spirits had just sup- ported her to the end of it, lay now lifeless at his feet. After several successive faintings — from which Camplin, the landlady, and other assistants, with difficulty recovered her — a shower of tears came, at last, to her relief ; and she became able to articulate some short exclamations of horror and despair ! Camplin threw himself on his knees be- fore her. He protested the most sincere and dis- interested passion ; and that, if she would bless him with the possession of so many amiable qualities as she possessed, the uniform endeavour of his life should be to promote her happiness — I think not of thee ! she exclaimed — Oh ! Sindall ! perfidious, cruel, deliberate villain ! Camplin again inter- rupted her, with protestations of his own affection and regard. Away ? said she, and let me hear no more ! or, if thou wouldst show thy friendship, carry me to that father from whom thou stolest me — you will not ! — but if I can live so long, I will crawl to his feet, and expire before him. She was running towards the door ; Camplin gently stopped her — My dearest Miss Annesly, said he, recollect yourself but a moment : let me conjure you to think of your own welfare, and of that father's, whom you so justly love. For these alone, could Sir Thomas Sindall have thought of the expedient which he proposes. Ifyou will now become the wife of your adoring Camplin, the time of the celebration of our marriage need not be told to the world. Under the sanction of that holy tie, every circumstance of detraction will be o\ierlook- 154 MAN OF THE WORLD. ed; and that life may be made long and happy, your unthinking rashness would cut off from your- self and your father. Harriet had listened little to this speech ; but the swelling of her anger had sub- sided. She threw herself into a chair, and burst again into tears. Camplih drew nearer, and press- ed her hand in his. She drew it hastily from him — If you have any pity, she cried, 1 entreat you, for Heaven's sake, to leave me ! He bowed respect- fully, and retired, desiring the landlady to attend Miss Annesly, and endeavour to afford her some assistance and consolation. She had, indeed, more occasion for her assistance, than he was then aware of. The violent agitation of her spirits having had such an effect on her, that though she wanted a month of her time, she was suddenly seized with the pains of childbirth ; and they were but just able to procure a woman who acted as a midwife in the neighbourhood, when she was delivered of a girl. Distracted as her soul was, this new object drew forth its instinctive ten- derness : she mingled tears, with her kisses, on its cheeks; and forgot the shame attending its bii'th, in the natural meltings of a mother. For about a week after her delivery, she recover- ed tolerably well ; and, indeed, those about her spared no pains or attention to contribute towards her recovery : but, at the end of that period, an accident threw her into the most dangerous situa- tion. She was lying in a slumber, with a nurse watching her, when a servant of Sir Thomas Sin- dalFsgWhom his master had employed very actively MAN OF THE WOULD. l55 in the progress of his designs on Miss Annesly, entered the room, with a look of the utmost con- sternation and horror. The nurse beckoned to him, to make no noise; signifying, by her gestures, that the lady was asleep : but the opening of the door had already awakened her, and she lay listen- ing, when he told the cause of his emotion. It was the intelligence which he had just accidentally received of Mr. Annesly's death. The effect of this shock on his unfortunate daughter, may be easily imagined : every fatal symptom, which sudden ter- ror or surprise causes in women, at such a season of weakness, was the consequence ; and next morn- ing a delirium succeeded them. She was not however without intervals of reason, though these were but intervals of anguish much more exquisite. Yet she would sometimes express a sort of calmness, and submission to the will of Heaven, though it was always attended with the hopes of a speedy relief from the calamaties of her existence. In one of these hours of recollection, she was asked, by her attendants, whose pity was now moved at her condition, if she chose to have any friend sent for, who might tend to alleviate her distress ? upon which, she had command enough of herself to dictate a letter to Mrs. Wistanly ; reciting briefly, the miseries she had endured ! and asking — with great diifidence, however, of obtaining — if she could pardon her offences so far, as to come and receive the parting breath of her once innocent and much loved Harriet. The letter was, accord- ingly, despatched ; and she seemed to feel a relief, 156 MAN OF THE WORLD. from having accomplished it. But her reason had held out beyond its usual limits of exertion ; and immediately after, she relapsed into her former unconnectedness. Soon after the birth of her daughter, Camplin, according to his instructions, had proposed sending it away, under the charge of a nurse whom the landlady had procured, to a small hamlet, where she resided at a little distance. But this the mother opposed, with such earnestness, that the purpose had been delayed till now ; when it was given up to the care of this woman, accompanied with a considerable sum of money to provide every necessary for its use in the most ample and sump- tuous manner. When Mrs. Wistanly received the letter we have mentioned above, she was not long in doubt as to complying with its request. Her heart bled for the distresses of that once amiable friend, whom virtue might now blame, but goodness could not forsake. She set out therefore, immediately, in a chaise which Camplin had provided for her; and reached the house, to which it conveyed her, on the morn- ing of the following day : her impatience not suffering her to consider either the danger, or inconvenience, of travelling all night. From her recital, I took down the account contained in the following chapter. MAN OF THE WORLD. 157 > CHAPTER XXX. i I Mrs. Wistanly^s Recital — Conclusion of the First Part. When I entered the house, and had got upon the stairs leading to the room in which Harriet lay, I heard a voice enchantingly sweet, but low, and sometimes broken, singing snatches of song, vary- ing from the sad to the gay, and from the gay to the sad : it was she herself, sitting up in her bed, i; fingering her pillow as if it had been a harpsichord. [ It is nut easy to conceive the horror I felt on seeing her in such a situation ! She seemed unconscious of my approach, though her eye was turned towards me as I entered ; only that she stopt in the midst of a quick and lively movement she had begun, and looking wistfully upon me, breathed such a note of sorrow, and dwelt on it with a cadence so mournful, \ that my heart lost all the firmness I had resolved to preserve, and I flung my arms round her neck, which I washed with my bursting tears !— The traces which her brain could now only recollect, were such as did not admit of any object long ; I had passed over it in the moment of my entrance, and it now wandered from the idea ; she paid no regard to my caresses, but pushed me gently from her, gazing steadfastly in an opposite du^ection towards the door of the apartment. A servant entered with some medicine he had been sent to procure ; she put if by when I offered it to her, and kept looking earnestly upon him ; she ceased her singing too, £ind seemed to articulate certain u 158 MAN OF THE WORLI?. imperfect sounds. For some time I could not make them into words, but at last she spoke more distinctly, and with a firmer tone You saved my life once. Sir, and I could then thank you, because I wished .to preserve it; — ^but now — no matter, he is happier than I would have him, — I would have nursed the poor old man till he had seen some better days ! bless his white beard ! — look there I I have heard how they grow in the grave ! — poor old man ! You weep, my dear Sir; but had you heard her speak these words ! I can but coldly repeat them. All that day she continued in a state of delirium and insensibility to every object around her; to- wards evening she seemed exhausted with fatiguOj and the tossing of her hands, which her frenzy had caused, grew languid, as of one breathless and worn out; about midnight she dropt asleep. I sat with her during the night, and when she waked in the morning, she gave signs of having re- covered her senses, by recollecting me, and calling me by my name. At first, indeed, her questions were irregular and wild ; but in a short time she grew so distinct, as to thank me for having com- plied with the request of her letter : 'Tis an office of unmerited kindness, which, said she, (and I could observe her let fail a tear,) will be the last your unwearied friendship for me will have to be- stow. I answered, that I hoped not. Ah ! Mrs. V/istanly, she replied, can you hope so ? you are not my friend if you do. I wished to avoid a sub- ject which her mind was little able to bear, and therefore made no other return than by kissing her MAN OF THE WOLRD. 159 hand, which she had stretched out to me as she spoke. At that moment we heard some unusual stir be- low stairs, and, as the floor was thin and ill laid, the word child was very distinctly audible from every tongue. Upon this she started up in her bed, and with a look piteous and wild beyond description, exclaimed, Oh ! my God ! what of my child ! — She had scarcely uttered the words, when the landlady entered the room, and showed sufficiently by her countenance that she had something dreadful to tell. By signs I begged her to be silent. — What is become of my infant ? cried Harriet. — No ill. Madam, (answered the woman, faultering,) is come to it, I hope. — Speak, said she, I charge you, for I will know the worst : speak, as you would give peace to my departing soul ! springing out of bed, and grasping the w^oman's hands with all her force. It was not easy to resist so solemn a charge. Alas ! said the landlady, I fear she is drown- ed; for the nurse's cloak and the child's wrapper have been found in some ooze which the river had carried down below the ford. She let go the wo- man's hands, and wringing her own together, threw up her eyes to Heaven, till their sight was lost in the sockets. — We were supporting her, each of us holding one of her arms. — She fell on her knees between us, and dropping her hands for a moment, then raising them again, uttered with a voice, that sounded hollow, as if sunk within her : Power Omnipotent ! who wilt not lay. on thy creatures calamity beyond their strength to bear ! if thou hast not yet punished me enough, continue u 2 160 MAN OF THE WORLD. to pour out the phials of thy wrath upon me, and enable me to support what thou inflictest ! But if my faults are expiated, suffer me to rest in peace, and graciously blot out the offences which thy judg- ments have i)unished here ! — She continued in the same posture for a few moments ; then, leaning on us as if she meant to rise, bent her head forward, and drawing her breath strongly, expired in our arms. Such was the conclusion of Mrs. Wistanly's tale of woe ! Spirits of gentleness and peace ! who look with such pity as angels feel on the distresses of mortality ! often have ye seen me labouring under the afflic- tions which Providence had laid upon me. Ye have seen me in a strange land, without friend, and with- out comforter, poor, sick, and naked ; ye have seen me shivering over the last faggot, which my last farthing had purchased, moistening the crust that supported nature with the tears which her miseries shed on it ! yet have ye seen me look inward with a smile, and overcome them. — If such shall ever be my lot again, so let me alleviate its sorrows; let me creep to my bed of straw in peace, after blessing God that I am not a Man of the World. THE MAN OF THE WOULD. PART II. INTRODUCTION. I WAS born to a life of wandering, yet my heart was ever at home ! Though the country that gave me birth, gave me but few friends; and of those few, the greatest part were early lost : yet the remem- brance of her was present with me, in every clime to which my fate conducted me; and the idea of those, whose ashes reposed in that humble spot where they had often been the companions of my infant si:)orts, hall* >wed it in my imagination, with a sort of sacred ejithusiasm. I had not been many weeks an inhabitant of my native village, after that visit to the lady mention- ed in the first pa^t, which procured me the infor- mation I have there laid before my readers, till I found myself once more obliged to quit it, for a foreign country. My parting with Mrs. Wistanly 162 MAN OF THE WORLD. was more solemn and affecting, than common souls will easily imagine it could have been; ui^on an ac- quaintance, accidental in its beginning, and short in its duration : but there was something tender and melancholy in the cause of it, which gave an impression to our thoughts of one another, more sympathetic, perhaps, than what a series of mutual obligations could have effected. Before we parted, I could not help asking the reason of her secrecy with regard to the story of Annesly and his daughter. In answer to this, she informed me that, besides the danger to which she exposed herself, by setting up in opposition to a man, in the midst of whose dependants she pro- posed ending her days; she was doubtful, if her story would be of any service to the memory of her friend : that Camplin — as she supposed, by the di- rection of Sir Thomas Sindall, who was at that time abroad — had universally given out, that Miss An- nesly's elopement was with an intention to be mar- ried to him; on which footing, though a false one, the character of that young lady stood no worse, than if the truth were divulged, to those, most of whom wanted discernment, as well as candour, to make the distinctions which should enable them to do it justice. Several years elapsed, before I returned to that place; whence, it is probable, I shall migrate no more. My friend, Mrs. Wistanly, was one of the persons after whom I first inquired, on my arrival. I found her subject to the common debility, but not to any of the acuter distresses of age ; with the same powers of reason, and the same complacency MAN OF THE WORLD. 1G3 ©f temper, I had seen her before enjoy. These, said she, are the effects of temperance, without austerity; and ease, without indolence. I have nothing now to do, but to live, without the solici- tude of life; and to die, without the fear of dying. At one of our first interviews, I found her ac- companied by a young lady; who, besides a great share of what is universally allowed the name of beauty, had something in her appearance, which calls forth the esteem of its beholders, without their pausing to account for it. It has sometimes de- ceived me, yet I am resolved to trust it, to the last hour of my life : at that time, I gave it unlimited confidence, and I had spoken the young lady's eulogium, before I had looked five minutes in her face. Mrs. Wistanly repeated it to me, after she was gone. That is one of my children, said she ; for I adopt the ciiiidren of virtue : and she calls me her mother, because I am old, and she can cherish me, — 1 could have sworn to her goodness, I replied, without any information, besides what her coun- tenance afforded me, — It is a lovely one, said shcj and her mind is not flattered in its portrait : though she is a member of a family with whom I have not much intercourse, yet she is a frequent visitor at my little dwelling. Her name is Sindall. — Sindall! I exclaimed. Yes, said Mrs. Wistanly, but she is not, therefore, the less amiable. Sir Thomas re- turned from abroad, soon after you left this jjlace. But for several years, he did not reside here : having made a purchase of another estate, in a neighbouring county; and busied himselfj during 164 MAN OF THE WORLD. that time, in superintending the improvement of it. When he returned hither, he brought this young lady, then a child, along with him — who, it seems, was left to his care, by her father, a friend of Sir Thomas', who died abroad; and she has lived with his aunt, who keeps house for him, ever since that period. The mention of Sir Thomas Sindall naturally re- called to my mind the fate of the worthy, but un- fortunate Annesly ! Mrs. Wistanly told me, she had often been anxious in her inquiries about his son William, the only remaining branch of her friend's family ; but, that neither she, nor Mr. liawlinson, with whom she had corresponded on the subject, had been able to procure any accounts of him : whence they cojicluded, that he had died in the plantation to which he was transported in pur- suance of his mitigated sentence. She further informed me, that Sindall had shown some marks of contrition, at the tragical issue of the scheme he had carried on against the daugh- ter's innocence and the father's peace : and to make some small atonement to the dead, for the in- juries he had done to the living, had caused a mo- nument to be erected over their graves, in the vil- lage churchyard; with an ij\scription, setting forth the piety of Annesly, and the virtues and beauty of Harriet. But whatever he might have felt at the time, continued she, I fear the impression was not lasting. From the following chapters, containing some further particulars of that gentleman's life, which my residence in his neighbourhood, and my ac- MAN OF THE WORLD. 165 I quaintance with some of those persons immediately concerned in them, gave me an opportunity of learning, my readers will judge if Mrs. Wistanly's conclusion was a just one. CHAPTER I. '[ Some Account of the Persons of whom Sir Thomas SindalVs Family consisted. The baronet's family consisted, at this time, of his '- aunt, and the young lady mentioned in the Intro- j duction ; together with a cousin of his, of the name I of Bolton, who was considered as presumptive heir V of the Sindall estate, and whose education had been superintended by Sir Thomas. ^ This young gentleman had lately returned from j the university, to which his khisman had sent him. The expectations of his acquaintance were, as is usually the case, sanguine in his favour; and, what is something less usual, they were not disapj^oiiited. Besides tlie stock of iearjiing which his studies had acquired him, he possessed an elegance of manner, and a whming softness of deportment, which a col- lege life does nut often best»»w: but proceeded in him from a cause the least variable of any ; a dis- position instinctively benevolent, and an exquisite sensibihty of heaj*t. With all his virtues, however, he was a de- pendant on Sir Thomas Sindall; and theu' exercise could only be indulged so far as his cousin gave I 1G6 MAN OF THE WORLD. them leave. Bolton's father, who had married daughter of the Smdall family, had a considerable patrimony left him by a parent who had acquired it in the sure and common course of mercantile ap- plication. With this, and the dowry he received with his wife, he might have lived up to the limits of his utmost wish, if he had confined his wishes to what are commonly considered the blessings of life; but, thou.qli he was not extravagant to spend, he was ruined by an avidity to gain. In short, he was of that order of men, who are known by the name of projectors; and wasted the means of pre- sent enjoyment, in pursuit of luxury to come. To himself, indeed, the loss was but small ; while his substance was mouldering away by degrees, its value was annihilated in his expectations of the future ; and he died, amidst the horrors of a prison, smiling at the prospect of ideal wealth and visionary grandeur ! But, with his family, it was otherwise. His wife, who had often vainly endeavoured to prevent, by her advice, the destructive schemes of her husband, at last, tamely yielded to her fate: and died, soon after him, of a broken heart; leaving an only son, the Bolton who is now introduced into my story. The distresses of his father had been always ridi- culed by Sir Thomas Sindall, as proceeding from a degree of whim and madness, which it would have been a weakness to pity: his aunt, Mrs. Selwyn, joined in the sentiment; perhaps, it v*^as readily her own. But, at any rate, she was apt to agree in oi)inion with her nephew, Sir Thomas: and never had much regard for her sister Bolton; for some MAN OF THE WORLD. 167 reasons, no less just than common. In the first place, her sister was handsomer than she ; secondly, she was sooner married; and thirdly, she had been blessed with this promising boy : while Mrs. Selwyn became a widow, without having had a child. There appeared, then, but little prospect of pro- tection to poor Bolton, from this quarter: but as he had no other relation, in any degree of propinquity, a regard to decency prompted the baronet to admit the boy into his house. His situation, indeed, was none of the most agreeable: but the happy dispo- sitions which nature had given him suited them- selves to the harshness of his fortune; and, in whatever society he was placed, he found himself surrounded with friends. There was not a servant in the house, who would not risk the displeasure of their master, or Mrs. Selwyn, to do some forbidden act of kindness to their little favourite, Harry Bolton. Sir Thomas himself, from some concurring acci- dents, had his notice attracted by the good qualities of the boy: his indifference was conquered by de- grees ; and, at last, he began to take upon himself the charge of rearing him to manhood. There wanted only this, to fix his attachment: benefits to those whom we set apart for our own management and assistance, have something so particular in their nature, that there is scarce a selfish passion which their exercise does not gratify. Yet, I mean not to rob SindalLof the honour of his beneficence, it shall no more want my pi-aise, than it did the gratitude of Bolton* 168 MAN OF THE WORLD. CHAPTER II. }Some further Particulars of the Persons mentioned in the foregoing Chapter. Bolton, however, felt that uneasiness, which will ever press upon an ingenuous mind along with the idea of dependence: he had, therefore, frequently hinted, though in terms of the utmost modesty, a desire to be put hito some way of life, that miglit give him an opportunity of launching forth into the world, and freeing his cousin from the incumbrance of a useless idler in his family. Sir Thomas had often made promises of indulg- ing so laudable a desire; but day after day elapsed, without his putting any of them into execution: the truth was, that he had contracted a sort of paternal afi'ection for Bolton, and found it a difficult matter to bring himself to the resolution of parting with him. He contented himself with employhig the young man's genius and activity, in the direction and su- perintendance of his country affairs. He consulted him, on plans of improving his estate, and intrusted him with the care of their execution: he associated him with himself, in matters of difficult discussion, as a magistrate; and in the sports of the field he was his constant companion. It was a long time before Mrs. Selwyn from some of the reasons I have hinted, could look on Harry with a favourable eye. When Sir Thomas first be- gan to take notice of him, she remonstrated on the MAiN OF THE WORLD. danger of spoiling boys by indulgence; and en- deavoured to counterbalance the estimation of his good qualities, by the recital of little tales which she now and then picked up against him. ^ It was not till some time after his return from the university, that Harry began to gain ground in the lady's esteem. That attachment and deference ' to the softer sex, which at a certain age is habitual to ours, is reckoned effeminacy amongst boys, and fixed a stain upon their manhood. Before he went to the university, Harry was under this i^redica- I, ment: but, by the time of his return, he had [ attained the period of refinement; and showed his aunt all those trifling civilities, which it is the pre- rogative of the ladies to receive, and which Mrs. selwyn was often more ready to demand, than some males of her acquaintance were to pay. In truth, it required a knowledge of many feminine qualities, which this lady doubtless possessed, to impress the mind with an idea of that courtesy which is due to the sex: for, her countenance was not expressive of much softness, the natural strength of her features being commonly heightened by the assist- ance of snufi" ; and her conversation generally turning on points of controversy, in religion and philosophy ; which, requiring an intense exertion of thought, are therefore, I presume, from the practice of the fair in general, no way favourable to the preservation or the improvement of beauty. It was, perhaps, from this very inclination for investigating triJth, that Bolton drew an advantage in his approaches towards her esteem. As he was just returned from the seat of learning, where dis- 170 MAN OP THE WORLD. ciissions of that sort are common, she naturaliy ap~ plied to him for assistance in her researches ; by assistance, I mean opposition ; it being the quaUty of that desire after knowledge witli which this lady was endued, to delight in nothing so much, as in having its own doctrines confronted with opposite ones, till they pommel and belabour one another without mercy ; the contest having one advantage peculiar to battles of this kind, that each party, far from being weakened by its exertion, commonly appears to have gained strength, as well as honour, from the rencounter. Bolton, indeed, did not possess quite so much of this quality as his antagonist: he could not, in common good-breeding, refuse her challenge ; but he often mantained the conflict in a manner rather dastardly for a philosopher. He gave, however, full audience to the lady's arguments; and if he sometimes showed an unwillingness to reply, she considered it as a testimony of her power to silence. But she was generous in her victories ; whenever she conceived them completely obtained, she cele- brated the prowess of her adversary, and allowed him all that wisdom, which retreats from the fortress it cannot defend. There was, perhaps, another reason, as forcible as that of obliging Mrs. Selwyn, or attaining the recondite principles of philosophy, v/hich increased Bolton's willingness to indulge that lady in becom- ing a party to her disquisitions. There was a spec- tatress of the combat, whose comj^any might have been purchased even at the expense of sitting to hear Aquinas himself dispute upon theology — Miss MAN OF THE WORLD, 171 Lucy Sindall. My readers have been acqujiiiited in tlie Introduction with my prepossession in her favour, and the character Mrs. Vv^ist?aisly gave in justification of it. They were deceived by neither, V/ith ren)arkable quickness of parts, and the liveliest temper, she possessed all that tendernessg which is the chief ornament of tlir: ic male charac- ter: and with a modesty that seemed to shrink from observation, siie united an ease, and a dignity that universally commanded it. Her vivacity only rose to be amiable: no enemy could ever repeat her wit; and she had no friend, who did not boast of her good-humour, I should first have described her person. My readers will excuse it: it is not of such minds, that I am most solicitous to observe the dwellings. I have hinted before, and I repeat it, that hers was such a one as no mind need be ashamed of. Such was the attendant of Mrs. Selwyn; vvdicse company the good lady particularly required at tliose seasons v/hen she unveiled her knowledge in argument, or pointed her saga^city to instruction. She would often employ Bolton and Miss Lucy, to read her certain select passages of books, when a weakness in her own sight made reading uneasy to her: the subjects were rarely of the entertaining kind, yet Harry never complained of their length. This she attributed to his opinion of their useful- ness. Lucy called it good-na.ture. He thought so himself, at first: but he soon began to discover that it proceeded from some different cause; for when Miss Lucy was by any accident away, he read with very little complacency. He never suspected it to 172 MAN OF THE WORLD. be love ; much less did Lucy. They owned each other for friends; and when Mrs. Selwyn used to call them children, Bolton would call Lucy sister: yet he was often not displeased to remember that she was not his sister indeed ! CHAPTER III. A natural Consequence of some Particulars contained in the last. The state of the mind may be often disguised even from the owner, when he means to inquire into it; but a very trifle will throw it from its guard, and betray its situation, when a formal examination has failed to discover it. Bolton would oftQn catch himself sighing, when Miss Sindall was absent; and feel his clieeks glow at her approach; he wondered what it was that made him sigh and blush. He would sometimes take solitary walks, without knowing why he wandered out alone: he found something that pleased him in the melancholy of lonely recesses, and half-worn paths; and his day dreams commonly ended in some idea of Miss Sindall, though he meant nothing less than to think of such an object. He had strayed in one of those excursions, about half a mile from the house, through a copse at the corner of the park, which opened into a little green amphitheatre ; in the middle of which was a pool MAN OF THE WORLD, 173 of water, formed by a rivulet that crept through the matted grass, till it fell into this bason by a gentle cascade. The sun was gleaming through the trees, which were pictured on the surface of the pool beneath; and the silence of the scene was only interrupted by the murmurs of the waterfall; sometimes ac- companied by the querulous note of the wood- pigeons, who inhabited the neighbouring copse. Bolton seated himself on the bank, and listened to their dirge. It ceased; for he had disturbed the sacred solitary haunt. I will give you some music in return, said he; and drew from his pocket a small i^iped flute, which he frequently carried with him in his evening walks, and serenaded the lonely shepherd returning from his fold. He played a little plaintive air, which himself had composed. He thought he had played it by chance, but Miss Sindall had commended it the day before: the re- collection of Miss Sindall accompanied the sound, and he had drawn her portrait listening to its close. She was, indeed, listening to its close: for acci- dent had pointed her walk in the very same di- rection with Bolton's. She was just coming out of the v/ood, when she heard the soft notes of his flute. They had something of fairy music in them, that suited the scene: and she was irresistibly drawn nearer the place where he sat; though some way- ward feeling arose, and whispered that she should not approach it, whether she would or no ; and she stood close by his "side, while the last cadence was melting from his i)ipe. She repeated it after him with lier voice. Bli-^ i X 174 MAN OF THE WORLD. Sindall ! cried he, starting up with some emotion. I know, said she, you will be surprised to find me here; but I was enchanted hither by the sound of your flute. Pray, touch that little melancholy tune again. He began, but he played very ill. You blow it, said she, not so sweetly as before ; let me try what tone 1 can give it. She put it to her mouth: but she wanted the skill to give it voice. There cannot be much art in it; — ^she tried it again — and yet it will not speak at my bidding ! — She looked stedfastly on the flute, holding her fingers on the stops: her lips were red with the pressure; and her figure altogether so pastoral and innocent, that I do not believe the kisses, with which the poets make Diana greet her sister-huntresses, were ever more chaste that that which Bolton now stole from her by surprise. Her cheeks were crimson, at this little violence oi Harry's. What do you mean, Mr. Bolton? said she, dropping the flute to the ground. 'Twas a forfeiture, he replied, stammering and blushing excessively, for attempting to blow my flute. — I don't understand you ! answered Lucy; and turned towards the house, with some marks of resentment on her countenance. Bolton was for some time rivetted to the spot. When he recovered the use of his feet, he ran after Miss Sindall: and gently laying hold of her hand — I cannot bear your anger, said he; though I own your displeasure is just: but forgive, I entreat you, this unthinking offence, of him whose I'espect is equal to his love. — Your love, Mr. Bolton! — I cannot retract the word; though my heart has betrayed from me the prudence MAN OF THE WORLD. 175 which might have stifled the declaration. I have not language, Miss Lucy, for the present feelings of my soul: till this moment, I never knew how much I loved you; and never could I have ex- ^ pressed it so ill ! — He paused — She was looking fixedly on the ground: drawing her hand softly from his, which refused, involuntarily, to quit its ' hold — May I not hope ? said he. You have my pardon, Mr. Bolton. — But — I beg you, said Lucy, interrupting him, to leave this subject. I know your merit, Mr. Bolton — my esteem — you have thrown me into such confusion — nay, let go my I hand. — Pity then, and forgive me ! She sighed — he pressed her hand to his lips. She blushed — and blushing in such a manner They have never been in Bolton's situation, by whom that sigh and that blush would not have been understood. CHAPTER IV. Bolton is separated from Miss SindalL There was too much innocence in the breast of Lucy, to suffer it to be furnished with disguise. I mean not to throw any imputation on that female delicacy — Which, as Milton expresses it — " — would be woo'd; and not unsought, be won.'* This in truth cannot be called art, because nature has given it to all her females. Let it simply pro- x2 176 MAN OP THE WORLD, ceed from modesty, and it will never go too far ; but the affectation of it is ever the consequence of weakness in the head, or cruelty in the heart. I believe Miss Sindall to have been subject to neither; she did not, therefore, assume the pride of indifference, which she did not feel, to the at- tachment of so much worth as Bolton's; and he had soon the happiness to find that his affection, which every day increased, was not liivished with- out hope of a return. But he did not seem to be so fortunate, mean- w^hile, in the estimation of every person in the family: Sir Thomas Sindall had not of late shown that cordiality towards Bolton, with which he had been wont to favour him. As Harry was uncon- scious of any reason he could have given for it, this alteration in his cousin's behaviour was for some time altogether unnoticed by him; and when, at last, he was forced to observe it, he attributed it to no particular cause, but considered it as merely the effect of some accidental and temporary chagrin : nor did he altogether change his opinion, even when Lucy suggested to him her fears on the sub- ject, and entreated him to recollect if he had in any respect disobliged his cousin, whose behaviour seemed to her to indicate some disgust conceived I)articularly against him. Not long after, the baronet informed his family of his intention of changing their place of re- sidence, for some time, from Sindall Park to his other estate ; where, he said, he found his presence was become necessary; and, at the same time, communicated to Bolton his desire that he should MAN OF THE WORLD. 177 remain behind, to superintend the execution of certain plans which he had laid down with regard to the managent of some country business at the first-mentioned place. Harry thought this suffi- ciently warranted his expressing a suspicion, that his company had not of late been so agreeable to Sir Thomas as it used to be, and begged to be in- formed in what particular he had offended him ? Offended me, my dear boy ! replied Sir Thomas; never, in the least. From what such an idea could could have arisen I know not; if from my leaving you here behind, when we go to Bilswood, it is the most mistaken one in the world. It is but for a few months till those affairs I talked to you of are finished; and I hope there to have an opportunity of showing that, in your absence, I shall be far from forgetting you. During the time of their stay at Sindall Park, he behaved to Harry in so courteous and obliging a manner that his suspicions were totally removed ; and he bore, with less regret than he should other- wise have done, a separation from his Lucy, which he considered as temporary; besides, that his stay behind was necessary to him whose countenance and friendship his attachment to that young lady had now rendered more valuable in his estima- tion. Love increases the list of our dependencies : I mean it not as an argument against the passion ; that sex, I trust, whose power it establishes, will point its vassals to no pursuit but what is laudable. Their farewell* scene passed on that very spot which I have described in the last chapter as wit- ness to the declaration of Bolton's passion. Their 178 MAN OF THE WORLD. farewell but where the feeings say much, and the expression little, description will seldom suc- ceed in the picture. Their separation, however, was alleviated by the hope that it was not likely to be of long continuance: Sir Thomas' declaration, of his intending that Harry should follow them, in a few months, was not forgotten; and the intermediate days were swallowed up in the anticipation of the pleasures which that period should produce. In the meantime they took something from the pain of absence, by a punctual correspondence. These letters I have seen. They describe things little in themselves: to Bolton and Lucy they were no trifles ; but by others their importance would not be understood. One recital only I have ven- tured to extract, for the perusal of the reader: because I observe that it strongly affected them ; who, in this instance, were interested no more than any to whom the feelings it addresses are known : and some of my readers, probably, have the ad- vantage of not being altogether unacquainted with the persons of whom it speaks. CHAPTER. V. A n Adventure of Hiss SindalPs at Bilswood. To assume her semblance is a tribute which Vice must often pay to Virtue. There are popular qualities which the world looks for, because it is MAN OF THE WORLD. 170 aware that it may be sometimes benefited by their exertions. Generosity is an excellence, by the apparent possession of which I have known many worthless characters buoyed up from their infamy, though with them it was, indeed, but thoughtless profusion ; and, on the other hand, I have seen amiable men marked out with a sneer by the million, from a temperance, or reservedness of disposition, which shuns the glare of public, and the pleasures of convivial life, and gives to modesty and gentle manners the appearance of parsimony and mean- ness of spirit. The imputation of merit, with mankind, Sindall knew to be a necessary appendage to his character : he was careful, therefore, to omit no opportunity of stepping forth to their notice as a man of generosity. There was not a gentleman's servant in the county who did not talk of the knight's munificence, in the article of vails ; and a park-keeper was thought a happy man, whom his master sent with a haunch of venison to Sir Thomas. Once a year too he feasted his tenants, and indeed the whole neighbourhood, on the large lawn in the front of his house, where the strong beer ran, cascade-wise, from the mouth of a leaden Triton. But there were objects of compassion, whose relief would not have figured in the eye of the public, on whom he was not so remarkable for bestowing his liberality. The beggars, he complained, where per- petually stealing his fruit and destroying his shrub- bery; he, therefore, kept a wolf-dog to give them their answer at the gate : and some poor famiHes in the village on his estate, had been brought t ) MAN OF THE WORLD, bef]rgary by prosecutions for poaclniig— an offence which every country gentleman is bound in honour to i)unish with the utmost severity of the law, and cannot therefore, without a breach of that honour, alleviate by a weak and ill judged exercise of bene~ volence ! ^ Miss Lucy, however, as she could not so strongly feel the offence, would sometimes contribute to lessen the rigour of its punishment by making small presents to the wives and children of the de- linquents. Passing one evening by the door of a cottage, where one of those pensioners on her bounty lived, she observed standing before it a very beautiful lap-dog, v/ith a collar and bell, ornamented much beyond the trappings of any animal that could belong to the house. From this circumstance her curiosity w^as excited to enter, when she was not a little surprised to find a young lady in a most elegant undress, sitting on a joint-stool by the fire, with one of the children of the family on her lap. The ladies expressed mutual astonishment in their counten- ances at this meeting: when the good woman of the house, running up to them, and clasping a hand of each in hers — blessings, said she, thousands of blessings on you both! a lovelier couple, or a bet- ter, my eyes never looked on ! The infant clapped its hands, as if instinctively — Dear heart ! con- tinued its mother ; look, if my Tommy be not thanking you too ! Well may he clap his hands: i if it had not been for your gracious selves, by this time his hands would have been cold clay ! — mumb- ling his fingers in her mouth and bathing his arms with her tears — When you strictly forbade me to MAN OF THE WORLD, 181 tell any mortal of your favours, oh ! how I longed to let each of you know that there was another lady in the world as good as herself ! The stranger had now recovered herself enough to tell Miss Lucy how much it delighted her, to find that a.young lady of her figure did not disdain to visit affliction, even amongst the poor and the lowly. That reflection, answered the other, applies more strongly to the lady who makes it, than to her who is the occasion of its being made. I have not, madam, the honour of your acquaintance; but methinks — pardon my boldness — that I feel as if we were not strangers; at least, I am sure that I should reckon it a piece of singular good fortune, if this interview could entitle me to call you stranger no longer. Their landlady cried and laughed by turns; and her two guests were so much pleased with this meeting, that they appointed a renewal of it at an hour somewhat earlier of the subsequent evening. Lucy came a few minutes before the time of ap- pointment; when she learned, that the stranger was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman, whom a difference of disposition from that of Sir Thomas Sindall, arising at least to a particular coolness, had entirely estranged, for many years, from the baronet, and prevented all intercourse between the families. When this lady arrived, she brought such tidings along with her, that I question if, in all the sump- tuous abodes of wealth and grandeur, there was to be found so much sincerity of joy, as within the ragged and mouldering walls of the hovel which she 182 MAN OF THE WORLD. graced with her presence. She informed the grateful mistress of it, that, by her intercession with some justices of the peace, who made part of the judi- cature before whom the poor woman's husband was brought, his punishment had been mitigated to a small fine, which she had undertaken to pay ; and, that he would be very soon on his way homewards. The joy of the poor man's family, at this intelli- gence, was such as they could not, nor shall I at- tempt to express. His deliverance was indeed unexpected; because his crime was great — no less than that of having set a gin in his garden, for some cats that used to prey on a single brood of chickens, his only property; which gin had, one night, wickedly and maliciously, hanged a hare, which the baronet's gamekeeper next morning dis- covered in it. His wife and little ones seemed only to be res- trained by the respected presence of their guests, from running out to meet a husband and a father restored to them from captivity. The ladies, ob- serving it, encouraged them in the design: and, having received the good woman's benediction, on her knees, they walked out together; and, leaving the happy family on the road to the prison turned down a winding, romantic walk, that fol- lowed the mazes of a rill, in an opposite direction. Lucy, whose eyes had been fixed with respectful attention on her fair companion, ever since her ar- rival at the cottage, now dropped a tear from each. You will not wonder at these tears, madam, said she, when you know, that they are my common Bign of joy and admjration: they thank you on be- i i MAN OF THE WORLD. 183 I : half of myself, and my sex, whose peculiar beauty i consists in those gentle virtues you so eminently h; possess; my heart feels not only pleasure, but pride, in an instance of female worth so exalted. Though the family in which I live, from some cause ■ unknown to me, have not the happiness of an in- tercourse with yours; yet your name is familiar to ' my ear, and carries with it the idea of every aimable and engaging quality. Nor am I, returned the other, a stranger to the name or the worth of Miss Sindall ; and I reckon myself singularly for- . tunate, not only to have accidentally made an ac- I quaintance with her, but to have made it in that very style which effectually secures the esteem her character had formerly impressed me with. — Bene- ficence, indeed, replied Lucy, is a virtue, of which the possession may entitle to an acquaintance with one to whom that virtue is so particularly known. It is no less a pleasure than a duty, rejoined her companion; but T, Miss Sindall, have an additional incitement to the exercise of it; which, perhaps, as the tongue of curiosity is at one time as busy as its ear is attentive at another, you may, ere this, have heard of. That ancient building, to which the walk we are on will in a few minutes conduct us, was formerly in the possession of one in whose bosom resided every gentle excellence that adorns humanity. He, Miss Sindall — why should I blush to tell it ? — in the sordid calculation of the world, his attachment was not enviable: the remembrance of it, though it wrings my heart with sorrow, is yet my pride and my delight ! Your feelings, Miss Lucy^ will understand this— the dear youth left mo 184 MAN OF THE WORLD. executrix of that philanthropy, which death alone could stop in its course. To discharge this trust is the business of my life; for I hold myself bound to discharge it. They had now reached the end of the walk, where it opened into a little circle, surrounded with trees, and fenced by a rail, in front of an antique looking house; the gate of which was ornamented with a rudely sculptured crest,cyphered round with the initials of some name which time had rendered illegible. But a few paces before it was placed a small urn, of modern workmanship; and on a tablet beneath was written — TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM HARLEY. Lucy stepped up to read this inscription. Harley ! said she, how I blush to think that I have scarcely ever heard of the name ! — Alas ! said Miss Walton, his actions were not of a kind that is loudly talked of : but what is the fame of the world ? By him its voice could not now be heard ! There was an ardent earnestness in her look, even amidst the melancholy with which her countenance was im- pressed. There is a blank at the bottom of the tablet ! said Lucy. Her companion smiled gloomily at the observation; and leaning on the urn in a MAX OF THE V/ORL!). 105 pensive attitude, replied that it should one day be > filled up ! A: They now heard the tread of feet approaching I the place. Lucy was somewhat alarmed at the \ sound; but her fears were removed, when she dis- ^ covered it to proceed from a venerable old man; ' who, advancing towards them, accosted Miss Wal- ton by her name — who, in her turn, pronounced t the word Peter! in the tone of surprise. She stretched out her hand, which he clasped in his ; and looked in her face with a certain piteous wist- I fulness^ while a tear was swelling in his eye. My [ dear lady, said he, I have travelled many a mile since I saw your ladyship last. By God's blessing, I have succeeded very well in the business your ladyship helped me to set up; and having some dealings with a tradesman in London, I have been as far as that city and back again : and, said I to myself, if T could venture on such a journey for the sake of gain, may I not take a shorter for the sake of thanking my benefactress, and seeing my old friends in the country ? and 1 had a sort of yearn- ing to be here, to remember good Mrs. Margery, and my dear young master — God forgive me for weei)ing, for he was too good for this world ! — The tears of Miss Walton and Lucy accompanied his. Alack-a-day! continued Peter; to think how things will come to pass ! That there tree was planted by his own sweet hand ! I remember it well ; he was then but a boy : I stood behind him, holding the plants in my iipron thus — Peter, said he, as he took one to stick it in the ground, perhaps I shall not live to see this grow !— God grant your honour 186 MAN OF THE WORLD may, said I, when I am dead and gone ! and I lift- ed up the apron to my eyes, for my heart grew big at his words ; but he smiled up in my face, and said — We shall both live, Peter, and that will be best.— Ah ! I little thought then, Miss Walton !— I little thought ! and he shook his thin gray locks ! The heart of apathy itself could not have with- stood it : Miss Walton's and Lucy's, melting and tender at all times, were quite overcome. They stood for some time silent : Miss Walton, at last, recollected herself. Pardon me. Miss Sin- dall, said she; I was lost in the indulgence of my grief. Let us leave this solemn scene ; I have no right to tax you with my sorrows. — Call not their participation by that name ! answered Lucy ; I know the sacredness of sorrow ; yours are such as strengthen the soul while they melt it ! CHAPTER VL A Change inBolton's Situation, The reader will pardon the digression 1 have made : I would not willingly lead him out of his way, ex- cept into some path, where his feelings may be ex- panded, and his heart improved. He will remember that I mentioned, in the fourth chapter, the expectation which Bolton entertained of seeing his Lucy, at a period not very remote. But that period was not destined to arrive so soon. When he expected Sir Thomas' commands ] MAN OF THE WORLD. 187 J— or, rather, his permission — to visit the family at Bilswood, he received a letter from that gentle- man, purporting that he had, at last, been able to put him in the way of attaining that independence he had so often wished for; having just procured him a commission in a regiment then stationed at Gibraltar : that, though he. Sir Thomas, as well as Mrs. Selwyn and Lucy, was exceedingly desirous to have an opportunity of bidding him farewell; yet he had prevailed on himself to wave that plea- sure, from the consideration of its inconvenience to Harry, as it was absolutely necessary that he should join his regiment immediately. He enclosed letters of introduction to several gentlemen of his acquaintance in London; remitted him drafts, on that place, for a considerable sum, to fit him out for his intended expedition; and begged that he might loose no time in repairing thither for that purpose. He ended, with assuring him of the con- tinuance of his friendship; which, he declared, no I distance of time or place could alienate or impair. The effect which this letter had upon Bolton, as he was then circumstanced, my readers can easily imagine ! There was another accompanied it ; a note from his Lucy. She intended it for comfort; for it assumed the language of consolation : but the depression of her own spirits was visible amidst the hopes with which she meant to buoy up those of Bolton. With this letter for its text, did his imagination run over all the delights of the past, and compare ; them with the disappointment of the present. Yet i those tender regrets which the better part of our 188 MAN OF THE WORLD. nature feels, have something in them to bkint the edge of that pain they inflict, and confer on the vo- taries of sorrow a sensation that borders on plea- sure. He visited the walks which his Lucy had trod, the trees under which she had sat, the pros- pects they had marked together: and he would not have exchanged his feelings, for all that luxury could give or festivity inspire ! Nor did he pai't with the idea after the object was removed; but even on the road to London, to which place he be- gan his journey next morning, it was but ijulling out his letter again, humming over that little me- lancholy air which his Lucy had praised, and the scene was present at once ! It drew, indeed, a sigh from his bosom, and an unmanly tear stood in his ^y<3 ; yet the sigh and the tear were such, that it was impossible to wish it removed ! ( , " CHAPTER Vn. His Arrival and Situation in, London. When Bolton reached the metropolis, he applied, without delay, to those persons for whom he had letters from Sir Thomas Sindall; whose instruc- tions the baronet had directed him to follow, in that course of military duty which he had now enabled him to pursue. In the reception he met with it is not surprising that he was disappointed. He looked for that cor- dial friendship, that warm attachment, which is MAN OF THE WORLD. 189 only to be found in the smaller circles of private life; which is lost in the bustle, and extended con- nexion of large societies. The letters he presented were read with a civil indifference, and produced the unmeaning professions of ceremony and x^olite* ness. From some of those to whom they were ad- dressed, he had invitations which he accepted with diffidence; to feasts which he partook with dis- gust; where he sat amidst the profusion of ostenta- tious wealth, surrounded with company he did not know, and listening to discourse in which he was not qualified to join. I A plain, honest, tradesman, to whom he happen- I ed to carry a commission from Mrs. Wistanly, was the only person who seemed to take an interest in his welfare. At this man's house he received the vvelcome of a favoured acquaintance: he eat of the family dinner, and heard the jest which rose for their amusement; for ceremony did not regulate the figure of their table, nor had fashion banished the language of nature from their lips. Under this man's guidance, he transacted any little business his situation required, and was frequently conduct- ed by him to those very doors, whose lordly owners received him in that manner which grandeur thinks itself entitled to assume, and dependence is constrained to endure. After some days of inquiry and solicitude, he learned, that it was not necessary for him to join his regiment so speedily as Sir Thomas' letter had induced him to believe. Upon obtaining'^this information, he immediately communicated it to the baronet, and signified, at y m MAN OF THE WORLD. the same time, a desire of improving that time, which this respite allowed him for his stay in Eng- land, in a visit to the family at Bilswood. But with this puri30se, his cousin's ideas did not at all coin- . cide. He wrote Harry an answer, disapproving en- tirely his intentions of leaving London; and laid down a plan for his improvement in military science, which could only be followed in the metro- polis. Here was another disappointment; but Harry considered it his duty to obey. What he felt, however, may be gathered from the following letter; which he wrote to Miss Sindall, by the post succeeding that which brought him the instructions of Sir Thomas : — ' ' As I found, soon after my arrival here, that the necessity of joining my regiment immediately was superseded ; 1 hoped, by this time, to have inform- ^ ed my dearest Lucy of my intended departure from London, to be once more restored to her and the country. ' I have suffered the mortification of another dis- appointment ! Sir Thomas' letter is now before me, which fixes me here for the winter : I confess the reasonableness of his opinion; but reason, and Sir Thomas, cannot feel like Bolton. ^ When we parted last, we flattered ourselves with other prospects ! Cruel as the reflection is, I feel a sort of pleasure in recalling it : especially, when I venture to believe that my Lucy has not forgot- ten our parting. ' To-morrow is Christmas day : 1 call to remem- brance our last year's holidays; may these be as MAN OF THE WORLD. 191 happy with you, though I am not to j^artake them ! Write me every particular of these days of jollity : fear not, as your last letter expresses it, tiring me with trifles ; nothing is a trifle in which you are con- cerned. While 1 read the account, 1 will fancy myself at Bilswood : here, I will walk forth, an un- noticed thing, amidst the busy crowd that sur- rounds me. Your letters give me some interest in myself; because they shew me that I am something to my Lucy : she is every thing to her ' Bolton.' CHAPTER VIII. Filial Piety, Bolton had a disposition towards society that did not allow him an indifference about any thing of human form with whom he could have an oppor- tunity of intercourse. He was every one's friend, in his heart, till some positive demerit rendered a person unworthy his goodwill. He had not long possessed his lodgings in town till he cultivated an acquaintance with his landlord and landlady. The latter he found to be the re- presentative of the family, from a power of loqua- city, very much superior to her husband, who seemed to be wonderfully pleased with his wife's conversation, and very happy under what might, not improperly, be termed her government. To Mrs. Terwitt, therefore — for that was the y 2 192 MAN OF THE WORLD, lady's name — did Bolton address his approaches towards an acquaintance ; and from her he had the good fortune to find them meet with a favourable reception. They were so intimate, the second week of his residence in the house, that she told him the best part of the transactions of her life, and consulted him u])on the disposal of her eldest daughter in marriage, whom a young tradesman, she said, had been in suit of ever since the Easter holidays preceding We can give her, added she, something handsome enough for a portion : and the old gentleman above stairs has promised her a present of a hundred pounds on her wedding day, provided she marries to please him. The gentleman above stairs ! said Bolton; how have I been so unlucky as never to have heard of him before l — He is not at present in town, replied the landlady, having gone, about a fortnight ago, to Bath, whence he is not yet returned. Indeed I fear his health requires some stay at that i)lace ; for he has been but poorly of late : Heaven pre- serve his life ! for he is a good friend of ours ; and of many ones else who stand in need of his friend- ship. He has an estate, sir, of a thousand pounds a-year, and money besides, as 1 have been told : yet he chooses to live private, as you will see, and spends, I believe, the most of his income in cha- ritable actions. I did indeed, said Harry, observe a young man come to the door this morning at an early hour : and I heard him ask if the gentleman was return- ed ? But I did not then know that he meant any person who lodged here. — Ay, sure enough he MAN OF THE WOULD. 193 ; meant Mr. Rawlinson ! said Mrs. Terwitt; and I wish he may not feel his absence much : for he has called here frequently of late; and the last time, when he was told of his not being yet returned, Betty observed that the tears gushed from his eyes. * When he calls again, said Bolton, 1 beg that I may be informed of it. Next morning he heard somebody knock at the door, much about the time he had seen the young man approach it the preceding day. Upon^going to the window he observed the same stripling; but his dress was different : he had no coat to cover a i threadbare waistcoat, nor had he any hat. Bo] ton : let the maid know that he was aware of his being at the door, and resumed his own station at the window. The youth repeated his inquiries after Mr. Rawlinson ; and, upon receiving the same an- swer, cast up to Heaven a look of resignation, and retired. Bolton slipped down stairs and followed him. His lodgings were situated near Queen Square : the lad took the country road ; and went on, with- out stopping, till he reached Pancras Churchyard. He stood, seemingly entranced, over a new covered grave at one end of it. Harry placed himself under cover of a tomb hard by, where he could mark him unperceived. He held his hands clasped in one another, and the tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Bolton stole from out his hiding-place, and approached to- wards the spot. *The poor lad began to speak, as if addressing himself to the dead beneath — Thou canst not feel their cruelty ; nor shall the 194 MAN OF THE WORLD. winds of winter chill thee as they do thy wretched son ! Inhuman miscreants ! but these shall cover thee. — He threw himself on the ground; and spread his arms over the grave on which he wept. Bolton stooped down to raise him from the earth ; he turned, and gazed on him with a look bewildered and piteous. Pardon a stranger, young man, said Bolton, who cannot but be interested in your sor- row : he is not entitled to ask its cause; yet his heart swells with the hope of removing it. — May Heaven requite you, replied the stranger, for your pity to a poor orphan — Oh, sir ! I have not been used to beg ; and even to receive charity is hard upon me. Did I mean to move compassion, I have a story to tell You weep already, sir ? Hear me; and judge if I deserve your tears ! Here lies my father ; the only relation whom misfortune had left to own me : but Heaven had sent us a friend, in the best of men, Mr. Rawlinson. He came accidentally to the knowledge of our suf- ferings, and took on himself the charge of alleviat- ing them, which the cruelty of our own connections had abandoned. But alas ! when, by his assistance, my father was put into a way of earning his bread, he was seized with that illness of which he died. Some small debts, which his short time in business had not yet allowed him to discharge, were put in suit against him by his creditors. His sickness and death, which happened a few days ago, did but hasten their proceedings : they seized, sir, the very covering of that bed on which his body was laid. Mr. Rawlinson was out of town; and I fancy he never received those letters I wrote to him to Bath. I MAN OF THE WORLD. 195 ; 1 had no one from whom to expect relief; every ■ thing but these rags on my back I sold to bury the , best of fathers : but my little all was not enough ; and the man whom I employed for his funeral took yesterday from off these clods the very sod which ' had covered him, because I had not wherewithal to pay its price. Bolton fell on his neck, and answer- : ed him with his tears. \ He covered the dust of the father, and clothed the nakedness of the son : and, having placed him where it was in his power to make future inquiries after his situation, left him to bless Providence for ■ the aid it had sent, without knowing the hand through which its bounty had flowed. That hand, indeed, the grateful youth pressed to his lips at parting; and begged earnestly to know the name of his benefactor. 1 am a friend, said Bolton, of Mr. Rawlinson, and humanity. CHAPTER IX. A tery alarming Accident, which proms the Meam of Bolton's getting acquainted with his Felloic- lodger. When Bolton returned in the evening from those labours of charity he had undertaken, he found that the family were abroad, supping in a body with the daughter's lover. The maid sat up to wait their home-coming ; and Bolton, who had xaore liberty, but much less inclination, to sleep, betook himself to meditation^ 196 MAN OF THE WORLD. It was now near midnight; and the hum of Betty's spinning-wheel, which had frequently in- termitted before, became entirely silent: when Bolton was alarmed with a very loud knocking of the watchman at the door ; and presently a con- fused assemblage of voices, crying out — Fire I Fire ! echoed from one end of the street to the other. Upon opening his window he discovered, too plainly, the reason of the alarm : the flames were already appearing at the windows of the ground-floor; to which they had probably been communicated by the candle, which the maid had burning by her in the kitchen below. She had now at last awaked; and was running about, before the door of the house, wringing her hands, and speaking incoherently to the few who were assembled by the outcry, without having re- collection enough to endeavour to save anything belonging to herself or her master. Bolton, who had more the possession of his fa- culties, entreating the assistance of some watch- men whom the occasion had drawn together, made shift to convey into the street a few things which he took to be the most valuable: desiring Betty to be so much mistress of herself, as to keep an eye upon them for her master's benefit. She continued, however, her broken exclamations of horror and despair; till at last starting as it were into the remembrance of something forgot, she cried out vehemently — Oh, my God ! where is Mr. Rawlinson ? Bolton caught the horrid meaning of her question ; and pushing through the flames, which had now MAN OF THE WORLD. 107 ( taken hold of the staircase, forced his way into the j bed-chamber occupied by the old gentleman, who i had returned from the country that very evening; i and being fatigued with his journey, had gone to ; bed before his fellow-lodger's arrival at home. (; He had not waked till the room under that where I he lay was in a blaze: and, on attempting to rise, ^ was stifled with the smoke that poured in at every r cranny of the floor, and fell senseless at his bedside; where Bolton found him on entering the room. On endeavouring to carry him down stairs, he ■ found it had now become impracticable: several of the steps having been quite burnt away, and fallen down in flaming brands, since the moment before, when he had ascended. He had presence of mind enough left to observe that the back part of the house w^as not so imme- diately affected by the flames: he carried Mr. Rawlinson, therefore, into a room on that side; and, having beat out the sash, admitted air enough to revive him. The latter presently recollected his situation, and asking Harry if it was posible to get down stairs, heard him answer in the negative with remarkable composure. As for me, said he, I shall loose but few of my days; but I fear, sir, your generous concern for a stranger has en- dangered a life much more valuable than mine. Let me beg of you to endeavour to save yourself, which your strength and agility may enable you to do; without regarding a poor worn-out old man, who would only encumber you in the attempt. Boltonjwith a solemn earnestness, declared that no 198 MAN OF THE WORLD. consideration should tempt him to sucli a desertion. He had before this vainly endeavoured to j^ro- cure a ladder, or some other assistance, from the people below: the confusion of the scene prevented their affording it. He considered, therefore, if he could not furnish some expedient from within ; and having united the cordage of a bed which stood in the room, he found it would make a sufficient length of rope to reach within a few feet of the ground. This he fastened round Mr. Rawlinson's waist, in such a way that his arms should support part of the weight of his body; and, sliding it over the edge of the window, so as to cause somewhat more resistance in the descent, he let him down in that manner till he was within reach of some as- sistance below, who caught him in their arms. Then fastening the end of the rope round the post of the bed, he slid so far down upon it himself that he could safely leap to the ground. He conveyed Mr. Rawlinson to other lodgings hard by, which then happened to be vacant; and having got him accommodated with some clothes belonging to the landlord, he returned to see what progress the fire had been making: when he found that happily, from a piece of waste ground lying between the house where it broke out, and the other to the leeward, it was got so much under as to be in no danger of spreading any farther. Upon going back to Mr. Rawlinson he found him sitting in the midst of the family with whom he had lodged ministering comfort to their distresses: the unfortunate Betty, whom, as she stood self-con- demned for her neglect, he considered as the MAN OF THE WORLD. 199 \ greatest sufferer, he had placed next him. You shall not, said he, addressing himself to the old folks, interrupt the happiness of my friend Nancy or her lover here with wailing your misfortune, or chiding of Betty. I will become bound to make up all your losses, provided your good humour is not of the number. But who, continued the old gentleman, shall re- ward Mr. Bolton for the service he has done us all ? — may Heaven reward him ! cried Mrs. Terwitt. And all her audience answered — Amen ! — You pray well, said Mr. Rawlinson ; and your petition is heard — On him, to whom the disposition of be- nevolence is given, its recompence is already be- stowed ! CHAPTER X. Effects of his acquaintance with Mr. Rawlinson, Such was Bolton's introduction to Mr. Rawlinson's acquaintance: and from the circumstances of its commencement, my readers will easily believe that neither party could be indifferent to its continua- tion. Rawlinson saw his own virtues, warm and active, in the bosom of his young friend: while Harry contemplated with equal delight that serenity which their recollection bestowed on the declining age of .Rawlinson. In one of his visits to the old gentleman, some time after the accident related in the foregoing 200 MAiN OF THE WORLD. chapter, he found with him that very youth whose sorrow over the grave of his father he had so lately been the means of alleviating. The young man was, indeed, in the midst of their recital as Bolton entered the room : and had just mentioned with regret his ignorance of his benefactor; when the door opened, and discovered him. Bolton could not help blushing at the discovery ; the other start- ing from his seat, exclaimed — It is he! it is him- self! — threw himself on his knees before Harry with tears in his eyes, and jjoured out some broken expressions of the warmest gratitude. It was you then, said Mr. Rawlinson, who were the comforter of my poor boy, who covered the grave of his un- fortunate father ! I will not thank you, for Jack is doing it better with his tears : but I will thank Heaven that there are some such men, to preserve my veneration for the species. I trust, my dear sir, said Bolton, that there are many to whom such actions are habitual. You are a young man, inter- rupted the other, and it is fit you should believe so: I will believe so too ; for I have sometimes known what it is to enjoy them. Go my boy ! turning to the lad ; and wish for the luxury of doing good : remember Mr. Bolton, and be not forgetful of Pro- vidence ! The father of that young man, said Mr, Rawlin- son Avhen he was gone, was a schoolfellow of mine here in town, and one of the worthiest creatures in the world; but from a milkness of disposition, without the direction of prudence, or the guard of suspicion, he suffered himself to become a dupe to the artifices of some designing men; and when, MAN OF THE WORLD. 201 some time ago, I discovered his place of abode, in an obscure villai^e in the country, I found him stripped of his patrimony, and burthened with the charge of that boy who has just now left us, whose mother, it seems had died when he was a child. ^ Yet amidst the distresses of his poverty I found that easiness of temper, which had contributed to I bring them on, had not forsaken him : he met me with a smile of satisfaction, and talked of the cruel indifference of some wealthy relations, without the emotions of anger, or the acrimony of disappoint- ment. He seemed indeed to feel for his child ; but comforted himself, at the same time, with the re- flection that he had bred him to expect adversity with composure, and to suffer poverty with con- tentment. He died, poor man, when I had put him in a way of living with some comfort; nor had I even an apportunity of doing the common offices of friendship to his last moments, my health hav- ing obliged me to go down to Bath, whence I had removed to Bristol, and did not receive any ac- counts of his illness till my return to London. I am in your debt, Mr. Bolton, for some supplies to his son : let me know what those were, that we may clear the account ? Bolton replied that he hoped Mr. Rawlinson could not wish to deprive him of the pleasure he felt from the reflection of having assisted so much filial piety and distress. It shall be in your own way, said the old gentleman; I am not such a niggard as to grudge you the opportunity: yet I cannot but regret my absence when I should have closed the eyes of poor Jennings. He was the last of those companions of my childhood, 202 MAN OF THE WORLD. whose history in life I had occasion to be acquainted with. The rest, Mr. Bolton, had already fallen around me ; and I am now left, within a little of the grave, without a friend — except one, whom accident has acquired me in you — to smooth the path that leads to it : but that is short, and therefore it mat- ters not much. At my age nature herself may be expected to decline ; but a lingering illness is short- ening her date. I would do, therefore, what good I can in the space that is left me ; and look forward if I may be allowed, to make some provision for the service of futurity. Here are two papers, sir; which on mature deliberation, I have judged it proper to commit to your custody ; that in the parchment cover, v/hich is not labelled, my death alone will authorize you to open; the other marked Trust-deed, by Mr. Annesly, I can explain to you now. That man, Mr. Bolton, who is now a saint in heaven, was prepared for it by the severest calamities on earth : the guilt and misfortunes of two darling children cut short the remnant of a life, whose business it was to guide, and whose pleasure to behold them in the paths of virtue and of hap- piness. At the time of his death they were both alive : one, alas, did not long survive her father ! what has become of her brother I have never been able to learn. But this trust, put into my hands in their behalf, may still be of importance to him or his; and to you, therefore, I make it over for that purpose. For though, by Mr. Annesly's settlement, the subject of trust accrues tome on the failure of his own issue ; yet would I never consider it as mine, while the smallest chance remained of his MAN OF THE WOilLl>. 203 i son, or the decendants of his son, survivino^ : and even were the negative certain, 1 should then only look on myself as the steward of my friend ; for purposes which his goodness would have dictated, and it becomes his trustee to fulfil. In such a charge I I will not instruct my executor; 1 have been for- tunate enough to find one whose heart will instruct him. Bolton, while he promised an execution of this trust worthy of the confidence reposed in him, could not helj) expressing his surprise at Mr. Raw- linson's choice of him for that purpose. I do not \ wonder, replied the other, that you should think thus; for thus has custom taught us to think: I have told you how friendless and unconnected I am ; but while we trace the relatives of birth and kindred, shall we allow nothing to the ties of the i heart, or the sympathy of virtue ? CHAPTER XI. A remarkable Event in the History of Bolton. — His Behaviour in consequence of it. The provisions which Mr. Rawlinson had made, for the event of which he had accustomed himself to think with composure, were but too predictive of its arrival. That worthy man lived not many weeks after the conversation with Bolton which I just recorded. * Bolton was affected with the most lively sorrow 204 MAN OF THE WORLD. for his death. This friendshii), though but lately acquired, had something uncommonly ardent in its attachment, and liberal in its confidence. Harry who had returned it in the most unreserved man- ner, felt the want both of that kindness which soothed, and that wisdom which instructed him. Upon opening the sealed paper, which had been formerly put into his hands by Mr. Rawlinson, it was found to be that gentleman's will, devising his whole estate, real and personal, to Mr. Bolton. The reason given for this in the body of the paper itself, vvas expressed iu the following words — Be- cause, I know no man who has deserved more of myself ; none who will deserve more of mankind in the disposal of what I have thus bequeathed him. Bolton was fully sensible of the force of this re- I commendation to the exercise of a virtue which he had always possessed, and had only wanted power to practice. He acted as the almoner of Mr. Raw- linson, and justified his friend's method of bene- faction, for so this disposal of his affairs might be called, by joining, with the inclination to do good, that choice of object, and that attentioji to propriety which dignifies the purpose, and doubles the use of beneficence. Having settled accounts of this kind in town — amongst which those of young Jennings, and the Terwitt family, were not forgotten — he set out for that estate, which had now devolved to him by the will of Mr. Rawlinson. With what ideas he made this visit, and in what manner he expressed them I MAN OF THE WORLD. 205 jon his ftiTival, I shall allow his own words to I {describe, in the following letter to Miss Sindall : — I ' WlLBROOK. f My Lucy will not blame me for want of attention; ^because she has heard of, what the world will call, ;my good fortune, only Irom the relation of others. , To her I could not address those short letters of recital which I was obliged to write to Sir Thomas She will not doubt her Harry's remembrance at all times. It is only with relation to those we love, that prosperity can produce happiness; and our I virtues themselves are nourished from the con- isciousness of some favourite suffrage. The length of this letter shall make up for a silence occasioned by various interruptions. I have had a good deal of business, for the present; I have been forming some projects for the future; the idea of my Lucy was absent from neither. ' After the death of Mr. Rawlinson — the friend of mankind, as well as of your Harry — there were some offices of duty which the successor of such a man was peculiarly bound to perform. Though I could discover no relation of his but one, whose for- tune, as it had formerly taught him to overlook his kinsman, stood not now in need of that kinsman's acknowledgment; yet there were numbers whom humanity had allied to him. Their claim of affinity was now upon me; and their provision, a debt which I was called upon to discharge : this kept me some time in ^London. I have another family, here, whom it was also necessary to remember; I 206 MAN OF THE WORLD. have been among them a week, and we have not been unhappy. ' When I looked into the conversance of this estate, I found it had been once before transferred in a manner not very common in the disposal of modern property. Its owner immediately preceding Mr. Rawlinson was a friend and companion of his, who had gone out to India some years later than he ; and by his assistance, had been put in the way of acquiring a very large fortune, The greatest part of this he remitted to his former benefactor, in England, to be laid out on some purchase near the place of his nativity ; which, it seems, was a village but a few miles distant from Wilbrook. This estate was then in the possession of a gentleman whose London expenses had squandered the savings of four or five generations ; and, after having exhaust- ed every other resource, he was obliged to sell this inheritance of his family. Mr. Rawlinson gave him the price he asked ; and made a present of a con- siderable sum besides, to a very deserving woman, who had the misfortune to be the wife of this spend- thrift. His friend ratified the bargain, with thanks; but he lived not to enjoy his purchase. A fever carried him off, in his passage to England; and he bequeated his estate to him by whose former good offices he had been enabled to acquire it. ' The new proi^rietor took a singular method of improving its value ! He lowered the rents, which had been raised to an extravagant height, and re- called the ancient tenants of the manor, most of whom had been driven from the unfriendly soil, to make room for desperate adventurers, who under- MAN OF THE WORLD. 207 f i took for rents they could never be able to pay. To such a man was I to succeed! and I was conscious how much was required of his successor. ' The third day after my arrival, I gave a general invitation to my tenants, and their families, to dine with me. The hall was trimmed for their recep- tion ; and some large antique pieces of plate, with which Mr. Rawlinson had furnished his cupboard, were ranged on the large table at the end of it. Without doors stood a cask of excellent strong beer, for any one of inferior quality who choose to drink of it; dispensed by an old but jolly looking servant, whose face was the signal of welcome. ' I received my guests as friends and acquaint- ance; asked the names of their children; and X^raised the blufFness of the boys and the beauty of the girls. I placed one of the most matronly wives in the wicker chair at the head of the table ; and, occupying the lowest place myself, stationed the rest of the company, according to their age, on either side. ' The dinner had all the appearance of plainness and of plenty; amongst other dishes, four large pieces of roast beef were placed at uniform dis- tances; and a plum-pudding, of a very uncommon circumference, was raised conspicuous in the mid- dle. I pressed the bashful among the girls; com- mended the frankness of their fathers; and pledged the j oiliest of the set in repeated draughts of strong beer. ' But,thoughthis had the desired effect with some, I could observe, in the countenances of others, evident marks of distrust and apprehension. The z 2 208 MAN OF THE WORLD, cloth, therefore, was no sooner removed, and the grace-cup drank, than I rose up in my place, and addressed my guests to the following purpose :— ' The satisfaction, my worthy friends, with which I now meet you, is damped hy the recollection of that loss we have sustained in the death of your late excellent master. He was to me, as to you, a friend and a father; so may Heaven supply the want to me, as I will endeavour to fill his place to you 1 I call you to witness, that I hold his estate by no other title. 'I have given orders to my steward to renew such of your leases as are near expiring, at the rent which you have heretofore paid. If there is an article of encouragement, or convenience, wanting to any of you, let him apply to myself, and I will immediately inquire into it. No man is above the business of doing good. ' It is customary, I believe, on such occasions, for the tenant to pay a certain fine, or premium, to the landlord : I, too, my friends, will expect one; you, and your families shall pay it me — be industrious, be virtuous, be happy ! ' Anexclamationof joy and applause, which the last part of my speech had scarcely been able to stifle, now burst forth around me. I need not tell my Lucy what I felt ! her heart can judge of my feel- ings. She will believe me, when I say that I would not have exchanged them for the revenue of a monarch ! * The rest of the day was spent in all the genuine festivity of happy spirits. I had enlarged a room adjoining to the h:;ll, by striking down a partition . MAN OF THE WORLD. 209 ^ at one end, and closed the entertainment with a dance, which I led up myself, with the rosy cheek- ed daughter of one of my principal tenants. ' This visit I have already returned to several of those honest folks. I found their little dwellinj^s ' clean and comfortable; and happiness and good humour seemed the guests of them all. I have com- i; monly observed cleanliness and contentment to be ■ companions amongst the lower ranks of the country people; nor is it difficult to account for this; there is a self-satisfaction, in contented minds, which dis- , j)oses to activity and neatness : whereas, the reck- ' less lassitude that weighs down the unhappy, seldom fails to make drunkards of the men, and slatterns of the women. I commended highly the neatness which I found in the farm houses on my estate, and made their owners presents of various house- hold ornaments, by way of encouragement. ' I know the usual mode of impivving estates ; I was told, by some sagacious advisers in London, that mine was improveable ; but I am too selfish to be contented with money; I would increase the love of my people. ' Yesterday and to-day 1 have been employed in surveying the grounds adjoining to the house. Nature, here, reigns without control ; for Mr. Raw- linson did not attend very much to her improve- ment; and I have heard him say, that he conceiv- ed a certain esteem for an old tree, or even an old wall, that would hardly allow him to think of cutting the ^ one, cr pulling down the other. Nature, however, has been hberal of her beauties; but these beauties I view not with so partial an 210 MAN OF THE WORLD. eye as the scenes I left at Sindall Park. Were my Lucy here, to adorn the landscape !— but the language of affection like mine, is not in words ! She will not need them — to believe how much I am her ' Henry Bolton.' CHAPTER Xll. A Change in the Family of Sir Thomas Sindall,— Some Account of a Person whom that Event intro- duces to Miss Lucy^s Acquaintance, The answer which Bolton received to the forego- ing letter contained a piece of intelligence material to the situation of Miss Sindall ; it conveyed to him an account of the death of Mrs. Selwyn. Though that lady was not possessed of many amiable or engaging qualities, yet Lucy, to whom she had always shewn as much kindness as her nature allowed her to bestow on any one, felt a very lively sorrow for her death, even exclusive of the immediate consequences which herself was to expect from that event. These, indeed, were apparently momentous. Mrs. Selwyn had been her guardian, and protectress, from her infancy; and, though Sir Thomas Sindall had ever behaved to her like a father, yet there was a feeling in the bosom of Lucy that revolted against the idea of continuing in his house, after his aunt's decease. By that lady's will, she was MAN OF THE WORLD. 211 entitled to a legacy of six hundred pounds; by means of this sum, she had formed a scheme which, though it would reduce her to a state very different from the ease and affluence of her former circumstances, might yet secure her from the irk- someness of dependance, or the accusation of im- propriety; this way, to appropriate two-thirds of the interest of her capital to the payment of an annual sum for her board with Mrs. Wistanly. It was now that Bolton felt the advantage of in- dependence, from the hopes of being useful to Lucy; but he had her delicacy to overcome : she would not throw herself, at this moment of neces- sity, into the arms of a man whom fortune had now placed above her. She adhered to her first resolu- tion. But the kindness of Sir Thomas Sindall rendered it unnecessary : for, a short time after Mrs. Selwyn's death, when Miss Sindall communicated to him her intention of leaving his house, he ad- dressed her in the following terras : — 1 have always looked upon you. Miss Lucy, as a daughter; and, I hope, there has been no want of tenderness or at- tention on the side of my aunt, or myself, to have prevented your reg^arding us as imrents. At the same time I know the opinions of the world; mis- taken and illiberal as they often are, there is a defer- ence which we are obliged to pay them. In your sex, the sense of decorum should be ever awake : even in this case I would not attempt to plead against its voice; but, I hope, I have hit on a me- thod which will perfectly reconcile propriety and eonveiiienee. There is a lady, a distant relation of 212 MAN OF THE WORED- oiir family, whom a marriage, such as the world terms imprudent, banished in early life from the notice or protection of it : but, though they could refuse their suffrage to the match, they could not control its happiness; and, during the life of Mr. Boothby, for that was her husband's name, she ex- I3erienced all the felicity of which wedlock is sus- ceptible. Yet, on her husband's death, which hap- pened about five years after their marriage, the state of his affairs was found to be such, that she stood but too much in need of that assistance which her relations denied her. At the time of her giving the family this offence, 1 was a boy ; and I scarce ever heard of her name, till I was apprized of her misfortunes. Whatever services I have been able to do her, I have found repaid by the sincerest gra- titude, and improved to the worthiest purposes. Upon the late event of my aunt's death, I was naturally led to wish her place supplied by Mrs. Boothby; she has done me the favour to accept of my invitation, and I expect her here this evening. Of any thing like authority, in this house, Miss Lucy, you shall be always independent; but I flatter myself, she has qualities sufficient to merit your friendship. Lucy returned such an answer as the kindness and delicacy of this speech de- served; and it was agreed that, for the present, her purpose of leaving Bilswood should be laid aside. In the evening, the expected lady arrived. She seemed to be about the age of fifty ; with an impres- sion of melancholy on her countenance, that ap- peared to have worn away her beauty before the usual i)eriod : some traces, howevei', still remained MAN OF THE WORLD. 215 I and her eyes, when they met the view of the world, l| which was but seldom, discovered a brilliancy not j extinguished by her sorrow. Her appearance, joined to the knowledge of her story, did not fail to attract Miss Sindall's regard : i she received Mrs. Boothby with an air, not of \ civility, but friendship; and the other shewed a i] sense of the obligation conferred on her, by a look I of that modest, tender sort, which equally acknow- ledges and solicits our kindness. With misfortune, a good heart easily makes an acquaintance. Miss Sindall endeavoured by a f thousand little assiduities, to shew this lady the I interest she took in her welfare. That reserve, which the humility of affliction, not an unsocial spirit, seemed to have taught Mrs. Boothby, wore i off by degrees : their mutual esteem increased as ! their characters opened to each other; and in a short time, their confidence was unreserved, and their friendship appeared to be inviolable. Mrs. Bootby had now the satisfaction of i)ouring the tale of her distresses into the ear of sympathy and friendship. Her story was melancholy, but not uncommon; the wreck of her husband's affairs^ by a mind too enlarged for his fortune; and an in- dulgence of inclinations, laudable in their kind, but faulty in relation to the circumtances of their owner. In the history of her young friend's life, there were but few incidents to communicate in return. She could only say — that she remembered herself, from her infancy an orphan, under the care of Sir Thomas Sindall and his aunt; that she lived with 214 MAN OF THE WORLD. them in a state of quiet and simplicity, without having seen much of the world, or wishing to see it. She had but one secret to disclose, in earnest of her friendship ; it faltered for some time on her lips, at last she ventured to let Mrs. Boothby know it — her attachment to Bolton. From this intelligence the other was led to an inquiry into the situation of that young gentleman. She heard the i)articulars I have formerly related, with an emotion not suited to the feelings of Miss Sindall; and the sincerity of her friendship de- clared the fears which her prudence suggested. She reminded Lucy of the dangers to which youth and inexperience are exposed, by the sudden acquisition of riches ; she set forth the many dis- advantages of early independence ; and hinted, the inconstancy of attachments formed in the period of i| romantic enthusiasm, in the scenes of rural sim- fl plicity, which are afterwards to be tried by the maxims of the world, amidst the society of the gay, the thoughtless, and the dissipated. From all this followed conclusions, which it was as difficult, as disagreeable, for the heart of Lucy to form; it could not untwist those tender ties, which linked it to Bolton ; but it began to tx'emble for itself and him* I i MAN OF THE WORLD. 215 CHAPTER XIII. Certain Opinions of Mrs. Boothhy — an Attempt to account for them. From the particulars of her own story, and of Bol- ton's, Mrs. Boothby drew one conclusion, common to both : to wit, the goodness of Sir Thomas Sindall. This, indeed, a laudable gratitude had so much im- pressed on her mind, that the praises she frequent- ly bestowed on him, even in his own presence would have savoured of adulation, to one who had not known the debt which this lady owed to his beneficence. Lucy, to whom she would often repeat her eulogium of the baronet, was ready enough to own the obli- gations herself had received, and to join her ac- knowledgments to those of her friend. Yet, there was a want of warmth in her panegyric ; for which Mrs. Boothby would sometimes gently blame her : and one day, when they were on that subject, she remarked, with a sort of jocular air, the difference of that attachement, which Miss Sindall felt, in re- turn for so much unwearied kindness as Sir Thomas had shewn her; and that which a few soft glances had procured to the more fortunate Mr, Bolton. Miss Sindall seemed to feel the observation with some degree of displeasure : and answered, blush- ing, that she considered Sir Thomas as a parent^ whom she was to esteem and revere; not as one for 210 MAN OF THE WORLD. whom she was to entertain any sentiments of a softer kind. But, supi^ose, replied the other, that he should entertain sentiments of a softer kind to you ? — I cannot supxiose it. — There you are in the wrong : men of sense, and knowledge of the world, like Sir Thomas, are not so prodigal of unmeaning compli- ment, as giddy young people, who mean not half of what they say : but they feel more deeply the force of our attractions, and will retain the impression so much the longer, as it is grafted on maturity of judgment. I am very much mistaken, Miss Lucy, if the worthiest of men is not your lover. — Lover ! Sir Thomas Sindall my lover ! — I profess, my dear, I cannot see the reason of that passionate exclama- tion ; nor why that man should not be entitled to love you, who has himself the best title to be be- loved. — I may reverence Sir Thomas Sindall, I may admire his goodness; I will do any thing, to shew my gratitude to him : but, to love him — good heavens ! There is, I know, rejoined Mrs. Boothby, a cer- tain romantic affection, which young people sup- Ijose to be the only thing that comes under that de- nomination. From being accustomed to admire a set of opinions which they term sentimental, op- posed to others which they look upon as vulgar and unfeeling, they form to themselves, an ideal system in those matters; which, from the nature of things, must always be disappointed. You will find , Miss Sindall, when you have lived to see a little more of the world, the insufficiency of those visionary arti- cles of happiness, that are set fortli with such parade MAN OF THE WORLD. 217 k>f language, in novels and romances, as consisting 1 in sympathy of soul, and the mutual attraction of [ hearts destined for each other. You will pardon me, said Lucy, for making one ^observation — that you, yourself, are an instance lagainst the universal truth of your argument; you married for love, Mrs. Boothby. — I did so, inter- rupted she; and therefore, I am the better able to inform you of the short duration of that paradise such a state is suj^posed to imply. We were looked, Miss Lucy, as patterns of conjugal felicity : but folks did little know, how soon the raptures with ^ which we went together were changed into feel- ings of a much colder kind. At the same time, Mr. Boothby was a good natured man; and, I believe, we were on a better footing than most of your couples, who marry for love, are at the end of a twelvemonth. I am now, but too well convinced, that those are the happiest matches which are founded on the soberer sentiments of gratitude and [ esteem. i To this concluding maxim, Lucy made no reply. - It was one of those which she could not easily bear to believe; it even tinctured the character of the person who made it; and she found herself not so much disposed to love Mrs. Boothby as she once had been. For this sort of reasoning, however, that lady had reasons, which it may not be improper to ex- plain to the reader; if, indeed, the feeling reader has not already discovered them, without the as- sistance of expHination. 218 MAN OF THE WORLD. Sir Thomas Sindall, though he was now verging towards that time of life, when — The heyday of the blood is tame ; was still as susceptible as ever of the influence of beauty. Miss Lucy, I have already mentioned, as I possessing an uncommon share of it : and chance I had placed her so immediately under his observa- tion and guardianship, that it was scarce possible; for him not to remark, and having remarked, not ' to desire it. In some minds, indeed, there might have arisen suggestions of honour and conscience, unfavourable to the use of that opportunity which fortune had put in his power : but these were re- I straints which Sir Thomas had so frequently broken, as in a great measure to annihilate their i force. |l During the life of his aunt there were other^j motives to restrain him ; those were now removed : and being solicitous to preserve the advantage which he drew from Miss Sindall's residence in his . house, he pitched on Mrs. Boothby to fill Mrs.l Selwyn's place, from whom his former good offices gave him an additional title to expect assistance, <■ by means of the influence she would naturally gain : over the the mind of one who was in some sort to become her ward. As I am willing, at present, to believe that lady's character a fair one; I shall sup-| pose that he concealed from her the kind of ad-l dresses with which he meant to approach her young friend. It is certain, there was but one kind which the principles of Sir Thomas allowed him to make. i MAN OF THE WORLD. 219 I '■ One obstacle, however, he foresaw in the attach- ment which he had early discovered her to have to- I wards Bolton. This, on the most favourable sup- position of the case, he might easily represent to Mrs. Boothby, as equally hurtful to Lucy's interest, and destructive of his own wishes ; and, if she was prevailed on to espouse his cause, it may account for those lessons of prudence which she bestowed upon Miss Sindall. Besides this, the baronet did not scruple to use some other methods, still more dishonourable, of shaking her confidence in his cousin. He fell upon means of secretly intercepting that young gentle- man's letters to Lucy : from this he drew a double advantage, both of fastening a suspicion on Harry's fidelity, and acquiring such intelHgence as might point his own machinations to defeat the purposes which that correspondence contained. CHAPTER XIV. A Discovery interesting to Miss Sindall. Under those circumstances of advantage in which Sir Thomas Sindall stood, it did not seem a matter of extreme difficulty to accomplish that design which I have hinted to my readers in the preceding chapter. Let him, whose indignation is roused at the mention of it, carry his feelings abroad into life : he will fihd other Sindalls, whom the world has not marked with its displeasure. In the sim- 220 MAIS OF THE WORLDo plicity of my narrative, what is there that should set up this one to his hatred or his scorn ? let but the heart j)ronounce its judgment, and the decision vvill be the same. Hitherto, Sir Thomas had appeared as the parent and guardian of Lucy ; and though at times certain expressions escaped him, which the quickness of more experienced, that is, less innocent minds, would have discovered to belong to another charac- ter; yet, she to whom they were addressed, had ' heard them without suspicion. But she was now alarmed, by the suggestions of Mrs. Boothby : these suggestions, it is possible, the baronet himself had prompted. He knew the force of that poison which is conveyed in those indirect approaches; when a woman's vanity is set on the watch, by the assistance of a third person. She, who imagines I she hears them with indifference, is in danger : but she, who listens to them with pleasure, is undone ! With Lucy, however, they failed of that effect which the baronet's experience had promised him : she heard them with a sort of disgust at Mrs. Boothby, and something like fear of Sir Thomas. Her uneasiness increased as his declarations be- gan to be more pointed; though they were then only such as some women, who had meant to give them no favourable ear, might perhaps have been ; rather flattered than displeased with : but Miss j Sindall was equally void of the art, by which we| disguise our own sentiments, and the jjride we as-v sume from the seiitiments of others. To her virtues, Sir Thomas was no stranger; theyi were difiiculties, which served but as spux's in him MAN OF THE WORLD. 221 pursuit. That he continued it with increasing ar- dour, may be j^athered from two letters, which I subjoin, for the information of the reader. The first is addre,ssed I ^TO MRS. WISTANLY. ! |, * MY DEAR MADAM, I ' I FEAR you begin to accuse me of neglect ; but ^ there are reasons why 1 cannot so easily write to you as formerly. Even without this apology, you would scarce believe me capable of forgetting you, I who are almost the only friend I am possessed of. I: Alas, I have need of a friend ! pity and direct me. ' Sir Thomas Sindall — how shall I tell it I — he has ceased to be that guardian, that protector, I esteemed him : he says, he loves, he adores me — . , I know not why it is ; but I shudder when I hear these words from Sir Thomas Sindall. ' But I have better reason for my fears ; he has used such expressions of late that though I am not skilled enough in the language of his sex to under- stand their meaning fully, yet they convey too much for his honour, and for my peace. ' Nor is this all — Last night, I was sitting in the parlour with him and Mrs. Boothby — of whom I have much to tell you — I got up, and stood in the bow window, looking at the rays of the moon, which glittered on the pond in the garden. There was something of enviable tranquillity in the scene; I sighed as I looked. That's a deep one ! said Sir Thomas, patting me on the shoulder behind. I turned round somewhat in a flurry, when I per- 2 A 222 UXS OF THE WORLHe ceived tliat Mrs, JSootby had left the room. I made? a motion towards the door; Sir Thomas placed him- self with his back to it. Where is Mrs. Boothhy 2 said I ; though I trembled so that I could scarcely articulate the words. What is my sweet girl frightened at ? said he ; here are none, but love and Sindall. He fell on his kness, and repeated a great deal of jargon — I was so confused, I know not what — holding my hands ail the while fast in his. I pulled them away at last : he rose, and clasping me round the waist, would have forced a kiss. I screamed out; and he turned from me. What's the matter ? said Mrs. Boothby ; who then entered the room. A mouse, running across the carpet, frightened Miss Lucy ! answered Sir Thomas. I could not speak; but I sat down on the sofa, and had almost fainted. Sir Thomas brought me some ' wine and water; and j)ressing my hand, whispered, that he hoped I would forgive an offence which was already too much punished by its eft'ects : but he looked so, while he spoke this ! ' Oh, Mrs. Wistanly ! with what regret do I now recollect the days of peaceful happiness I have passed in your little dwelling, when we were at Sindall Pai^k. I remember I often wished, like other foolish girls, to be a woman: methinks I| would now gladly return to the state of harmless | infancy I then neglected to value. I am but ill? made for encountering difficulty or danger; yet ij fear my path is surrounded with both. Could you receive me again under your roof ? There is some- thing hallowed resides beneath it. — Yet this may not now be so convenient — 1 know not what to say I ] MAN OF THE WORLD. 223 f— -here I am miserable. Write to me, I entreat iyou, as speedily as may be. You never yet denied jme your advice or assistance; and never before : were they so necessary to your faithful * L. SiNDALL.' i j I To this letter Miss Sindall received no answer : in truth, it never reached Mrs. Wistanly ; the ser- vant to whom she entrusted its conveyance, having, according to instructions he had received, delivered it into the hands of his master, Sir Thomas Sindall. She concluded, therefore, either that Mrs. Wistanly found herself unable to assist her in her present distress; or what she imagined more probable, that age had now weakened her faculties so much as to render her callous even to that feeling which should have pitied it. She next turned her thoughts upon Miss Walton : the manner of her getting ac- quainted with whom I have related in the fifth chapter of this volume. But she learned that Mr. Walton had a few days before set out with his daughter on a journey to the continent : to which he had been advised by her physicians, as she had, for some time past, been threatened with symptoms of a consumptive disorder. These circumstances, and Sir Thomas's farther conduct in the interval, induced her to address the following letter to Bolton; though she began to suspect, from the supposed failure of his correspondence, that the suggestions she had heard of his change of circum- stances having taught him to forget her, had but ; too much foun'lation in reality. 2 A 2 224 MAN OF THE WORLD ' TO HENRY BOLTON, ESQ. ' Is it true, that amidst the business or the plea- sures of this new situation, Harry Bolton has forgot Lucy Sindall ? Forlorn as 1 now am — but, I will not complain — I would now, less than ever, complain to you. Yet it is not pride ; it is not — I weep, while I write fhis ! ' But, perhaps, though I do not hear from you, you may yet remember her to whom you had once some foolish attachment. It is fit that you think of her no more : she was then, indeed, a dependant orphan ; but there was a small challenge of protec- tion from friends to whom it was imagined her infancy had been entrusted. Know, that this was a fabricated tale ; she is, in truth, a wretched foundling; exposed, in her infant-state, by the cruelty or necessity of her parents, to the incle- mency of a winter storm, from which miserable situation Sir Thomas Sindall delivered her. This he has but a little since told me in the most un- generous manner ; and from motives Avhich I tremble to think on. Inhuman that he is ! Why did he save me, then 1 ' This Mrs. Boothby, too ! encompassed as I was with evils ; was I not wretched enough before ? Yet, this new discovery has been able to make me more so — My head grows dizzy when I think on ^ it ! — To be blotted out from the records of society 1 —What misery or what vice have my parents' known ! Yet now to be the child of a beggar, in poverty and rags, is a situation 1 am forced to envy. MAN OF THE WORLD. 225 ; * I had one friend, from whom I looked for some assistance. Mrs. Wistanly, from infirmity, I fear has forgotten me; 1 have ventured to think on you. Be but my friend, and no more; talk not of love, that you may not force me to rufuse your friend- t ship. If you are not changed, indeed, you will be rewarded enough, when I tell you that, to remove me from the dangers of this dreadful place will call forth more blessings from my heart than any other can give, that is not wrung with anguish, like that of the unfortunate * L. SiNDALL.' CHAPTER XV. She receines a Letter from Bolton — A new Alarm from Sir Thomas Sindall. It happened that the messenger, to whom the charge of the foregoing billet was committed, was a person not in that line of association which the baronet had drawn around her; consequently, it escaped interception. When Bolton received it, he was not only alarmed with the intelligence it contained; but his fears were doubly roused, from the discovery it made to him, of his letters not being suffered to reach Miss Sindall. He despatched his answer, therefore, by a special messenger; who was ordered to watch an opportunity of delivering it privately into the hands of the lady to whom it was ad- 226 MAN OF THE WORLD. dressed. This he found no easy matter to accom- plish : nor would he, perhaps, have been able to effect it all, but for an artifice to which he had re- course, of hiring himself on a job in Sir Thomas' garden; for which his knowledge in the business happened to qualify him. He had, indeed, been formerly employed in that capacity at Slndall Park; and had there been well enough known to Miss Lucy, who was herself a gardener for amusement : and after leaving that place, having gone to the neigh- bourhood of London for improvement, he was met and hired by his former acquaintance, Mr. Bolton. The very next evening after he had got into this station, he observed Miss Sindall enter the garden alone. This was an opportunity not to be missed; on i)retence, therefore, of fetching somewhat from the end of the walk she was on, he i^assed her, and pulled off his hat, with a look significant of prior acquaintance. Lucy observed him ; and feeling a sort of momentary comfort from the recollection, began some talk with him respecting his former j situation, and the changes it had undergone. She | asked him many questions about their old neigh- ' hours at Sindall Park, and particularly Mrs. Wis- tanly ; when she was soon convinced of her mis- apprehension with regard to a failure of that " worthy woman's intellects ; Jerry, so the gardener was familiarly called, having seen her, in his way to Bilswood, and heard her speak of Miss Lucy with the most tender concern. And what was your last service, Jerry ? said she, I wrought for Mr. Bolton, madam. — Mr. Bolton !-~And 1 received this paper from him for your ladyship; v>diich I was MAN OF THE WORLD. 227 ordered to deliver into your own hands, and no other body's, an't please your ladyship. She took the letter with a trembUng impatience; and, whis- pering that she would find an opportunity of seeing him iigain, hurried up into her chamber to peruse it. She found it contain what follows — ^ I HAVE not words to tell my ever dearest Lucy with what distracting anxiety I read the letter that is now lying before me. To give her suspicions of my faith must have been the work of no common treachery; when she knows that I wrote to her three several times, without receiving any answer, she will, at the same time, acquit me of inconstancy, and judge of my uneasiness. ' That discovery which she lias lately made is nothing to her or to me. My Lucy is the child of Heaven; and her inheritance every excellence it can bestow. ' But her present situation— my God ! what hor- rible images has my fancy drawn of it ! For Heaven's sake, let not even the most amiable of weakness prevent her esca-ping from it, into the arms of her faithful Bolton. I despatch a messen- ger with this instantly. I cannot possibly follow him, myself, sooner than two days hence. I will then set out for the neighbourhood of Biiswocd. That house I am forbidden to enter ; Sir Thomas having taken occasion, from my resigning a com- mission which would have fixed me, ingloriousiy in a garrison abroad, that I might be of some use to my country at home, to write me a letter in the Angriest tei'ms, renouncing me, as he expresses it, 228 MAN OF THE WORLD. for ever ! I see, I see the villany of his purpose : it is but a few days hence, and I will meet him in the covert of his falsehood, and blast it. Let my Lucy be but just to herself, and to ' Bolton.' She had scarcely read this, when Mrs. Boothby entered the room. The baronet had for some days, quitted that plan of intimidation which had prompt- ed him to discover to Lucy the circumstance of her being a wretched foundling, supported by his charity, for a behaviour more mild and insinuating; and Mrs. Boothby, who squared her conduct ac- cordingly, had been particularly attentive and obliging. She now delivered to Miss Sindall a mes- sage from a young lady in the neighbourhood, an acquaintance of hers, begging her company, along with Mrs. Boothby's, to a party of pleasure the day after. And really. Miss Sindall, said she, with an air of concern, I must enforce the invitation, from a regard to your health, as you seem to have been drooping for some days past. Lucy looked her full in the face, and sighed. That look she did not choose to understand ; but repeated her question as to their jaunt to-morrow. Miss Venhurst will call at nine, and expects to find you ready to attend her. ' What you please, replied the other : if Miss Ven- hurst is to be of the party, I have no objection. The consent seemed to give much satisfaction to Mrs. Boothby ; who left her, with a gentle tap on the back, and an unusual appearance of kindness in her aspect. Lucy read her letter again. She had desired MAN OF THE WORLD. 229 Bolton to think of her no more; but there is, in tlie worthiest hearts, a little hypocrisy attending such requests; she found herself happy in the thought that he had not forgotten her. When she opened her bureau, to deposit this fresh testimony of his attachment, she observed the corner of a piece of paper which had been thrust into a fissure occasioned by the shrinking of the wood. Her curiosity was excited by this circum- stance; and, unfolding the paper, she found it to contain : — ' TO MISS SINDLE. ' MADM. * I WRIT this from a sincear regaird to yar welfer. Sir Tho. Sindle has a helitch plott against yur var- tue; and has imployde Mrs. Buthbie, whu is a wooman of a notoreus karicter in Londun to asist him. They wil putt yu on a jant tomoro, on pro- tons of seeing Mss Venhrst, butt it is fals; for she is not to be thair, and they only wants to inveegle yu for a wicket purpes. therefor bi advyzd by a frinde, and du not go. ' Yur secrt welwishar, ' R. S.' Amazement and horror filled the mind of Lucy as she read this; but, when the first perturbation of her soul was over, she bethought herself of en- deavouring to find out her friend, in the author of this epistle' whose compassion seemed so much in- terested in her behalf. She remembered that one 230 MAN OF THE WORLD. of the servants, who was sometune employed to ride out with her, was called Robert, which agreed with j the first initial in the subscription of the note she ! I had received. At supper, therefore, though she I wore a look of as much indifference as possible, she marked with a secret attention, the appearance of this man's countenance. Her belief of his being the person who had communicated this friendly in- telligence was increased from her observation ; and she determined to watch an opportunity of ques- tioning him with regard to it. CHAPTER XVI. Mks Sindall has an Interview with Bvbert. — A Ixeso- lution she takes in consequence of it. After a night of wakeful anxietj^, she was called in the morning, by Mrs. Boothby; who told her that breakfast waited, as it was near the hour they pro- posed setting out on their jaunt. Miss Venhurst, continued she, has sent to let you know, that she is prevented from calling here, as she promised; but that she will meet us on the road. — I am sorry, answered Lucy, with a counterfeited coolness, that I should be forced to disappoint her in my turn ; but I rested so ill last night, and my head aches so violently, that I cannot possibly attend her. — Not go 1 exclaimed Mrs. Boothby ; why, my dear, you will disjoint the whole party : besides, I have not time to acquaint the Venhurst family ; and it will MAN OF THE WOLRD. 231 look so odd ! — It would look odder, said Lucy, if I should go abroad, when I am really so much indis- posed. — Nay, if you are really so very much indis- posed, answered the other, I will send our apology, late as it is. — But you shall not stay at home, to attend me ! interrupted Lucy. Indeed, but I shall ! replied Mrs. Boothby; it was on your account only that I j)roposed going. Keep your chamber, and I will send you up some tea immediately, and she left the room for that purpose. Her attention, indeed, was but too vigilant, for the scheme which Lucy had formed of examining Robert about that note she had found in her bureau; but accident, at last, furnished her with the opportunity she sought. Mrs. Boothby having left her, in order to i)reside at dinner, sent this very servant with a plate of something to her patient above stairs. He would have delivered it to one of the maids at the door; but Lucy, hearing his voice, desired that he might come in, on pretence of talk- ing to him about a young horse she had employed him to ride for her; and sending the maid on some errand, put the paper into his hand, and asked him if he was the person to whom she was indebted for a piece of information so momentous 1 The fellow blushed, and stammered, and seemed afraid to con- fess his kindness. For God's sake, said Lucy, do not trifle with my misery ! there is no time to loose in evasions; what do you know of Sir Thomas' de- signs against me ? — Why, for certain, madam, said he, servants should not blab their master's secrets ; but your lafdyship is so sweet a lady, that I could not bear to see you so deceived. Sir Thomas' valet 232 MAN OP THE WORLD. de-cliamb is a chum of mine ; and he told me, after having made me promise to keep it a profound secret, that his master designed to entice you on a party with Mrs. Boothby; that they were to stop at a soUtary farm-house of his, and there Sir Thomas Forbear the shocking recital, cried Lucy. To be sure it is shocking, said Robert ; and so I said to Jem when he told me. But he answer- ed — your ladyship will forgive me for repeating his words — that it mattered not much, for she is nothing better, said he, than a beggarly foundling, whom my master and I picked up one stormy night, on the road near his hunting-place there, at Haz- leden ; and having taken a liking to the child, he brought her home to Mrs. Selwyn ; pretending that she was the daughter of a gentleman of his own name, a friend of his who died abroad. And his I aunt, believing the story, brought her up for all the world like a lady; and left her, forsooth, a legacy at her death : but if all were as it should be, she would be following some draggle-tailed gipsy, instead of flaunting in her fineries here. — Would that I were begging my bread, so I were but out of this frightful house ! — I wish you were, said Robert simply; for I fear there are more plots hatching against you than you are aware of. Is not Mrs. Boothby's Sukey to sleep, to night, in the room with your ladyship ? — I consented on Mrs. Boothby's importunity, that she should. — Why, then, continued lie, I saw Jem carry a cast gown of Mrs. Boothby's, she had formerly given to Sukey, but which she asked back from the girl, on pre- tence of taking a pattern from it, into his master's I* MAN OF THE WORLD. 233 ' dressing-room ; and when 1 asked him what he was ■ doing with it there, he winked thus, and said it was for somebody to masquerade in to-night. — Gracious God ! cried Lucy, whither shall I turn me I Ro- bert, if ever thou wouldst find grace with Heaven, f pity a wretch that knows not where to look for pro- tection ! She had thrown herself on her knees before him. What can I do for your ladyship ? said he, raising her from the ground. Take me from this dreadful place ! she exclaimed ; holding by the , sleeve of his coat, as if she feared his leaving her. : Alas ! answered Robert, I cannot take you from I it. She stood for some moments rapt in thought, j the fellow looking piteously in her face. It will \ do ! she cried, breaking from him, and running into her dressing-closet. Look here, Robert, look here ! Could I not get from this window, on the garden wall, and so leap down into the outer court ? — But, supposing your ladyship might, what would you do then ? — Could not you procure me a horse ? — Stay — there is one of the chaise-horses at grass in the paddock. Do you know the road to Mrs. Wistanly's ? — Mrs. Wistanly ! — For Heaven's sake, refuse not my request ! you cannot be so cruel as to refuse it. — I would do much to serve your lady- ship ; but if they should discover us . Talk not of ifs, my dear Robert. — But soft; I will manage it thus — No, that can't be, either — the servants are in bed by eleven. — Before it, an't please your lady- ship. — If you could contrive to have that horse saddled, at the gate, as soon as all is quiet within, I can get out and meet you. — I don't know what to say to it. Somebody from below cried, Robert ! 234 MAN OF THE WORLD. Lucy was down on her knees again— Stay, I con- jure you, and answer me. — For God's sake rise, said he ; and do not debase yourself to a poor ser- vant, as I am. — Never will I rise, till you promise to meet me at eleven. — I will ! I will 1 — and the tears gushed into his eyes — whatever be the con- sequence. Sukey appeared at the door, calling Robert ! again. He ran down stairs ; Lucy follow- ed him some steps, insensibly^ with her hands folded together, in the attitude of supplication. In the interval between this and the time of putting her scheme in execution, she suffered all that fear and suspense could inflict. She wished to see again the intended companion of her escape; but the consciousness of her purpose stopped her tongue, when she would have uttered some pre- tence for talking with him. At times her resolu- I tion was staggered, by the thoughts of the perils attending her flight ; but her imagination presently suggested the danger of her stay ; and the dread of the greater evil became a fortitude against the less. The hour of eleven at last arrived. Mrs. Bootli- by, whose attendance was afterwards to be supplied by that of her maid, had just bid her good night, on her pretending an unusual drowsiness, and promis- ed to send up Sukey in a very little after. Lucy went into her dressing closet; and fastening the door, got up on a chair at the window, which she had taken care to leave open some time before, and stepped out on the wall of the garden, which was broad enough at top to admit of her walking along it. When she got as far as the gate, she saw by the light of the moon, Robert standing at the place MAN OF THE WOKLD. 235 -of appointment He caught her m his arms when •she leaped down. Why do you tremble so? said she ; her own lij)s quivering as she spoke. Is the 'horse ready. — Here, answered Robert, stammering ; but — . Get on, said Lucy, and let us away, for Heaven's sake ! He seemed scarce able to mount the horse : she sprung from the ground on the pad behind him. Does your ladyship think, said Robert faintly, as they left the gate, of the danger you run ? — There is no danger but within those hated walls ! — 'Twill be a dreadful night ! For it began to rain, and the thunder rolled at a distance. Fear not, said she, we cannot miss our way. — But if they should overtake us 1 — They shall not, they shall not overtake us ! Robert answered with a deep sigh. But they were now at some distance from the house; and, striking out of the highway into a lane, from the end of which a short road lay over a common to a village in which Mrs. Wistanly lived, they put on a very quick pace ; and, in a very short time, Lucy imagined herself pretty safe from X)ursuit. CHAPTER XVII. Bolton sets out from BUswood — A Recital of some Accidents in his Journey. As I flatter myself that my readers feel some in- terest in tho fate of Miss Sindall, I would not leave that part of my narration which regarded her, till 236 MAN OF THE WORLD. I had brought it to the period of her escape. Havino^ accompanied her thus far, I return to give some account of Mr. Bolton. According to the promise he had made to Lucy, he set out for Bilswood, two days after the date of that letter she received from him by the hands of his gardener. That faithful fellow had orders to return after delivering it; and, on procuring what intelligence he could of the family, to wait his I master, at a little inn, about five miles distant from ' Sir Thomas Sindall's. The first part of his business the reader has seen him accomplish: as to the rest he was only able to learn something confusedly of the baronet's attachment to Miss Lucy. He ex- pected to have seen that young lady again, on the day following that of their first interview ; but her attention had been so much occupied, by the dis- coveries related in the two last chapters, and con- triving the means of avoiding the danger with which she was threatened, that her promise to the bearer of Mr. Bolton's letter had escaped her memory. He set out, therefore, for the place of appointment on the evening of that day; and reached it but a very short time before his master arrived. Bolton having learned what particulars Jerry could inform him of, desired him to return in the morning to his work in Sir Thomas' garden, and remain there till he should receive farther orders; then leaving his horses and servants, for fear of discovery, he set out on foot, in the garb of a peasant, which Jerry had found means to pro- cure him. ^ MAN OF THE WORLD. 237 ^ As he had passed several years of his life at Bils- vood, he trusted implicitly to his own knowledge .f the way : but, soon after his leaving the inn, the noon was totally darkened; and it rained with I iuch violence, accompanied with incessant peals of hunder, that in the confusion of the scene, he nissedhis path, and had wandered a great way i 3ver the adjacent common before he discovered ' tiis mistake. When he endeavoured to regain the road, he found himself entangled in a very thick brake of furze, which happened to lie on that side whence he had turned; and, after several fruitless efforts to make his way through it, he was obliged to desist from the attempt, and tread back the steps he had made, till he returned back to the open part of the heath. Here he stood, uncertain what course to take; when he observed, at a distance, the twinkling of a light, which immediately determined him. On advancing somewhat nearer, he found a a little winding track that seemed to point towards the place ; and after following it some time, he could discern an object which he took for the house to which it led. The lightning, which now flashed around him, discovered on each hand the earth raised into mounds, that seemed graves of the dead; and here and there a bone lay mouldering on the walk he trod. A few paces farther, through a narrow gothic door, gleamed a light, which faintly illumin- ated a length of vault within. To this Bolton ap- proached, not without some degree of fear; when he perceived,. at the farther end, a person in mili- tary uniform, sitting by a fire he had made of some 2 B \ 238 MAN OF THE WORLD. withered brushwood piled up against the wall. As Harry approached him, the echo of the place doubled the hollow sound of his feet. Who is there ? cried the stranger, turning at the noise, and half unsheathing a hanger which he wore at his side. A friend, replied Harry, bowing, who takes the liberty of begging a seat at your fire. Your manner, said the other, belies your garb ; but who- ever you are, you are welcome to what shelter this roof can afford, and what warmth my fire can give. We are, for the time, joint lords of the mansion; for my title is no other than the inclemency of the night. It is such a one as makes even this gloomy shelter enviable ; and that broken piece of mattock, and this flint, are precious, because they lighted some dry straw, to kindle the flame that warms us. By the moss-grown altar, and the frequent figures I of the cross, I suppose these are the remains of some chapel devoted to ancient veneration. Sit down on this stone, if you please, sir; and our off'ering shall be a thankful heart, over some humble fare which my knapsack contains. As he spoke, he pulled out a loaf of coarse bread, a piece of cheese, and a bottle of ale. Bolton expressed his thanks for the invitation, and partook of the repast. I fear, sir, said his companion, you will be poorly supplied;! but I have known what it is to want even a crust ofj bread. You look at me with surprise: but, though} I am poor, I am honest. — Pardon me, answerec^ Harry, I entertain no suspicion; there is some- thing that speaks for you in this bosom, and answers for your worth. It may be in my power to prevent for the future those hardships which, I i MAN OF THE WORLD. 239 fear, you have formerly endured. The soldier held • brth the hit of bread which he was putting to his nouth — He to whom this fare is luxury can scarcely he dependent; yet my gratitude to you, sir, is equally due: if I have felt misfortune, I have ieserved it. He sighed; and Harry answered him with a sigh. I see a sort of question in your face, sir; and, I know not why it is, there are some ' faces 1 cannot easily resist. If my story outlasts the storm, it will take from the irksomeness of its ^iduration. CHAPTER XVIII. j The Stranger relates the History of his Life. I It is now upwards of twenty years since I left my native country. You are too young, sir, to have gained much knowledge of mankind ; let me warn you, from sad experience, to be aware of those passions which, at your age, I was unable to resist; and which, in the commerce of the world, will find abundant occasion to overcome incautious and un- experienced youth ! Start not, when I tell you, that you see before you one whom the laws of his country had doomed to expiate his crimes by death ; though from the mercy of his prince, that judg- ment was mitigated into a term of transportation, some time ago elapsed. This punishment I in- curred, from*the commission of a robbery, to which some particular circumstances, joined to the 2 B 2 240 MAN OF THE WORLD. poverty consequent on dissipation and extrava- gance, had tempted me. The master to whom my service was adjudged, in the West Indies, happened to die soon after my arrival there. T got my freedom, therefore; though it was to change it for a service as severe as my former: I was enhsted in a regiment then stationed in the island ; and, being considered as a felon, un- worthy of any mild treatment, was constantly exposed to every hardship which the strictest duty, or the most continual exposure to the dangers of the climate could inflict. Had I revealed my story, and taken advantage of that distinction which my birth and education would have made between the other convicts and me, it is probable I might have prevented most of the evils, both of my former and present situation: but 1 set out, from the first, with a fixed determination, of suffering every part of my punishment, which the law allots to the meanest and most unfriended. All the severities, therefore, which were now imposed upon me, I bore without repining; and, from an excellent natural constitu- tion, was not only able to overcome them, but they served to render me still more patient of fatigue, and less susceptible of impression from the vicissi- tudes of the weather; and, from a sullen disregard of life, with which the remembrance of better days inspired me, my soul became as fearless as my body robust. These qualities made me be taken notice of by some of the officers in the regiment; and, afterwards, when it was ordered to America, and went on some Indian expeditions, were still more serviceable, and more attractive of observation. MAN OF THE WORLD. 241 By these means I began to obliterate tlie disgrace which my situation at enlisting had fixed upon me: and, if still regarded as a ruffian, I was at least ac- knowledged to be a useful one. Not long after, on occasion of a piece of service I performed for an officer, on an advanced guard, that was attacked by a party of hostile Indians, I was promoted to a halbert. The stigma, however, of my transport- ation, was not yet entirely forgotten ; and, by some, it was the better remembered, because of my present advancement. One of those, with whom I had never been on good terms, was particularly offended at being commanded, as he termed it, by a 'gaol-bird;' and, one day, when I was on guard, had drawn on the back of my coat, the picture of a gallows, on which was hung a figure in caricature, with the initials of my name written over it. This was an affront too gross to be tamely put up with: having sought out the man, who did not deny the charge, I challenged him to give me satisfaction, by fighting me. But this, from the opinion con- ceived of my strength and ferocity, he did not choose to accept; on which, I gave him so severe a drubbing, that he was unable to mount guard in his turn ; and the surgeon reported, that his life was in danger. For this offence I was tried by a court- martial, and sentenced to receive five hundred lashes as a punishment. When their sentence was communicated to me, I petitioned that it might be changed into death; but my request was refused. That very day, therefore, I received one hundred lashes — for the sentence was to be executed at dif- ferent periods— and next morning was to suffer as 242 MAN OF THE WORLD. many more. The remainder, however, I resolved, if possible, to escape by an act of suicide. This I was only prevented from putting in execution, by the want of opportunity: as 1 had been strij)ped of every the smallest weapon of offence ; and was bound with ropes to one of the posts of my bed. I contrived, nevertheless, about midnight, to reach the fireplace with my feet; and, having drawn out thence a live ember, disposed it immediately under the most combustible part of the bed. It had very soon the effect I desired: the room was set on fire, and I regained my liberty, by the ropes with which I was tied, being burnt. At that moment, the de- sire of life was rekindled, by the possibility of es- caping: the flames bursting out freely on one side ' of the house where 1 lay, the attention of the i soldiers, whom the fire had awaked, was principally turned to that quarter; and I had an opportunity of stealing off, unperceived at the opposite side. We were then in a sort of wooden huts, which - had been built for our accommodation, on the out- side of one of our frontier forts ; so that, when I had run two or three hundred yards, I found myself in the shelter of a wood, pretty secure from pursuit. But, as there, it was impossible for me long to sub- sist, and I had no chance of escaping detection, if I ventured to approach the habitations of any of my countrymen ; I formed the resolution of endeavour- ing to join the Indians, whose scouting parties I had frequently seen at a small distance from our outposts. I held, therefore, in a direction which I judged the most probable for falling in with them; and, a very little after day break, discovered a party MAN OF THE WORLD. 243 .! seated after the manner of their country, in a ring, with the ashes of their newly extinguished fire in the middle. 1 advanced slowly to the place, which I had almost reached before I was perceived. When they discovered me, they leaped up to their feet, and, seized their arms, screamed out the war- whoop, to alarm the different small parties who had passed the night in resting places near them. One of them, presenting his piece, took aim at me; but I fell on my knees, showed them my defenceless state, and held out my hands, as if imploring their mercy and protection. Upon this, one of the oldest amoi]g them made a sign to the rest; and, advanc- ing towards me, asked me, in broken French, mixed with his own language — of which, too, I un- derstood something — what was my intention ? and whence I came ? I answered, as distinctly ?.s I could, to these interrogatories; and, showing the sores on my back, which I gave him to understand had been inflicted at the fort, made protestations, both by imperfect language and significant gestures, of my friendship to his countrymen, and hatred to my own. After holding a moment's conversation with the rest, he took my hand, and, leading me a little forward, placed me in the midst of the party. Some of them examined me attentively ; and, upon some farther discourse together, brought the bag- gage, with which two prisoners, lately made from some adverse tribe, had been loaded, and laid it upon me. This burden, which to any man would have been oppressively heavy, you may believe, was much more intolerable to me, whose flesh was yet raw, from the lashes I had received ; but, as I 244 MAN OF THE WORLD. knew that fortitude was an indispensable virtue with the Indians, I bore it without wincing; and we proceeded on the route which the party I had joined were destined to pursue. During the course of our first day's march, they often looked stead- fastly in my face, to discover if I showed any signs of uneasiness. When they saw that 1 did not, they lightened my load by degrees; and, at last, the senior chief, who had firet taken notice of me, freed me from it altogether; and, at the same time, chewing some herbs he found in the wood, applied them to my sores, which in a few days were almost entirely healed. I was then intrusted with a tomakawk; and, shortly after, with a gun: to the dexterous use of both such weapons, I was frequently exercised by the young men of our I)arty, during the remainder of our expedition. It Jested some months; in which time, I had also be- come tolerably acquainted with their language. At the end of this excursion, in which they warred on some other Indian nations, they returned to their' own country; and were received with all the bar-: barous demonstrations of joy peculiar to that peoi)le. In a day or two after their arrival, their prisoners were brought forth into a large plain, where the kindred of those who had been slain by nations to which the captives belonged, assembled to see them. Each singled out his expiatory prisoner; and, having taken him home to his hut, such as chose that kind of satisfaction adopted them in the place of the relations they had lost; with the rest they returned to their former place of meeting, and began to celebrate the festival of their MAN OF THE WORLD. 245 revenge. You can hardly conceive a species of in- ventive cruelty, which they did not inflict on the wretches whom fortune had thus put into their power, during the course of which not a groan escaped from the sufferers; but, while the use of their voices remained, they sung, in their rude yet forcible manner, the glory of their former victories, and the pleasure they had received from the death of their foes; concluding always with the hopes of revenge, from the surviving warriors of their nation. Nor was it only from the pleasure of the reflection that they carrolled thus the triumphs of the past; for I could observe that, when at any time the rage of their tormentors seemed to subside they poured forth those boasful strains, in order to rekindle their fury, that intenseness of pain might not be wanting in the trial of their fortitude. I perceived the old man, whom I have before men- tioned, keep his eye fixed upon me during this inhuman solemnity; and frequently, when an extreme degree of torture was borne with that calmness which I have described, he would point with an exi>ressive look, to him on whom it v/as inflicted, as if he had desired me to take particular notice of his resolution. I did not then fully com- prehend the meaning of this; but I afterwards understood it to have been a preparatory hint of what 1 myself was to endure: for, the next morning after the last surviving prisoner had expired, I was seized by three or four Indians, who stripped me of what little clothes I had then left, tied me in a horizontal iDosture, between the branches of two large trees they had fixed in the ground; and, after 246 MAN OF THE WORLD. the whole tribe had danced round me, to the music of a barbarous howl, they began to react, upon me, nearly the same scene they had been engaged in the day before. After each of a certain select j number had stuck his knife into my body, though ' they carefully avoided any mortal wound, they rubbed it over, bleeding as it was, with gunpowder, the salts of which gave me the most exquisite pain ! Nor did the ingenuity of these practised tormentors stop here: they afterwards laid quantities of dry gunpowder on different parts of my body, and set fire to them, by which I was burnt in some places to the bone ! But 1 see you shudder at the horrid recital: suffice it then to say, that these and some other such experiments of wanton cruelty 1 bore with that patience, with which nothing but a life of hardship, and a certain obduracy of spirit, pro- c/eeding from a contempt of existence, could have endowed me. After this trial was over, I was loosed from my bonds, and set in the midst of a circle who shouted the cry of victory; and my aged friend brought me a bowl of water, mixed with some spirits, to drink. He took me then home to his hut, and laid appli- cations of different simples to my mangled body. When I was so well recovered as to be able to v/alk abroad, he called together certain elders of his tribe, and, acknowledged me for his son, gave me a name, and fastened round my neck a belt of wampum — It is thus, said he, that the valiant are tried, and thus are they rewarded; for how shouldest thou be one of us, if thy soul were as the soul of little men ? He only is worthy to lift MAN OF THE WOULD. 247 the hatchet with the Cherokees to whom shame is more intolerable than the stab of the knife, or the burning of the fire I CHAPTER XIX. A Continuation of the Stranger^s Story, In this society I lived until about a year and a half ago; and it may seem extraordinary to declare, yet it is certainly true, that during the life of the old man who had adopted me, even had there been no legal restraint on my return to my native country, scarce any inducement could have tempted me to leave the nation to which he belonged, except the desire of revisiting a parent and a sister, whom I had left in England, sunk beneath that ignominy which the son and the brother had drawn on his guiltless con- nections. When we consider the perfect freedom subsisting in this rude and simple state of society, where rule is only acknowledged for the purpose of immediate utility to those who obey, and ceases whenever that purpose of subordination is accom- plished; where greatness cannot use oppression, nor wealth excite envy; where the desires are native to the heart, and the laugour of satiety is unknown; where, if there is no refined sensation of delight, there is also no ideal source of calamity — we shall less wonder at the inhabitants feeling no regret foi* the want of those delicate pleasures which a more polished people are possessed of. 218 MAN OF THE WORLD. Certain it is, that I am far from being a single instance of one who had even attained maturity in Euroi^e, and yet found his mind so accommodated by the habit of a few years to Indian manners as to leave that country with regret. The death of my parent by adoiDtion loosened indeed my attach- ment to it ; that event happened a short time be- fore my departure from America. The composure with which the old man met his dissolution would have done honour to the firmest I)hilosoi)her of antiquity. When he found himself near his end, he called me to him to deliver some final instructions respecting my carriage to his countrymen ; he observed, at the close of his dis- course, that I retained so much of the European as to shed some tears while he delivered it. In those tears said he, there is no wisdom, for there is no u^e. I have heard that, in your country, men pre- pare for death by thinking on it while they live; this also is folly, because it loses the good by an- ticipating the evil. We do otherwise, my son, as . our fathers have better instructed us, and take from the evil by reflecting on the good. I have lived a thousand moons, without captivity and without disgrace: in my youth I did not fly in battle, and in age the tribes listened while I spake. If I live in another land, after death, I shall re- member these things with pleasure: if the present is our only life, to have done thus is to have used it well. You have sometimes told me of your country- men's account of a land of souls; but you were a young man when you came among us, and the cunning among them may have deceived you : for MAN OF THE WORLD, 249 I the children of the French king call themselves ; after the same God that the English do, yet their ; discourses concerning Him cannot be true, because : they are opposite one to another. Each says that God shall burn the others with fire, which could not happen if both were his children. Besides, neither of them act as the sons of truth, but as the sons of deceit; they say their God heareth all things, yet, do they break the promises which they have called upon him to hear; but we know that the spirit within us listeneth, and what we have said in its hearing, that we do. If in another country the soul liveth, this witness shall live with it — whom it hath here reproached it shall there disquiet — whom it hath here honoured it shall there reward. Live therefore, my son, as your father hath lived; and die, as he dieth, fearless of death. With such sentiments the old man resigned his breath, and I blushed for the life of Christians while I heard them. I was now become an independent member of the community ; and my behaviour had been such that I succeeded to the condition of my father, with the respect of a people amongst whom honour is attainable only by merit. But his death had dissolved that tie which gratitude, and indeed af- fection for the old man had on my heart ; and the scene of his death naturally awakened in me the remembrance of a father in England, whose age might now be helpless, and call for the aid of a long-lost son to solace and support it. This idea once rousad became every day more powerful, and at last I resolved to communicate it to the tribe and tell them my purpose of returniug home. 250 MAN OF THE WORLD. They heard me without surprise or emotion, as indeed it is their great characteristic not to be easily awakened to either. You return, said one of the elders, to a people who sell affection to their brethren for money ; take, therefore, with you some of the commodities which their traders value. Strength, agility, and fortitude are sufficient to us, but with them they are of little use ; and he who possesses wealth having no need of virtue, among the wealthy it will not be found. The last your father taught you, and amongst us you have prac- tised; the first he had not to leave, nor have we to bestow, — but take as many beaver skins as you can carry on your journey, that it may reach that I)arent whom you tell us you go to cherish. I returned thanks to the old man for his counsel, and to the whole tribe for their kindness; and having, according to his advice, taken a few of the furs they offered me, I resumed the tattered re- mains of the European dress which I had on when I escaped from the fort, and took the nearest road to one of our back settlements, which I reached without any accident, by the assistance of an Indian who had long shown a particular attach- ment to me, and who now attended me on my way. Yonder smoke, said my conductor, rises from the dwellings of your countrymen. You now return to a world which I have heard you describe as full of calamity, but the soul you possess is the soul of a man; remember that to fortitude there is no sting in adversity, and in death no evil to the valiant. When he left me T stood for some minutes, look n MAN OF THE WORLD. 251 ' t ing back on one hand to the wilds 1 had passed, and on the other to the scenes of cultivation which European industry had formed; and it may sur- prise you to hear that, though you wanted not some rekindling attachment to a people amongst whom my first breath had been drawn and my youth spent, yet my imagination drew on this side, fraud, hypocrisy, and sordid baseness — while on that seemed to preside honesty, truth, and savage nobleness of soul. When I appeared at the door of one of the houses in the settlement that was nearest me, I was immediately accosted by its master, who, judging from the bundle of furs which I carried, that I had been trading among the Indians, asked me with much kindness to take up my lodging with him. Of this offer I was very glad to accept, though I found a scarcity of words to thank my countryman for his favours — as, from want of use, my remembrance of the English language had been so much effaced, as not only to repress fluency, but even to prevent an ordinary command of ex- pression; and I was more especially at a loss for ceremonious phraseology, that department of lan- guage being unknown in the country whence I had just returned. My landlord was not a little astonished, when I could at last make shift to in- form him of my having passed so many years among the Indians. He asked a thousand questions about customs which never existed, and told me of a multitude of things of which all the time I had lived in tjiat country I had never dreamed the possibility. Indeed from the superiority of his 252 MAN OF THE WORLD. expression, joined to that fund of supposed know- ledge which it served to communicate, a bystander would have been led to imagine that he was describing to some ignorant guest, a country with whose manners he had been long conversant, and among whose inhabitants he had passed the great- est part of his life. At length, however, his dis- course centred upon the fur trade, and naturally glided from that to an offer to purchase my beaver skins. These things, I was informed by my cour- teous entertainer, had fallen so much in their price of late, that the traders could hardly defray their journey in procuring them, that himself had lost by some late bargains in that way, but that to oblige a stranger, the singularity of whose adven- tures had interested him in his behalf, he would give me the highest price at which he had heard ' of their being sold for a long time past. This I accepted without hesitation, as I had neither lan- guage nor inclination for haggling; and having procured as much money by the bargain as I imagined would more than carry me to a seaport, I proceeded on my journey, accompanied by an inhabitant of Williamsburg, who was returning from an annual visit to a settlement on the back frontiers, which he had purchased in partnership with another, who constantly resided upon it. He seemed to be naturally of an inquisitive disposition ; and, having learned from my former landlord that I had lived several years with the Indians, tormented me all the while our journey lasted with interro- gatories concerning their country and manners. But as he was less opinionative of his own know- MAN OF THE WORLD. 253 ledge ill the matter than my last English acquaint- ance, I was the more easily prevailed on to satisfy his curiosity, though at the expense of a greater : number of words than I could conveniently spare; and at last he made himself entirely master of my story, from the time of leaving the regiment in which I had served, down to the day on which I delivered my recital. When I mentioned my having sold my beaver skins for a certain sum, he started aside; and then, lifting up his eyes in an ejaculatory manner, expressed his astonishment how a Christian could be guilty of such monstrous dishonesty, which he said was no better than one would have expected in a savage ; for that my skins were worth at least three times the money ! I smiled at his notions of comparative morality, and bore the intelligence with a calmness that seemed to move his admiration. He thanked God that all were not so ready to take advantage of ignorance or misfortune, and cordially grasping my hand, begged me to make his house at Williams- burg my own, till such time as I could procure my passage to England. CHAPTER XX. Conclusion of the Strangers Story. Pursuant to this friendly invitation I accompanied him to his house on our arrival in that place. For some days my landlord behaved to me in the most 2 c 254 MAN OF THE WORLD, friendly manner; and furnished me, of his own accord, with linen and wearing apparel : several articles of which, though necessaries in the polished society of those amongst whom I now resided, my ideas of Indian simplicity made me consider super- fluous. During this time I frequently attended him at his store, while he was receiving consignments of goods, and assisted him and his servants in the dis- posal and assortment of them. At first he received this assistance as a favour : but 1 could observe that he soon began to look upon it as a matter of right, and called me to ' bear a hand,' as he termed it, in a manner rather too peremptory for my i)ride to submit to. At last, when he ventured to tax me with some office of menial servility, I told him I did not consider myself his dependant any farther than gratitude for his favours demanded; and refused to perform it. Upon which he let me know that he looked upon me as his servant, and that, if I did not immediately obey his command, he would finda way to be revenged of me. This declaration heightened my resentment, and confirmed my refusal. I desired him to give me an account of what he had expended in those articles with which he had sui^plied me, that I might pay him out of the small sum 1 had in my possession ; and, if that was not sufficient, I would rather sell my new habiliments and return to my rags, than be indebted for a farthing to his generosity. He answered, that he would clear accounts with me by and by. He did so, by making oath, before a magistrate, that I was a deserter from his majesty's service; and, accord- n ^ MAN OF THE WORLD. 255 Ing to my own confession, had associated with the ' savages, enemies of the i^rovince. As I could deny neither of those charges, I was thrown into prison, where I should have been in danger of starving, had not the curiosity of some of the townsfolks in- duced them to visit me, when they commonly contributed some trifle towards my support ; till at length, partly, I suppose, from the abatement of my * accuser's anger, and i)artly from the flagrancy of . detaining me in prison without any provision ; for my maintainance, I was suffered to be en- larged ; and a vessel being then ready to sail '|for England, several of whose hands had deserted ^her, the master agreed to take me on board for the consideration of my working the voyage. For this, indeed, I was not the least qualified as to , skill ; but my strength and perseverance made !up, in some operations, for the want of^it. As this was before the end of the war, the ship in which I sailed happened to be taken by a French ; I)rivateer, who carried her into Brest. This, to me, ! who had already anticipated my arrival at home, to comfort the declining age of a parent, was the most mortifying accident of any I had hitherto met I with ; but the captain and some passengers who were aboard of us, seemed to make light of their misfortune. The ship was insured, so that in pro- perty the owners could suffer little ; as for ourselves, said they, the French are the politest enemies in the world, and, till we are exchanged, will treat us with that civil demeanour so peculiar to their nation. We are not (addressing themselves to me) among savages, as you were —How it fared with 2 c 2 256 MAN OF THE WORLD. them I know not; I, and other mferior members of the crew, were thrust into a dungeon, dark, damp, and loathsome; where, from the number confined in it, and the want of proper circulation, the air became putrid to the most horrible degree: and the allowance of our provision was not equal to twopence a -day. To hard living I could well enough submit, who had been frequently ac- customed, among the Cherokees, to subsist three or. four days upon a stack of Indian corn moistened in the first brook I lighted on ; but the want of air and exercise I could not so easily endure. I lost the use of my limbs, and lay motionless upon my back, in the corner of the hole we were confined inj covered with vermin, and supported in that wretched state, only by the infrequent humanity of ^ some sailor, who crammed my mouth with a bit of his brown bi'ead, softened in stinking water. The natural vigour of my constitution, however, bore up against this complicated misery, till upon the conclusion of the peace, we regained our freedom. But when I was set at liberty, I had not strength to enjoy it; and after my companions were gone^ was obliged to crawl several weeks about the streets of Brest, where the charity of some well disposed Frenchmen bestowed now and then si, trifle ux3on the paiivre sauTcige, as I was called, tili I recovered the exercise of my limbs, and was able to work my passage in a Dutch merchant-shij^ bound for England. The mate of this vessel hai^ pened to be a Scotsman, who, hearing me speaJk the language of Britain, and having inquired intp the particulars of my story, humanely attachefl MAN OF THE WORLD. 257 jhimself to my service, and made my situation . much more comfortable than any I had for some time experienced. We sailed from Brest with a fair wind, but had not been long at sea, till it shifted, and blew pretty fresh at east, so that we were kept .for several days beating up the Channel; at the end of which it increased to so violent a degree, that it was impossible for us to hold a course, and the ship was suffered to scud before the storm. At ; the close of the second day, the wind suddenly chopped about into a westerly point, though with- out any abatement of its violence ; and very soon after day break of the third, we were driving on the southwest coast of England, right to the lee- ward. The consternation of the crew became now so great, that if any expedient had remained to save us, it would have scarce allowed them to put - it in practice. The mate, who seemed to be the ablest sailor on board, exhorted them at least to endeavour running the ship into a bay, which opened a little on our starboard quarter, where the shore was fiat and sandy; comforting them with the reflection, that they should be cast on friendly ground, and not among samges. His advice and encouragement had the desired effect; and, not- withstanding the perils with which I saw myself surrounded, I looked with a gleam of satisfaction on the coast of my native land, which for so many years I had not seen. Unfortunately a ridge of rocks ran almost across the bason into which, with infinite labour, we were directmg our course ; and the ship struck upon them, about the distance of half a league from the shore. All was now 258 MAN OF THE WORLD. uproar and confusion. The long boat was launched by some of the crew, who, with the captain, got immediately into her, and brandishing their long knives, threatened with instant death any who should attempt to follow them, as she was already loaded beyond her burden. Indeed, there remained at this time in the ship only two sailors, the mate, and myself: the first were washed overboard while they hung on the ship's side attempting to leap into the boat, and we saw them no more ; nor had their, hard-hearted companions a better fate; they hacj scarcely rowed a cable's length from the ship when the boat overset, and every one on board her perished. There now remained only my frien^ the mate, and 1, who, consulting a moment to-l gether, agreed to keep by the ship till she shoul(i split, and endeavour to save ourselves on some* broken plank which the storm might drive on shore^ We had just time to come to this resolution, when by the violence of a wave that broke over the shipj her main-mast went by the board, and we were swept off the deck at the same instant. My com- panion could not svvim ; but 1 had been taught that art by my Indian friends to the greatest degree of expertness. I was, therefore, more uneasy about the honest Scotsman's fate than my own, and quiting the mast, of which I had caught hold in its fall, swam to the place where he first rose to th^ surface, and catching him by the hair, held hii head tolerably above water, till he was able so far to recollect himself, as to cling by a i^art of the shrouds of our floating main-mast, to which I bore him. In our passage to the shore on this slender MAN OF THE WORLD, 250 II float, he was several times obliged to quit his hold, !(! from his strength being exhausted; but I was always so fortunate as to be able to replace him in his former situation, till, at last, we were thrown 'I upon the beach, near to the bottom of that bay at the mouth of which our ship had struck. I was not so much spent by my fatigue, but that I was able to draw the mate safe out of the water, and 1^ advancing to a crowd of people whom I saw as- t sembled near us, began to entreat their assistance f for him in very pathetic terms, when, to my utter astonishment, one of them struck at me with a I bludgeon, while another making up to my fellow - I sufferer, would have beat out his brains with a ; stone, if I had not run up nimbly behind him, and dashed it from his uplifted hand. This man hap- \ pened to be armed with a hanger, which he i instantly drew, and made a furious stroke at my '■■ head. I parried his blow with my arm, andp at the same time, seizing his wrist, gave it so sudden a wrench, that the v^^eapon dropped to the ground. I instantly possessed myself of it, and stood astride my companion with the aspect of an angry lioness guarding her young from the hunter. The appear- ance of strength and fierceness which my figure exhibited, kept my enemies a little at bay, when, fortunately we saw advancing a body of soldierSg headed by an officer, whom a gentleman of human- ity in the neighbourhood had prevailed on to march to the place for the preservation of any of the crew whom the storm might spare, or any part of the cargo that^might chance to be thrown ashore. At 4sight of this detachment the crowd dispersed, ancj 260 MAN OF THE WORLD. left me master of the field. The officer very humanely took charge of my companion and me, brought us to his quarters in the neighbourhood, and accommodated me with these very clothes which 1 now have on. From him I learned, that those Englishmen, who (as our mate by way of comfort observed) were not samges^ had the idea transmitted them from their fathers, that all wrecks became their property by the immediate hand of God; and, as in their apprehension that denomina- tion belonged only to ships from which there landed no living thing, their hostile endeavours against the Scotsman's life and mine, proceeded from a desire of bringing our vessel into that supposed condition. After having weathered so many successive dis- ^ asters, I am at last arrived near the place of my nativity ; fain would I hope, that a parent and a sister, whose tender remembrance, mingled with that of happier days, now rushes on my soul, are yet alive to pardon the wanderings of my youth, and receive me after those hardships to which its lingo verned passions have subjected me. Like the prodigal son, I bring no worldly wealth along with me; but I return with a mind conscious of its former errors, and seeking that peace which they destroyed. To have used prosperity well, is the first favoured lot of heaven ; the next is his, whom adversity has not smitten in vain. MAN OF THE WORLD. 261 CHAPTER XXI. Bolton and his Companion meet icitli an uncommon Adventure. When the stranger had finished his narration, Bolton expressed, in very strong terms, his com- passion for the hardships he had suffered. I do not wish, said he, to be the prophet of evil, but if it should happen that your expectations of the comfort your native country is to afford you be disai)pointed, it will give me the truest i)leasure to shelter a head, on which so many vicissitudes have beat, under that roof of which Providence has made me master. He was interrupted by the trampling of horses at a distance : his fears, wake- ful at this time, were immediately roused ; the stranger observed his confusion. You seem uneasy, sir, said he; but they are not the retreats of house- less poverty like this, that violence and rapine are wont to attack. — You mistake, answered Harry, who was now standing at the door of the chapel, the ground of my alarm ; at present I have a par- ticular reason for my fears, which is nearer to me than my own personal safety. He listened — the noise grew fainter; but he marked, by the light of the moon, which now shone out again, the direction whence it seemed to proceed, which was over an open part of the common. They are gone this way ! he cried with an eagerness of look, grasping one of the knotty branches which the soldier's fire had spared. If there is danger in your way, said his companion, you shall not meet it alone. They sallied forth together. 262 MAN OF THE WORLD. They bad not proceeded above a quarter of a mile, when they perceived, at a distance, the twinkling of lights in motion ; their pace was quickened at the sight; but in a few minutes those were extinguished ; the moon was darkened by another cloud, and the wind began to howl again. They advanced, how- ever, on the line in which they imagined the lights to have appeare d ; when, in one of the pauses of the storm, they heard shrieks, in a female voice, that seemed to proceed from some place but a little way off. They rushed forward, in the direction of the sound, till they were stojjped by a pretty high wall. Having made shift to scramble over this, they found themselves in the garden belonging to a low built house; from one of the windows of which they saw the glimmer of a candle through the openings of the shutters : but the voice had ceased, and all was silence within. Bolton knocked at the door, but received no answer; when, suddenly, the screaming was repeated with more violence than before. He and his companion now threw them- selves with so much force against the door, as to burst it open. They rushed into the room whence the noise proceeded ; when the first object that presented itself to Bolton was Miss Sindall on lier knees, her clothes torn, and her hair dishevelled, with two servants holding her arms, imploring mercy of Sir Thomas, who was calling out, in a furious tone, Damn your pity, rascals! carry her to bed by force. — Turn, villain ! cried Harry ; turn, and defend yourself. Sindall started at the well known voice, and pulling out a pistol, fired it within a few feet of the other's face: he missed; MAN OF THE WORLD. and Bolton pushed forward to close with him ; when one of the servants, quitting Miss Sindall ; threw himself between him and his master, and made a blow at his head with the but-end of a hunting whip; this Harry catclied on his stick, and in the return levelled the fellow with the ground. His master now fired another pistol, which would have probably taken more effect than the former, had not Bolton's new acquaintance struck up the muzzle, just as it went off, the ball going through a window at Harry's back. The baronet had his sword now drawn in the other hand; and, changing the object of his attack, he made a furious pass at the soldier, who parried it with his hanger. At the second lunge, Sir Thomas' violence threw him on the point of his adversary's weapon, which entered his body a little below the breast. He staggered a few paces back- wards ; and clapping one hand on the place, leaned wdth the other on a table that stood behind him, and cried out that he was a dead man. My God ! exclaimed the stranger, are not you Sir Thomas Sindall ? — Sir Thomas Sindall ! cried a woman, who now entered, half-dressed, with the mistress of the house. It is, it is Sir Thomas Sindall ! said the landlady ; for God's sake, do his honour no hurt. — I hope, continued the other, with a look of earnest wildness, you have not been a-bed with that young lady ? She waited not a reply—for, as sure as there is a God in heaven, she is your own daughter. Her hearers stood aghast as she spoke. Sindall stared •wildly foi* a moment ; then giving a deep groan, fell senseless at the feet of the soldier, who had sprung 264 MAxN OF THE WORLD. forward to support him. What assistance the amazement of those about him could allow he received, and in a short time began to recover; but as he revived, his wound bled with more violence than before. A servant was instantly dispatched for a surgeon; in the meantime, the soldier pro- cured some lint, and gave it a temporary dressing. He was now raised from the ground, and supported in an elbow chair; he bent his eyes fixedly on the woman — Speak, said he, while I have life to hear thee. On the faces of her audience sat astonish- ment, suspense, and expectation ; and a chilly silence prevailed while she delivered the following recital. CHAPTER XXII. A Prosecution of the Disco very metitioned in the last Chapter. I HAVE been a wicked woman ; may God, and this lady, forgive me ! — But Heaven is my witness, that I was thus far on my way to confess all to your honour, turning to Sir Thomas Sindall, that I might have peace in my mind before I died. You will remember, sir, that this young lady's mother was delivered of her at the house of one of your tenants, where Mr. Camplin, (I think that was his name) brought her for that purpose. I was in- trusted with the charge of her as her nurse, along with some trinkets, such as young children are in MAN OF THE WORLD, I use to liave, and a considerable sum of money to j provide any other necessaries she should want. At that very time I had been drawn in to associate with a gang of pilfering vagrants, whose stolen goods I had often received into my house, and helped to dispose of. Fearing, therefore, that I might one day be brought to an account for my past offences, if I remained where I was, and hav- ing at the same time the temptation of such a booty before me, I formed a scheme for making off with the money and trinkets I had got from Mr. Camplin: it was to make things appear as if my ( charge and I had been lost in crossing the river, ; which then happened to be in flood. For this pur- pose, I daubed my own cloak, and the infant's wrapper, with mud and sleech, and left them close to the overflow of the stream, a little below the common ford. With shame I confess it, as I have often since thought on it with horror, I was more than once tempted to drown the child, that she might not be a burthen to me in my flight; but she looked so innocent and sweet, while she clasped my fingers in her little hand, that I had not the heart to execute my purpose. Having endeavoured in this manner to account for my disappearing, so as to prevent all further inquiry, I joined a party of those wretches, whose associate I had sometimes been, and left that part of the country altogether. By their assistance, too, I was put on a method of disguising my face so much, that had any of my acquaintance met me, of which there was very little chance, it would have been scarce possible for them to recollect it. My 26G MAN OF THE WORLD. "booty was put into the common stock, and the child was found useful to raise comj)assion when we went a-begging, which was one x>art of the occupation we followed. After I had continued in this society the best part of a year, during which time we met with various turns of fortune, a scheme was formed by the remaining part of us (for several of my com- X^anions had been banished, or confined to hard labour in the interval) to break into the house of a wealthy farmer, who, we understood, had a few days before received a large sum of money on a bargain for an estate, which the proprietor had redeemed. Our project was executed with suc- cess; but a quarrel arising about the distribution of the spoil, one of the gang deserted, and informed a neighbouring justice of the whole transaction, and the places of our retreat. 1 happened to be a fortune-telling in this gentleman's house when his informer came to make the discovery ; and being closeted with one of the maid servants, overheard him inquiring for the justice, and desiring to have some conversation with him in private. I imme- diately suspected his design, and having got out of the house, eluded pursuit by my knowledge of the by-paths and private roads of the country. It im- mediately occurred to me to disburthen myself of the child, as she not only retarded my flight, but was a mark by which I might be discovered: but abandoned as I had then become, I found myself attached to her by that sort of affection which women conceive for the infants they suckle. I would not, therefore, expose her in any of those MAN OF THE WORLD. 267 unfrequented places through which I passed in my flight, where her death must have been the certain consequence ; and, two or three times when I would have dropped her at some farmer's door, I was prevented by the fear of discovery. At last I hap- pened to meet with your honour. You may recollect, sir, that the same night on which this lady, then an infant, was found, a beggar asked alms of you at a farrier's door, where you stopped to have one of your horse's shoes fastened. I was that beggar; and hearing from a boy who held your horse that your name was Sir Thomas Sindall, and that you were returning to a hunting seat you had in the neighbourhood, I left the infant in a narrow part of the road a little way before you, where it was impossible you should miss of finding her, and stood at the back of a hedge to observe your be- haviour when you came up. I saw you make your servant pick up the child, and place her on the saddle before him. Then having, as I thought, sufficiently provided for her, by thus throwing her under the protection of her father, I made off as fast as I could, and continued my flight, till I imagined I was out of the reach of detection. But being some time after apprehended on suspicion, and not able to give a good account of myself, I was advertised in the papers, and discovered to have been an accomplice in committing that robbery I mentioned, for w^hich some of the gang had been already condemned and executed. I was tried for the crime, and was cast for transportation. Before I was put on board the ship that was to carry me and sevei-al others abroad, I wrote a few 268 MAN OF THE WORLD. lines to your honour, acquainting you with the circumstances of my behaviour towards your daughter: but this, I suppose, as it was entrusted to a boy who used to go on errands for the prison- ers, has never come to your hands. Not long ago I returned from transportation, and betook myself to my old course of life again. But I happened to be seized with the small-pox, that raged in a village I passed through; and partly from the violence of the distemper, partly from the want of proper care in the first stages of it, was brought so low, that a physician, whose humanity induced him to visit me, gave me over for lost. I found that the terrors of death on a sick-bed had more effect on my conscience, than all the hardships I had formerly undergone, and I began to look back with the keenest remorse on a life so spent as mine had been. It pleased God, however, that I should recover; and I have since endeavoured to make some reparation for my past offences by my penitence. Among other things, I often reflected on v/hat I had done with regard to your child ; and being some days ago accidentally near Sindall-park, I went thither, and tried to learn something of what had befallen her. I understood from some of the neighbours, that a young lady had been brought up from her infancy with your aunt, and was said to be the daughter of a friend of yours, who had committed her to your care at his death. But, upon inquiring into the time of her being brought to your house, I was persuaded that she must be the MAN OF THE WORLD, 269 isame I had conjectured, imputing the story of her being anothers to your desire of concealing that she was yours, which I imagined you had learned from the letter I wrote before my transportation ; till meeting, at a house of entertainment with a ^ servant of your honours, he informed me, in the course of our conversation, that it was reported that you were going to be married to the young Mady v/ho had lived so long in your family. On hearing this I was confounded, and did not know what to think ; but, when I began to fear that my letter had never reached you, I trembled at the ;|thought of what my wickedness might occasion, \l and could have no ease in my mind, till I should I uset out for Bilswood to confess the whole affair to I your honour. I was to-night overtaken by the I storm near this house, and prevailed on the landlady, I though it seemed much against her inclination, to i permit me to take up my quarters here. About \ half an hour ago, I was waked with the shrieks of some person in distress, and ui)on asking the land- Iridj, who lay in the same room with me, what was i the matter, she bid me be quiet and say nothing; for it was only a worthy gentleman of her acquaint- ance, who had overtaken a young girl, a foundling he had bred up, that had stolen a sum of money from his house, and run away with one of his foot- men. At the word foundling,! felt a kind of some- j thing I cannot describe, and I was terrified when I j overheard some part of your discourse, and guessed ! what your intentions were; I rose, therefore, in spite of the landlady, and had got thus far dressed, when we heard the door burst open, and presently 270 MAN 0^ THE WORLD. a noise of fighting" above stairs. Upon this we ran up together; and to what has happened since, this company has been witness. CHAPTER XXIII. Miss Sindall discovers another Relation. It is not easy to describe the sensations of Sindall^ or Lucy, when the secret of her birth was luifolded. In the countenance of the last were mingled the indications of fear and pity, joy and wonder : while her father turned upon her an eye of tenderness^ chastened with shame. Oh ! thou injured in- nocence ! said he; for I know not how to call thee child, canst thou forgive those — Good God ! Bolton, from what hast thou saved me ! Lucy was now kneeling at his feet. — Talk not sir, said she, of the errors of the past: methinks I look on it as some horrid dream, which it dizzies my head to recollect My father! — Gracious God! have I a father? — I cannot speak ; but there are a thousand things that beat here! — Is there another parent to whom I should also kneel I Sir Thomas cast up a look to heaven; and his groans stopped, for awhile, his utterance — Oh! Harriet! if thou art now an angel of mercy, look down, and foregive the wretch that murdered thee ! — Harriet! exclaimed the soldier, starting at the sound, what Harriet? what Harriet ? Sindall looked earnestly in his face — Oh, heavens! he cried, art thou?— sure, thou ai^t ! — Annesly ? — Look MAN OF THE WORLD. 271 \ not, lock not on me — Thy sister — but, I shall not live I for thy upbra-idings — thy sister was the mother f of my child ! — Thy father — to what does this moment of reflection reduce me ? — thy father fell with his daughter, the victims of that villany which I overcame her innocence ! Annesly looked sternly upon him, and anger for a moment inflamed his cheek ; but it gave way to softer feelings. — What ! both ? both ? — and he burst into tears. Bolton now stepped up to this new acquired friend. I am, said he, comparatively but a spec- , tator of this fateful scene; let me endeavour to (; comfort the distress of the innocent, and alleviate i the pangs of the guilty. In Sir Thomas Sindall's i)resent condition resentment would be injustice. See here, my friend, (pointing to Lucy), a me- i diatrix, who forgets the man in the father. Annesly :[ gazed upon her, She is, she is, he cried, the • daughter, of my Harriet; — that eye, that lip, that ' look of sorrow ! — He flung himself on her neck ; i Bolton looked on them enraptured; and even the ' langour of Sindall's face was crossed with a gleam I of momentary pleasure. ^ Sir Thomas' servant now arrived, accompanied I by a surgeon, who, upon examining and dressing ), his wound, was of opinion, that in itself it had not ! the appearance of imminent danger, but from the i; state of his pulse he was apprehensive of a super- ^ vening fever. He ordered him to be put to bed, * and his room to be kept as quiet as possible. As ! this gentleman was an acquaintance of Boltons, w the latter informed him of the state in which Sir )/ Thomas' mind must be from the discoveries that 2 1)2 272 MAN OF THE WORLD. the preceding hour had made upon him. Upon which the surgeon begged that he might, for the present, avoid seeing Miss Sindall or Mr, Annesly, or talking with any one on the subject of those discoveries; but he could not prevent the in- trusion of thought ; and not many hours after, his patient fell into a roving sort of slumber, in which he would often start and mutter the words Harriet,' Lucy, murder, and incest ! Bolton and Lucy now enjoyed one of those' luxurious interviews, which absence, and hardships during that absence, procure to souls formed for each other. She related to him all her past dis- tresses, of which my readers have been already informed, and added the account of that night's event, part of which only they have heard. Herself \ indeed, was not then mistress of it all; the story at large was this : — The servant, whose attachment to her I have formerly mentioned, had been discovered, in that conference which produced her resolution of leav- ing Bilswood, by Mrs. Boothby's maid, who imme- diately communicated to her mistress her suspicions of the plot going forward between Miss Sindall and Robert. Upon this, the latter was severed interrogated by his master, and being confrontea with Sukey, who repeated the whole she had over-i heard of the young lady and him, he confessed hei^ intention of escaping by his assistance. Sir Thorn asi drawing his sword, threatened to put him instantH to death, if he did not expiate his treachery by obeying implicitly the instructions he should ihcA receive; these were, to have the horse saddled at the MAN OP THE WORLD. 273 'hour agreed on, and to proceed, without revealmg to Miss Sindall the confession he had made, on the road which Sir Thomas had now marked out for : him. With this, after the most horrid denunci- I ations of vengeance in case of a refusal, the poor f fellow was fain to comply: and hence his terror when they were leaving the house. They had proceeded but just so far on their way, as Sir Thomas had thought proper for the accomplish- ment of his design, when he, with his valet de . chamber and another servant, who were confidants ■ of their master's pleasures, made up to them, and j, after pretending to upbraid Lucy for the im- \ prudence and treachery of her flight, he carried f her to the house of one of those profligate dependants, whom his vices had made necessary I on his estate. I When she came to the close of this recital, the ' idea of that relation in which she stood to him from whom these outrages were suff'ered, stopped her tongue ; she blushed and faltered. This story, said she, 1 will now forget for ever, except to remember that gratitude which I owe to you. During the vicissitudes of her narration, he had clasped her hand with a fearful earnestness, as if he had shared the dangers she had related; he pressed it to his lips. Amidst my Lucy's present momentous concerns, I would not intrude my own ; but I am selfish in the little services she acknowledges; I look for a return. She blushed again. — I have but little art, said she, and cannot disguise my senti- ments; my* Henry will trust them on a subject which at present I know his delicacy will forbear. 274 MAN OF THE WORLD. Annesly now entered the room, and Bolton communicated the trust he was possessed of in his behalf, offering to put him in immediate possession of the sum which Mr. Rawlinson had bequeathed to his management, and which that gentleman had more than doubled since the time it had been left by Annesly's unfortunate father. I know not, said Annesly, how to talk of those matters, unacquaint- ed as I have been with the manners of polished and commercial nations; when I have any particular destination for money, I will demand your assist- ance; in the mean time, consider me as a minor, and use the trust already reposed in you for my advantage, and the advantage of those whom misfortune has allied to me. CHAPTER XXIV. Sir Thomas'* Situation. — The expression of his Penitence. Next morning, Sindall, by the advice of his surgeon, was removed in a litter to his own house, where he was soon after attended by an eminent physician in aid of that gentleman's abilities. Pursuant to his earnest entreaties, he was accompanied thither by Annesly and Bolton.: Lucy, having obtained leave of his medical attend-] ants, watched her father in the character of a nurse. They found, on their arrival, that Mrs. Boothby,; having learned the revolutions of the preceding f MAN OF THE WORLD. 275 ■ night, had left the place, and taken the road towards London. I think not of her, said Sir Thomas; but there is another person, whom my former conduct banished from my house, whom 1 now wish to see in this assemblage of her friends, , the worthy Mrs. Wistanly. Lucy undertook to write her an account of her situation, and to solicit her compliance with the request of her father. The old lady, who had still strength and activity enough for doing good, accepted the invitation; and the day following she was with them at Bilswood. Sir Thomas seemed to feel a sort of melancholy satisfaction in having the company of those he had injured assembled under his roof. When he was told of Mrs. Wistanly 's arrival, he desired to see her, and taking her hand, I have sent for you, madam, said he, that you may help me to unload my soul of the remembrance of the past. He then confessed to her that plan of seduction by which he had overcome the virtue of Annesly, and the honour of his sister. You were a witness, he concluded, of the fall of that worth and innocence which it was in the power of my former crimes to destroy : you are now come to behold the retribution of Heaven on the guilty. By that hand whom it commissioned to avenge a parent and a sister, I am cut off in the midst of my days, I hope not, sir, answered she; your life, I trust, will make a better expiation. In the punishments of the Divinity there is no idea of vengeance; and the infliction of what we term evil, serves equally the purpose of universal benignityj with the dispensa» 276 MAN OF THE WORLD. tion of good. I feel, replied Sir Thomas, the force of that observation: the pain of this wound; the presentiment of death which it instils; the horror with which the recollection of my incestuous passion strikes me ; all these are in the catalogue of my blessings. They indeed take from me the world, but they give me myself. A visit from his physician interrupted their dis- course. That gentleman did not prognosticate so fatally for his patient. He found the frequency of his pulse considerably abated ; and expressed his hopes that the succeeding night his rest would be better than it had been. In this he was not mistaken: and, next morning, the doctor continued to think Sir Thomas mending ; but himself persisted in the belief, that he should not recover. For several days, however, he appeared rather to gain ground than to lose it: but, afterwards, he was seized with hectic fits, at stated intervals; and, when they left him, he complained of a universal weakness and depression. During all this time, Lucy was seldom away from his bedside. From her presence he derived peculiar pleasure: and sometimes, when he was so low as to be scarce able to speak, would mutter out blessings on her head; calling her his saint ! his guardian angel ! After he had exhausted all the powers of medi- cine, under the direction of some of the ablest of the faculty, they acknowledged all further assist- ance to be vain ; and one of them warned him, in a friendly manner, of his approaching end. he received this intelligence with the utmost com- posure; as an event which he had expected from MAN OF THE WORLD. 277 ^the beginning: thanked the physician for his ■ candour; and desired that his friends might be ; summoned around him, while he had yet strength ; enough left to bid them adieu. When he saw them assembled, he delivered into • Bolton's hands a paper; which he told him was his ■ will. To this, said he, I would not have any of those privy, who are interested in its bequests; and, / therefore, I had it executed at the beginning of my illness, without their participation. You will find yourself, my dear Harry, master of my fortune; under a condition which, I believe, you will not esteem a hardshii). Give me your hand; let me join it to my Lucy's ! — There ! — if Heaven receives the prayer of a penitent, it will pour its richest blessings upon you. There are a few pro- visions in that paper, which Mr. Bolton, I know, will find a pleasure in fulfilling. — Of what I have bequeathed to you, Mrs. Wisfcanly, the content- ment you enjoy in your present situation makes you independent; but I intend it as an evidence of my consciousness of your deserving. My much injured friend; for he was once my friend, — addressing himself to Annesly — will accept of the memorial I have left him. Give me your hand sir; I receive my forgiveness, for that wound which the arm of Providence made me provoke from yours : and, when you look on a parent's and a sister's tomb, spare the memory of him whose death shall then have exipated the wrongs he did you! Tears were the only answer he received. He pausedfor amoment: then, looking around, with something in his eye more elevated and solemn — I 278 MAN OF THE WORLD. have now, said he, discharged the world ! Mine, has been called a Hfe of pleasure: had I breath, I could tell you how false the title is. Alas ! I knew not how to live — Merciful God 1 I thank thee — thou hast taught me how to die 1 At the close of this discourse, his strength, which he had exerted to the utmost, seemed altogether spent; and he sunk down in the bed, in a state so like death, that for some time his attendants imagined him to have actually expired. When he did revive, his speech appeared to be lost: he could just make a feeble sign for a cordial that stood on the table near his bed; he put it to his lips, then laid his head upon the pillow, as if resigning him- self to his fate. Lucy was too tender to bear the scene; her friend, Mrs. Wistanly, led her almost fainting out of the room; That grief, my dear Miss Sindall, said she, is too amiable to be blamed; but your father suggested a consolation which your piety will allow ; of those who have led his life, how few have closed it like him. THE CONCLUSION. Early next morning Sir Thomas Sindall expired. The commendable zeal of the coroner prompted him to hold an inquest on his body; the jury brought in their verdict — Self-defence. But there was a judge in the bosom of Annesly, whom it was more difficult to satisfy : nor could he for a long MAN OF THE WORLD. 279 time be brought to pardon himself that blow, for which the justice of his country had acquitted him. Alter jjaying their last duty to Sir Thomas' re- mains, the family removed to Sindall park. Mrs. Wistanly was prevailed on to leave her own house for a while, and preside in that of which Bolton was now master. His delicacy needed not the ceremonial of fashion to restrain him from pressing Miss Sindall's consent to their marriage, till a de- cent time had been yielded to the memory of her father. When that was elapsed, he received from her uncle that hand, which Sir Thomas had be- queathed him, and which mutual attachment en- titled him to receive. Their happiness is equal to their merit; lam often a witness of it; they honour me with a friend- ship which I know not how I have deserved, unless by having few other friends. Mrs. Wistanly and I are considered as members of the family. But their benevolence is universal; the country smiles around them with the effects of their good- ness. This is indeed the only real superiority which wealth has to bestow; I never envied riches so much, as since I have known Mr. Bolton. I have lived too long to be caught with the pomp of declamation, or the glare of an apopthegm ; but I sincerely believe, that you could not take from them simi'tiie without depriving them of sl pleasure, THE END. J. HARTLEY, PRINTER, HALIFAX. UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 3 0112 002832001