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 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/likemasterlikema01palm
 
 LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN: 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 IK TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. T
 
 C. Robinson, Printer, 
 Rolls' Buildings, Fetter Lane, London.
 
 LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 BT THE LATE 
 
 JOHN PALMER, 
 
 (of the theatre royal, in the haymarket: ) 
 
 SON TO THE DECEASED AND CELEBRATED 
 
 JOHN PALMER, 
 
 OF THE THEATRE ROYAL DRURY-LANE, AND OF THE 
 ABOVE MHNTJOn'd THEATRE. 
 
 WiTH A 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 BY 
 
 <iEORGE COLYiAy, THE YOUNGER. 
 
 VOL. J 
 
 LOXDOX: 
 Printed for the relief of the Author's Widow, ftiid 
 sold by Vr. Earle, at his Original English and 
 ► Foreign J^ibrary, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. 
 
 1811.
 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 After having suggested the publication of these 
 slight Volumes, it was my design to preface them, 
 merely, with some account of the deceased Author, 
 and the unhappy situation of his Widow ; But, while 
 ruminating on one who so very humbly ventured on 
 the borders of literary fancy, my thoughts have 
 stray'd to a consideration of those who penetrate 
 deeply into it's labyrinths, and of the brambles, and 
 thorns, which obstruct their passage. 
 ;^ I shall, now, hazard a few of these Thoughts upoft 
 ^; paper. As they are applicable chiefly to Poets, Dra- 
 ^ matists, and their Scrutators, they may seem irrela- 
 ^tive \\QYG, prima fade, but will be found, at last, in- 
 .;^ troductory to the Novel. 
 Sr^ They are oifer'd as crude hints for considerations 
 ^'ON LIVING CRITICKS, who SO pitcously bewail the 
 ndearth of livins: srenius ! — but we have heard of cro- 
 ^Godiles' tears. 
 
 ^ If two questions could be fairly decided, it would 
 ,5 be a '* consummation devoutly to be wish'd :" — First, 
 ^Whether the existing state of Poetry, and Dramatick 
 i:. Writing, deserve to be so run downjaa weperceive it tg
 
 be, by a herd of periodical, and anonymous censors ? 
 — Secondly, Whether (if we, really ^ live in an age of 
 lead) the generality of such cri7icA'A' be not more dege- 
 nerate than the criticised ? . 
 
 Had notNewspapers,Magazines,and Reviews*, be- 
 come the most conspicuous, and almost only vehicles 
 of note, for remarks on modern works of the descrip- 
 tion to which I allude; had not such remarks gain'd 
 a sort of mock authority, by their assumed import- 
 ance, their increasing numbers, and their unwearied 
 reiterations, — the above questions would not be wortk 
 agitating ; — 
 
 But, circumstanced as we are, here is an ample 
 field open for discussion : — 
 
 For an Inquiry into a twofold case, by comparing 
 the parties, on both sides, with their predeces- 
 sors, and afterwards with each other; — for a further 
 Inquiry into their abstracted merits, and defects; — for 
 an Examination of Examiners, and of many trading 
 Judges, who condemn, without calling in twelve 
 honest and competent men in the kingdom, to autho- 
 rise their sentence; — for an Exposure of Mercenaries, 
 who pufF or abuse for pay; and from partiality and 
 pique ; — and who, not being Regulars in the College 
 of Criticism, sometimes cry up as great Quacks in in- 
 vention, as they themselves are in animadversion ; — 
 in short, for an Inquiry from which conclusions 
 
 * There are two Reviews (one appears quartcrli/, and the 
 ©ther comes from the Norih), executed with the ability of writers 
 who leave the numerous tribe of their censorian brethren behind 
 them, longo inicrvallo.
 
 might be establish'd, branching into various corol- 
 laries, and forming an interesting treatise *. 
 
 I have neither inclination, leisure, nor fortitude of 
 research, sufficient for such an undertaking; and, 
 were not these wanting, great taste and judgment 
 are, indispensably, requisite ; I, therefore, defer it to 
 my superiors* 
 
 THOUGHTS, 
 
 Were individual talent, even, much less rare than 
 it is, there would be plenty of pert stupidity left in 
 the world to depress it ; for dirt will, always, be more 
 common than jewels, and one perishable dunghill 
 can, for a time, overlay a quantity of diamonds. 
 
 * As a modern satire of deserved reputation, I must acknow- 
 ledge the *' Baviad" written by Mr. GifFord, it's avoic'd author; 
 who exhibits strong powers of poetry, and, perhaps, a little 
 too much haste, and rigour, of criticism. 
 
 When I saw " Colman'i jiippant trash^' recorded in his poem, 
 I was humbled :• —but I was sorry, afterwards, for the satirist, 
 when he substituted the name of another author, to Inherit the 
 censure with which I was originally chastised j particularly 
 when I was -well assured, (though not absolutely by a direct mes- 
 sage from Mr. GifFord), that he had atter'd his opinion of my 
 writings. When a critick publishes a stricture before it has been 
 well weigh'd, he Is culpable towards the publick; and, when he 
 has reversed his own judgment, v.e must slight his authority, 
 but acknowledge his candour. I recollect no recent book^ be- 
 sides that of the above gentleman, worth notice. Pains, in- 
 deed, have been taken to exalt the " Persults of Literature ;" 
 but, surely, we persue it's pages with more fatigue than edifi- 
 cation, or amusement.
 
 The huiTiiiiimiiK!, too, is so morbid, that, although 
 some men may be too high, or too iow in intellect, 
 to envy, or to emulate abilities, still the careless ma- 
 jority experience more diversion in seeing them ridi- 
 culed by a frothy ribald, than gratitude for their 
 beauties, pointed out by an enlightened observer. 
 
 From the above cause, and various others, (in which 
 malignity, venality, vanity, and a hundred silly mo- 
 tives, and shabby passions, are included,) it has hap- 
 pen'd in every era, in England at least, if not uni- 
 versally, that contemporary writers of merit have 
 been bespatter'd, if not seriously injured, by con* 
 temporary writers of dulness : 
 
 *' Nay, should great Homer lift his awful heady 
 Zoilus again would start up from the dead." 
 
 Having quoted Pope, let me ask how many Dunces, 
 iiH his life time, assail'd him ? and how many of 
 those dunces, without his records of them, would not, 
 now, be sunk in oblivion ? But he has pluck'd up 
 their memories from Lethe, to float, like dead car- 
 rion, on the silver stream of his smooth numbers — 
 which glide, and glide, and will glide on *, after 
 many an Aristarchus, of present and future times, 
 shall have glided off. 
 
 Let me ask, also, whether the Pseudo-Criticks of 
 their day did not set up Poets of the second, third, 
 and sometimes lowest class, to knock down Poets of 
 
 * " LahiHir et lahetur in omne voluhilis avum,^* 
 
 Hqr.
 
 tiie first f — and, if their opinions were to be binding^ 
 upon posterity, whether we might not prefer Cowlc}* 
 to Milton ; whether we might not extol Ben Jonson's 
 classick declamations, and quaint evanescent humours, 
 above Shakspeare's flowing fires, and inspired deli- 
 neations of eternal nature ; — whether we might not 
 think that the Muse rejoiced, when the Revolution 
 tore the laurel from Dryden's brow, to strain the un- 
 willini^ wreath of Apollo round the temples of Shad- 
 well ; — and whether, while displaying the snarling 
 arch-critickDenuis,the epick Blackmore,with Gildon. 
 Oldmixon. and others, upon our shelves, we ought 
 not to consign the works of one Alexander Pope, 
 above mention'd, to the pa:?try-cook, and the trunk- 
 maker ? 
 
 The lovers of rust, for rust's sake ; the foppish 
 plodders over laborious trifles ; the bookish collector* 
 of heavy whip-syllabubs, — who would give aa hundred 
 pounds for a fancied original black-letter tract, writ- 
 ten to prove that Eve wore a feather, — (which would 
 induce the important discussion of whether she stuck 
 it in her head or her tail) — i,uch readers might be 
 gratified to peruse an accurate Bill of critical Mor- 
 tality , enumerating each individual who has expe- 
 rienced an early, but natural death, after all the 
 " slings and arrows" he outrageously directed 
 against his literary survivors. 
 
 But, without a minute list of those dead, and for- 
 gotten heroes, it is gratifying to observe, that de- 
 parted men of genuine, inventive merit, althonoh 
 they might occasionally fall out in print, have, for
 
 tlie most part, acknowledged the general abilities of 
 each other; and that, whenever persevering malig- 
 nity attempted to strip thein of all reputation, it has 
 proceeded from their inferiors*. 
 
 Thus, when heats arose between the rival wits of 
 their day, society witness'd a skilful literary escrime, 
 and the parties fenced like gentlemen ; but the en- 
 vious mob of dullards put them in fear of their poe- 
 tical lives, upon Fame's highway, and assaulted them 
 with Hyper-criticism's clumsy hatchets, and blud- 
 geons. 
 
 It may be said, in denial of this statement, that 
 some of our most celebrated v/its have also wielded 
 bludgeons : then let it be remember'd, that they 
 slew none but their low and ruffian assailants; and, 
 if judgment deny that they acted in self-defence, 
 because there was no absolute peril, candour may 
 confess that gross, and repeated provocations, were 
 sufficient to excuse the conduct of the exterminators. 
 
 I do not mean to contend that a man may not be a 
 sound critick (certainly he may be a good scholiast,) 
 on inventive writers — who is not an inventive writer 
 himself. — I know that road-posts, which cannot tra- 
 
 * Jeremy Collier was the only inferior who attack'd the Dra^ 
 matistsof his time so as to produce benefit to the pubHck,by his 
 correction of them. He, certainly, did not want wit ; and he was 
 the cause of reforming the obscenities, and immoralities, of the 
 stage. But, as Dryden hints, " the zeal of God's house had eaten 
 liim vp." He writes with extreme virulence and illiberality, and 
 seems to aim at the abolishment of theatres altogether, rather 
 than the purgation of their impurities.
 
 XHi 
 
 vel, are useful to the traveller; and that some, \\h9 
 cannot ride Pegasus, may be able to curry him ; but 
 I am bold to say, that the best, and most lasting 
 animadversions on English Poets, have been written 
 b\' those who have given proofs of their own poetical 
 powers. 
 
 Dryden, " who may properly be consider'd the 
 father of English criticism," and soon after him. 
 Pope, and Addisjon, might alone, without further 
 search, proudly support this position. 
 
 It would profane the memory of Doctor Johnson*, 
 to place the ephemeral strictures of present journa- 
 lists in competition with his lasting labours; — except 
 in that degree of comparison in which, when describ- 
 ing a pyramid of Egypt, we, by chance, mention a 
 mile-stone. 
 
 In his Lives of our Poets, and Preface to Shak- 
 speare, his discrimination resembles a majestick lake, 
 border'd with polish'd gardens ; and the flowers of 
 his style gracefully adorn the expanse and profun- 
 dity of his judgment. He possesses power to seize a 
 fault with a mental strength, and velocity, equal to 
 the bodily vigour of a lion springing upon his prey ; 
 but, more generous than the lion, he feels no fero- 
 cious hunger to mangle and destroy. Frequently, 
 when marking a defect in thought, he recommends, 
 even in that very thought, an excellence to excuse 
 it. Occasionally, he deviates into a dignified gaiety 
 of reprobation ; — it is, however, the gambol of aa 
 
 * His poetical effusions (though few) are excellent.
 
 earthquake; and, ivheii Johnson Is sportive, the Par- 
 nassian spoi, on which an author stands at the mo- 
 ment, tremhles under him : — yet the shock is never 
 intended to hurl him from the mountain. 
 
 I admit that he has, at times, his " sesquipedalia 
 verha;' but they are apposite, and forcible, and, 
 often, introduced with great effect, after his own 
 manner, by this Instructer to the English in their lan- 
 guage: — pigmy imitators Ijave caught the glaring 
 points, and nothing else, of their gigantick original. 
 This is a matter of more regret than wonder : the 
 redundancies of a genius, like a distortion in a fine 
 statue, are soonest perceived, and eas^iest copied, by 
 diligent dulness. He who cannot fight like Alexan- 
 der, can place his neck awry, to resemble him; but 
 he who has establish'd a popular school, cannot in- 
 spire blockheads, thrust into his academy. 
 
 The assertion may be ventured, without rashness, 
 that, since the death of Doctor Johnson, and his 
 contemporaries, modern Poetry has not fallen so low,, 
 by some degrees, as modern Criticism upon it,' in the 
 aggregate*: which is somewhat extraordinary; for I 
 conceive it to be more difficult, among the living, to 
 write a play or poem, from the highest to the lowest, 
 
 * Johnson had several celebrated contemporary criticks; some 
 ©f whom, for a few years, survived him. I cannot remember,ex- 
 actly, when Goldsmith died; nor when the two Wartons;— my 
 father, I know, lived some years after him. Other conspicuous 
 men might be enumerated; but I have no documents by me. 
 The criticisms of the four I have named will be lasting: and 
 they were all — ?Qct%,
 
 than to write a criticism upon it, up to the stanJavd 
 of the work. This the 2:entlenieii whose trade it is 
 to dissect writings, (I beg their pardon, I was about 
 to sa}^ cut up, J may deny. It is asserted, ho.vever, 
 from excellent authority, that" criticks and annota- 
 tors can only rank as the satellites of authors." Do 
 the censors mean to reverse this doctrine; as the col- 
 lege, in ^loliere's " Medtcin malgre lui,'' removed 
 the heart from the left side, to the right? They tell 
 us that Poetry, round which Criticism was wont to 
 revolve, is almost burnt out. The primary Planets 
 being, thus, nearly extinct, of what use are the Satel- 
 lites, and what is to become of them? — When 
 butchers have cried down animal food, there will 
 be an end of their occupation. 
 
 It may be objected to me that the sterling autho- 
 rities I have cited, only discufs'd (except when they 
 were retorting upon their assailants) the works of 
 the mighty dead; and I may be askM by some pert 
 Longinus of a Magazine, if former criticks had been 
 obliged to rake into such productions as are now ex- 
 tant, what they could have said of them, better than 
 is said at present. 
 
 I am confident as to what they would not have 
 said, and what they would not have done : — 
 
 They would not have said any thing in the sterility 
 of style, in the asperity of spirit, nor in the illi- 
 berality of System, which characterise their suc- 
 cessors : — 
 
 They would not, in the common place cant of all-
 
 XVI 
 
 minor crl ticks, in all age?, lament the dreadful famine 
 in the reg-ions of Fancy ; and, hypocritically weeping 
 over the alledged imbecility of the labourers in her 
 fields, condemn them, in the gross, as unfit for work, 
 with a sweeping groan of deploration, more barba- 
 rons, and far more lasting, than an Irish howl : — 
 
 They would not exult over the weak points of an 
 author, to renderhim disgusted, or despondent; — they 
 would not overpower his deservings with his errors, in 
 the fear of giving him encouragement; — they would 
 not substitute flippant periods of malicious censure, 
 and dapper sneerings of bastard wit, for generous 
 chastisement, and playful scholastick correction ; — 
 they would not almost uniformly tell us that a suc- 
 cessful author's last production is his worst ; — they 
 would not, in any instance, criticise plays, and play- 
 ers, on those nights when the piece was not acted, 
 and when the actor did not perform ; — they would 
 not 
 
 In short, they would not do any thing like the 
 DOINGS of almost all the doers, in the year of our 
 Lord, one thousand, eight hundred, and eleven^ 
 
 I am aware that there are exceptions to all rules, 
 I am acquainted with a few journalists of great worth, 
 and probity; but worth and probity do not consti- 
 tute a critick : — and, I need not name (although it 
 would tend little to tediousness) any living censor, 
 whom I may fancy to possess more requisites for his 
 calling than morality, and honour. 
 
 Although the meanest quality of an English- cri-
 
 tick be a knowledge of his native tongue, still we are 
 inform'd, by nine newspaper writers out of ten, that 
 an actor's "personification" of Macbeth, iNIacheath, 
 or Mac any thing, has been good, bad, or indif- 
 ferent. 
 
 Alas! have these sapient Philologers, now, to learn 
 that the term, thus applied, describes a figure in 
 rhetorick, carried into corporeal practice; a substan- 
 tial prosopopoeia, exhibited before us on the stage, 
 by which things, and their attributes, are embodied 
 into dramatick characters ? Must they, yet, be told 
 (what every school-boy may teach them] that, when 
 a performer acts Nestor, he perscuates a nian who 
 lived a long time; but, when he appears with wings, 
 a bald pate, a forelock, a scythe, and an hour- 
 glass, he personifies Time itself? 
 
 And such men are the awful Judges of our Pieria! 
 the diurnal Inquisitors of our English Helicon ! With 
 what reverence must we contemplate these Aristo- 
 tles on poetry, ignorant of familiar words in prose; 
 these Priscians on grammar, in want of a voca- 
 bulary ! 
 
 In conclusion, — lean observe no critical Sylla, in 
 the present republick of ]etters,with force and insinu- 
 ation enough to arrogate the title of perpetual dicta' 
 tor; and, if, even, the republick should be converted 
 into an empire, and we are to be govern'd, hence- 
 forward, by an emperor of reviews, I supplicate 
 the Domitian (as far as regards the present novel) 
 to abstain from his amusement of torturing flies. 
 
 Prithee, Emperor, be quiet ! — rather, on this occa-
 
 sion, if you have one drop of humanity left in your 
 ink-bottle, dip your pen into it: write one kindly 
 recommendation, (don't puff!) on the subject of a 
 poor fellow who is now no more. Tea*- me piece- 
 meal, if you please ; — I am used to it: — but serve, as 
 far as you honestly can, the cause of an unhappy 
 widow, whose situation I am, now, to explain. 
 
 In detailing the misfortunes of Mrs. Palmer, 
 something must be premised relative to her lute hus- 
 band, and his deceased father. 
 
 John Palmer, senior, was so well known to almost 
 all the present frequenters of English theatrf**, and 
 his memory so fresh on record among those who ne- 
 ver beheld him, that it would be tedious to enume- 
 rate the merits which raised him to that celebrity, 
 which he long, and justly deserved, from the publick. 
 
 No actor could be said more literally, or more aw- 
 fullyj to have died in the exercise of his profession ; 
 for, in August, 179S, he suddenly expired on the 
 stage, at Liverpool, while acting the principal cha- 
 racter in the play of the Stranger.. 
 
 He long had labour'd under pecuniary difficulties ; 
 and, shortly after his death, two Benefits were given, 
 (the first by the Hayraarket theatre, the second by. 
 the theatre in Drury-lane,) for the relief of his or- 
 phan children : — from the receipts of these Benefits,
 
 his son, John Palmer, neither was allow'd, nor had a 
 thought of claiming, any emolument : — for he had 
 then an ostensible occupation, having been on the 
 stage since the 20th June, 1791' 
 
 He made his first appearance, when a mere strip- 
 ling, in the Haymarket theatre, under the auspices 
 of his father, (during the second season of my ma- 
 nagement there,) in the character of the Prince of 
 Wales, in the First Part of Henry the Fourth :— his 
 father acted FalstafF. 
 
 Profits, which cannot be participated, may, often, 
 be wanted ; and young John Palmer, at his father's 
 decease, was (and always was, alas !) too much in 
 need of them. Young as he was, he had been mar- 
 ried, for some time, to the lady who is now his widow : 
 their support depended on his own exertions ; and, 
 although he possess'd many theatrical qualifications, 
 and improved from year to year, he never evinced 
 the superior abilities of his father : but he had, surely, 
 rery sufficient merit to have obtain'd him a respec- 
 table situation in the winter theatres ; which (I know 
 not why) he never procured. His own capabilities, 
 and punctuality in his business, in addition to a cer- 
 tain esprit dii corps felt by his employer, in refe- 
 rence to his father, insured him a regular summer 
 engagement in the Haymarket, from his first appear- 
 ance there, till his death. I wish, for the sake of 
 his widow, the same esprit had manifested itself 
 in Drury-lane, where his father so long flou- 
 rish'd. 
 
 Be this as it may ;— he received, unavoidably, a
 
 XX 
 
 small salary in the Haymavket, for several seasons, 
 and never a comparatively largeone : — and for the re- 
 maining eight, generally nine, long months, he acted 
 where he could, in provincial theatres, to support 
 himself, and his wife. 
 
 This " skirring the country,''^ for theatrical bread, 
 when an actor is not a London Hero, is (to say the 
 least of it) very unprofitable ; and (to say the most 
 of it) keeps body and soul , together : — but, poor 
 fellow ! he had another body to preserve, beside hi^ 
 own, almost as dear to him as his own soul, and that 
 "was his wife : — an excellent wife; but, unfortunately, 
 of extreme ill health, a prey to the chronick torments 
 of gout, and rheumatism ; — whom he was to clothe, 
 to feed, to nurse, nay, even sometimes to carry in his 
 arms, when accidents occurred on the road, in their 
 travels, which, although expensive to them, were 
 not always, of course, the most commodious : — and 
 all this from the little stipend his labours could raise 
 from theatrical mockeries, while his bosom heaved 
 with domestick anguish ! 
 
 This is a gloomy part of a sketch from nature ; but 
 I can only quit it to deviate from one dark tint to 
 another, and give melancholy it's varieties. 
 
 The younger Palmer appears to have possess'd 
 much spirit, and little pbilosopliy, to encounter the 
 buffets of fortune. He resisted present evils by an 
 impetuous movement ; but he opposed them with no 
 sedate plan, (perhaps it was out* of his power,) to 
 prevent their recurrence : — a case too frequent among 
 men of ardent minds, who, from want of system in
 
 the beginning of their persuits, have plunged them- 
 selves into an intricate warfare with Distress. Suc- 
 cessful only in skirmishes, they retreat from a pitch'd 
 battle with a foe who is overrunning their territory ; 
 and, hopeless of a radical cure, patch up the wounds 
 which, at length, become mortal. 
 
 The tenderest mutual affection, between husband 
 and wife, urged him to struggle hard against po- 
 verty, upon emergencies : — he travell'd from minor 
 town to town, after managers who would engage him; 
 he wrote novels for booksellers who would purchase, 
 or advance a few guineas upon them, in his need ; — 
 latterly, he labour'd to exist, more, I think, on account 
 of her he loved than for himself; and, in tugging 
 for life, the thread snapp'd: — I have every reason to 
 believe he died of a broken heart. 
 
 A fever was the immediate cause of his dissolution; 
 but circumstances, of which I am well inform'd, 
 tend to confirm my belief that agony of mind, if it 
 did not solely produce, fatally aggravated his bodily 
 disorder. 
 
 He died on the 27th of March, I8O9, at Plymouth 
 Dock ; in the theatre of which place he was, at that 
 time, engaged: he had completed the thirty-third 
 year of his age. 
 
 Who can be surprised that the efforts of this young 
 man, thrown upon the world as I have described, 
 were deficient in order ? From want of experience, 
 he had the misfortune to begin wrong in the game of 
 life : — it is difficult to recover blots. Hii greatest
 
 xxu 
 
 failings were errors, rather than vices; his virtues 
 would have been conspicuous, perhaps, in men of bet- 
 ter fortunes. 
 
 He was an attach'd and affectionate son, and bro- 
 ther ; and, in all his professional dealings, I never 
 heard any thing contradictory to that character of 
 probity, which he maintain'd towards rne, during his 
 periodical engagements in the Haymarket theatre. 
 
 In the latter part of his life, conjugal love appears 
 to have been the only sweet to qualify the bitters 
 which he was destined to drain ; and even this com- 
 fort produced misery, when coupled with the re- 
 flection that the death of the husband must leave the 
 wife utterly destitute. Fortunately, they had no 
 children : Providence did not encumber them with 
 those tender pledges of luckless endearment ; those 
 inflictive blessings, which aggravate the solicitous 
 distress of indigent wedlock. 
 
 On his demise, a benefit was given for the relief 
 of Mrs. Palmer, his widow, by the proprietors of the 
 theatre at Plymouth Dock : — the profits of which 
 little more than enabled her to procure decent inter- 
 ment for the deceased, to settle the debts which he 
 had, unavoidably, contracted on the spot, for immedi- 
 ate support, and to pay her passage, in the Plymouth 
 coach, to London. 
 
 When she arrived in the metropolis, (the only 
 place where she had any connexions, or the chance 
 of procuring further assistance,) her own slender 
 stock of wearing apparel, some few dresses and tri-
 
 XXlll 
 
 fling stage-properties of her late husband, and a 
 bank note of one pound, were all she possess'd in the 
 world. 
 
 From respect to the principal subject of this nar- 
 rative, I suppress various minute descriptions of a 
 penurj'^ which might excite deep commiseration ; 
 but I owe no delicacy to others, who, in the time of 
 her greatest need, and sorrow, ought to have afforded 
 some succour, and consolation. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer has no living relatives, but through 
 marriage. Her lodging, at Pimlico, in which she 
 lix'd on her first arrival in town, was wretched as 
 her finances, and within four or five minutes* walk 
 of her deceased husband's Uncle : he has no children, 
 and must certainly derive a respectable, though mo- 
 derate, income, from his publick profession. With 
 this gentleman, and the lady who is an inmate with 
 him, the deceased nephew, and his widow, were on 
 terms of amity ; nor was there any misunderstand- 
 ing between the parties, at the time of the nephew's 
 death. 
 
 These persons, well acquainted with Mrs. Palmer's 
 afflictions, apprised of her urgent necessities, and of 
 her vicinity to their dwelling, so far from yielding 
 the most trifling aid, abstain'd from offering, either 
 personally, by letter, or by message, the slightest 
 condolence, 'till she had found relief elsewhere. 
 
 Let us hope that, when her story was gaining pub- 
 licity, it was generous repentance, and not worldly 
 shame, which, at last, wrung from them some tokens 
 of compassionate service ; and which would have ap-
 
 XXIV 
 
 ircar'd with much better grace, had they been mani- 
 fested before the sufferer was rescued (not by rela- 
 tives) from the danger of perishing by famine. 
 
 It is incumbent upon me, though very irksome, to 
 state th€ above particulars, that I may account for 
 the deplorable situation to which Mrs. Palmer was 
 . reduced, in the first instance, after the loss of her 
 husband. — She is entirely ignorant of my intentions 
 to publish them. 
 
 The uncle's name is among the subscribers to the 
 Novel, with no sum annex'd to it, for reasons assign'd 
 at the end af the list« Thirteen other sub- 
 scribers, who, at his instance, humanely consented 
 to contribute, are under the same predicament. 
 
 The other relatives of the deceased Palmer were, 
 either, at too great a distance, or incapable of afford- 
 ing help : one sister, indeed, was thought to be in 
 affluence at the time; but an evident reverse in her 
 fortunes, which soon happened, made it probable that 
 the case was otherwise. 
 
 A younger brother, Edward Palmer, abroad, and 
 in the navy, on receiving the tidings of his sister-in- 
 law's embarrassments,occasion'dby his fraternal loss, 
 wrote to her,with all the kindly feelings of an English 
 sailor, proffering that pecuniary assistance which he 
 conjectured to be,but which was not,within his ability 
 to give. He had hopes that he might have a claim to 
 some money, lodged in a London banker's hands, and 
 sent her an authority to receive it ; but it proved that 
 he had not the power of drawing. His conduct does 
 honour to his heart, and it is gratifying to record it>
 
 After Mrs. Palmer had existed in her lodging (if 
 such it can be call'd !) for nearly a fortnight, the 
 extremity of her distress was fully explain'd * to a 
 lady, who is well known as a performer in the Lon- 
 don theatres : she visited the unfortunate individual, 
 with whom she was acquainted ; and, in three or four 
 days afterwards, brought her to the house where she 
 herself resides, requesting Mrs. Palmer to fix in it 
 till a plan could be resolved upon to raise her a sum, 
 which might, with the strictest ceconomy, produce 
 something like a subsistence. 
 
 But there was little hope. — Ii was, at length, re- 
 collected that, a year or two previously. Palmer had 
 left a manuscript (now printed in the following 
 sheets) with Mr. Earle, the bookseller; who with 
 more kindness of nature, than, in this instance, spe- 
 culation in business, had advanced fifteen guineas 
 upon it ; and the papers had rested thus long dor- 
 mant, upon his hands. 
 
 To be brief, the Novel was so fur in Mr. Earle's 
 possession, that it could not be publish'd for the 
 benefit of the widow without his consent. An ap- 
 plication was made to him on the subject : he agreed 
 to it with the utmost readiness ; and has, further, 
 
 * Explain'd by Mr, Fawcett, on whom Mrs. Palmer had 
 oall'd during her severest trials, and (of course) received a tem- 
 porary assistance. Ke, afterwards, was zealous in promoting 
 subscriptions (which appear in the list) at Covent Garden 
 theatre. Fawcett possesses a regulated benevolence, amon» 
 many other excellent qualities in a man whom I am alwav« 
 happy to have an opportunity of mentioning as my friend. 
 
 Vol, L b
 
 XXV r 
 
 indicated his humanity, by assurances of every pro- 
 fessional assistance in his power, — relative to arrange- 
 ments with the printer, on those points which may 
 be most beneficial to the widow's interests ; to dis- 
 persing it as profitably as possible among the trade ; 
 and to recommending it to the patronage of his nu- 
 merous customers. 
 
 When this plan was arranged, proposals for sub- 
 scription were printed; a short extract from which 
 will save the tediousness of detail. 
 
 *' Reduced by lingering, painful, and severe ill- 
 *' ness, which precludes any hope of future exertion 
 '* in her own support; deeply afflicted by the loss of 
 *' an affectionate husband, to whom she was a truly 
 " attached, and affectionate wife : the proposed sub- 
 " scription, though it cannot remove ill health and 
 '• sorrow, will alleviate her pecuniary difficulties, and 
 */ prevent absolute impending want^ 
 
 Several months had elapsed before the proposals 
 were sent forth; during which time Mrs. Palmer 
 remain'd under the roof of the person above men- 
 tion'd, and was, for nearly one-half of it, confined to 
 her bed, by sickness. 
 
 Not long after the proposals were extant she re- 
 tired from this abode, to an apartment which she 
 could call her own: through various delays, the 
 Novel has been in preparation for more than a year ; 
 and, as subscriptions casually came in, Mrs. Palmer 
 has existed upon them ; so that, now the book ap- 
 pears, much of the means which have arissen from 
 those who have contributed are exhausted : and she
 
 must soon again be reduced to want, if the particu- 
 lars which I have attempted to enumerate do not im- 
 press my readers (and how few read the Preface to a 
 Novel !) with compassion, still to give a mite to 
 
 THE WIDOW ! 
 
 Her gratitude, she requests me to say, towards 
 those whose generosity has already relieved her, 
 is heart-felt and unbounded. 
 
 Further subscriptions are most earnestly entreated; 
 and will be received by Messrs. Hodsall, Stirling, 
 and Co. bankers, No. 345, near Catharine-street, in 
 the Strand ; by Mr. Earle, bookseller, Albemarle- 
 street, Piccadilly ; and, most thankfully, by 
 
 George Cowman, the Younger, 
 
 Jpril 10, 1811.
 
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 Earl of Craven 
 
 Hon. Berkeley Craven 
 
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 XXXI 
 
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 Earl of ]Mountnorris 
 
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 Col. MacMahon 
 
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 Mis. Mathews 
 
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 subscriptions have not been received.
 
 LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Now the hungry lion roars. 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon: 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores. 
 
 All with weary task fore-done. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow, 
 
 "V^Tiilst the scritch-owl, scritcbing loMd, 
 Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night, 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide, 
 Ev'ry one lets forth his spright, 
 
 la the church-way paths to gl'de. 
 
 A Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 In a retired part of Lancashire, at no 
 great distance from the sea-shore, old Ear- 
 naby Treadaway possess'd a small cot= 
 tage, and a wife as good, and as old, as him- 
 self. They were the children of simplicity^, 
 and good nature. 
 
 Barnaby and Susan lived upon goo-l terms 
 with each other, and with the world in ge- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 
 
 neral, so far as they were acquainted with 
 it; their knowledge of which was confin- 
 ed to the petty circumference of some ten 
 miles, (of which their own dvvelHng, in the 
 village of Oakendale, formed the centre) and 
 beyond which they had never wander'd. 
 
 But, though her local situation had been 
 thus contracted, Susan was a prodigious 
 traveller.... m books. She had once taught 
 " the village fry'' to read ; but, on her mar- 
 riage with Barnaby, he told her, she must 
 leave off attending to other folk's children, 
 and learn to take care of her ow?i, as it was 
 likely they might have a large family. 
 
 " Do'ee think so, really and truly, Bar- 
 ny?" said the wife, with more than a half 
 smile. " Ecod ! with all my heart ; the 
 more the merrier !'* 
 
 In this case, however. Master Treadaway 
 (as many a v\iser man has done) had reck- 
 oned without his host ; for, at the period this 
 history commences, both lie and his wife had 
 past their fiftieth year, 
 
 " And that 's no time for capering !'* 
 
 nor had Providence, hitherto, blest the good
 
 man's honest endeavours; of which he was 
 frequently reminded by his better half, who 
 told him, that ^^ promises and pie-crusts 
 were made to be broken." 
 
 Dame Susan, as before mention' d, was a 
 very great reader; every publication that 
 she could beg, or borrow, (from '' Paradise 
 Lost," to '' Death and the Lady") under- 
 went her perusal ; but, most especially, she 
 delighted in a ghost story, and would listen, 
 with transport, to the tales of times long 
 past, when, as we are told, 
 
 " Spirits of health, and goblins damn'd,'* 
 
 took their nocturnal rambles, with all the 
 sangfroidy and punctuality of a Bond-Street 
 lounger. By constant practice she became 
 so strongly tinctured with superstition, that 
 she w^ould not have cross' d the village 
 church-yard, after dusk, for the world ; and 
 a coffm from the fire, a winding-sheet in the 
 candle, or a spider in the wall, were suffici- 
 ent to deprive her of a night's rest. 
 
 Be it known, however, that Susan was too 
 good a wife to wish for any pleasure, in 
 b2
 
 4 
 
 which her husband did not come in for his 
 share, nor would she monopohse the satis- 
 faction, even, of reading; she, therefore, on 
 his return from his daily occupations, usu- 
 ally entertairi'd him with some very marvel- 
 lous work, which she read with the nasal, 
 and monotonous, tone of a parish- clerk, 
 when giving out the psalms. 
 
 One evening, she met him at the door, 
 with a volume in her hand, and an expres- 
 sion of great satisfaction in her countenance. 
 *^ Oh ! Barny !" she cried, '' I be mortalwus 
 glad ye be come. What clo'ee think I ha' 
 got?" 
 
 " Why, I do know, well enowy what thee 
 ha* got," replied he. 
 
 " But, I telFee, thee dost not. I ha' got- 
 ten sick a book from Patty Pearmain, who 
 ha' brought it all the way from Liuumn ; it 
 be call'd ^"^ The Castle oi'Some'at,'' and shows 
 how a poor boy were cri'sh'd all to shivers 
 by a big tub kivered all o'er wi' black fea- 
 thers, and the loike of that there." 
 
 '' Dang it, dame ! thee beest feather-headed 
 1 do fancy," said her husband. "- Kill'd 
 wi' a tub, kivered all wi' black feathers ?
 
 That mun a been a tub of tar, I take 
 
 "Yes/' rejoined Susan, " they do call it a 
 cask*: but, come, let 's get a morsel of sup- 
 per, and you shall hear all about it." 
 
 Having dispatched this weighhj business, 
 and old Treadaway having stuck himself be- 
 hind half a yard of clay, whence the smoke 
 issued in volumes, Susan wiped her specta- 
 cles, and began the excellent romance, of 
 ** The Castle of Otranto ;'' and, as she read, 
 Barnaby, (who was as timid and superstiti- 
 ous as his helpmate, though he generally 
 strove to rally his spirits, and, by rating his 
 wife for her fears, sought to conceal his own) 
 Barnaby, I say, cast many a suspicious 
 glance around the room, dreading to encoun- 
 ter " the nodding plume," or '^ gigantic 
 \eg;'' and when she came to the passage 
 where the portrait of Alfonso quits the can- 
 vas, Susan leer'd at a print of the bald- 
 headed Duke of Cumberland, (suspended 
 over the chimney-piece) with as much ter- 
 
 ♦ A casque.
 
 ror as any poor Highlander ever experienced 
 at sight of him, and, inwardly blest her 
 stars, that he, and his black charger, were 
 stationary. 
 
 Once had the portentous cinder bounced 
 from the fire, and twice had Susan dipt large 
 letters from the solitary taper — the wind 
 howFd over the neighbouring heath, and the 
 church-clock struck twelve ; nevertheless, 
 spite of the terrors w^hich the tale had in- 
 spired, so much were they interested in it, 
 that they made up their minds to conclude 
 it, before they retired for the night. They, 
 accordingly, drew their chairs a few inches 
 nearer to the hearth, and had proceeded to 
 that horrific incident, where the hermit lifts 
 up his cowl, and exhibits the fleshless jaws 
 of a skeleton, when (even at that awful pe- 
 riod) a deep sepulchral voice, in a lengthen'd 
 tone, cried, '' Hoi — lo !" 
 
 The good man happen'd to be moistening 
 his mouth with a draught of beer, and, sans 
 cerhnonie, discharged the whole, full, in his 
 wife*s face, who threw away the book, and 
 scream'd aloud.
 
 '* Lord ha* mercy on us !" cried she, hitch- 
 ing her chair closer to her husband's, *' what 
 were that noise?" 
 
 "Tha....tha....that! wha....wha....what?'* 
 demanded he, his eyes glaring, and his 
 cheeks as pale as the walls of his own cot- 
 tage. '' I didn t hear no.... thing, at all. 
 "What a dickins /z<3!* scared thee so? — Wha 
 ....what be thee so devilishly froighten'd 
 at?" 
 
 " AI....m....me! bless thy soul! I ben't 
 froightend a bit, to speak of — but don't 'ee 
 talk of the devil, when he may be at your 
 elbow." (The voice was repeated, with a 
 loud knocking at the door). " Goodness 
 seave us ! there it be, again ! — Oh ! Barny ! 
 Barny ! this do come of your throwing down 
 salt, at dinner-time; and, I do declare, I 
 I dreamt I were married to old Digdeep, 
 the sexton, last night, a sure sign o' mischief, 
 Barny." — (The noise was, now, louder than 
 before). '' Oh ! I shall/o/?z^.' I shall Joint I 
 I sh^W foint I'' concluded the old woman. 
 
 The door was instantly burst open : Su- 
 san was sitting with her back towards it, 
 and, the apartment not being very spacious,
 
 8 
 
 she was pitch' d forwards against the table^ 
 which came in contact with her husband's 
 stomach, (a very corpulent one, by the bye) 
 and stretch'd him, at full length, upon the 
 floor ; a large pot full of porridge stood be- 
 hind him, in a corner, into which went his 
 head, and the vessel adhered to it, so that 
 he arose, ornamented with this crown, the 
 drops of which 
 
 ** Coursed one another down his innocent nose, 
 ** In piteous chase"— 
 
 time enough to behold two men, arm'd with 
 pistols, and their faces concealed with 
 crapes. 
 
 " Oh! the devil! the devil!'* vociferated 
 the affrighted pair. 
 
 " Avast!'' cried one of the strangers, in a 
 hoarse voice, " where sits the wind now ? — 
 The devil f — What, are you afraid of going 
 to him, before your time, that you kick up 
 such a breeze? — But, stir; swab the spray 
 from your bows, (for you both seem to have 
 been turning to windward) give us a can of 
 beer, for 'tis a thundering cold night, and 
 then we '11 overhaul our dispatches.'*
 
 9 
 
 The owners of the cottage looked at eacb 
 other, as much as to say, '^ Shall we give 
 them the beer? and, if we do, who is to go- 
 and draw it ? for I won't.'* 
 
 *' Come, come, don't be yawing yom: 
 eyes about, like a boat without a rudder,'* 
 resumed the speaker; " but bear a hand, 
 and stretch along the beer- halliards.'* 
 
 The beer was brought, of which they each 
 took a hearty draught, (or, as one of them 
 term'd it, " a long pulV ) and then order'd 
 Barnaby to put on his great coat, for he 
 had a bit of a coasting voyage to make with 
 them. 
 
 The old man hesitated. 
 
 '' There's no time for playing the fool,'* 
 said one of the ruffians, for Blue Peter ^ is 
 flying at the mizen, old one ; so wrap your- 
 self up warm, for it blows great guns. Do 
 as I bid you, and that quickly," presenting 
 his pistol. Treadaway rightly judged that 
 opposition would be fruitless, and obey'd.. 
 
 * An ensign, hoisted at the naizen-topraast-head of 
 a kind's ship, when about to weiiih anchor, as a sig- 
 nal for such of the crew, as may be on shore, to repair. 
 en board. .
 
 10 
 
 " We will first secure this old porpoise 
 in petticoats/' observed one of tlie men ; 
 '' Have you got a rope's end about you, 
 Dick ?'' C' He will have one about his neck, 
 before 'tis long !" thought Barnaby) "and 
 the bolt, to gag the grey-headed mermaid ?" 
 
 " Gag me ?" cried Susan. " I'd have you 
 to know".... 
 
 *' Belay!" interrupted the stranger: '^I 
 do know, that, when the anchor of a wo- 
 man's tongue is once atrip, 'tis soon cat- 
 headed, and she gets her jawing tacks 
 aboard, in no time, or less. But, as that 
 does not fall in with our convenience, we 
 shall haul in the slack of your mouth, and 
 moor your red-rag, fore and aft, as snug as 
 an hospital-ship. Lend a hand, Dick, and 
 we '11 make her crazy hulk fast to this ring- 
 bolt, in the wall." 
 
 "Oh ! I shall foint! I shall foijitr' cried 
 the old woman ; v;ho, like her betters, was in 
 the habit of threatening so to do. 
 
 " Faint, and be damn'd!" growl'd one of 
 the brutes : we '11 soon bring you to your- 
 self, as we do sleepy lubbers, in the mid- 
 watch. But, let 's lose no time.''
 
 11 
 
 They succeeded, niaugre her struggles, 
 in fixing the gag in her mouth, as well as 
 in binding her to the wall, (her husband 
 gazing, with intolerable anguish, on that 
 which he had not power to prevent), and 
 swore, with a tremendous oath, if she were 
 not in the same situation when they re- 
 turn'd, they would blow her brains out, if 
 she had an}-. They then wish'd her a 
 pleasant spell of it, lock'd the door, pock- 
 eted the key, and, with poor Barnaby, pro- 
 ceeded towards the sea-shore^ each holding 
 a pistol to his head, and swearing to fire, if 
 he attempted to give the least alarm ; in 
 which situation they reach'd the beach, 
 embark'd in a boat which was waiting for 
 them, and row'd off to a cutter, at a small 
 distance from the coast. 
 
 On deck, they were ace jsted by a person, 
 whose figure and address bespoke him of a 
 superior rank; but whose countenance, like 
 those of all the others, was conceal'd. In 
 an imperious tone, he commanded Barna- 
 by to follow him, and led the way to the 
 cabin, where was great abundance of re- 
 freshments, of which the countrvman was
 
 u 
 
 desired to take any part ; but, his terrors 
 were too acute to allow him to swallow any 
 thing, except a glass of brandy, which, hap^ 
 ly, kept life in him. 
 
 The stranger, then, addressed him to the 
 following effect, whilst the poor fellow's 
 teeth chatterM as though he had been swalr 
 lowing jnow-balls. 
 
 " Shake off your idle fears;, you have no- 
 thing to apprehend, provided you implicitly 
 observe the instruction I am about to give 
 you. Listen, dolt ! and leave trembling.'* 
 
 '^ I wish trembhng would leave me 1" 
 mutter'd Barnaby. 
 
 *' There is an infant in this vessel,*' re- 
 sumed the stranger, '^ which, for reasons that 
 I need not mention, I mean to place under 
 th6 care of yourself and wife^ and, be satis^ 
 fied, you will be no losers by the charge. 
 See that you rear it as the orphan of some 
 relative, or friend; and, as you value your 
 happiness, nay life! dare not to breathe a 
 syllable (but to your wife) of the transac- 
 tions of this night; rather> if possible, blot it 
 from your own remembrance, and bury it in 
 oblivion. Before you leave me, yon must
 
 13 
 
 swear never to divulge; (I have heard your 
 character, and do not fear to trust to your 
 oath — for you are what is term'd a conscien- 
 tioiis man); but, if you violate your vow, 
 no less than death awaits you. Think not 
 that I speak vaguely : though far , distant, 
 myself, you will be surrounded by spies, 
 whose vigilance you cannot elude; for were 
 you to fly far as India's burning sands, like 
 blood- hounds, they would follow at your 
 heels. Call the boy Philip; his other ap- 
 .p.ellation I leave to yourself; bat, be sure 
 you rear him after such a manner, that he 
 shall have no cause to suspect himself bet- 
 ter born than you are." A Bible was pro- 
 duced, on which Barnaby laid his trembling 
 hand, and repeated the words pronounced 
 by the stranger; he bound himself never 
 to divulge the means by which the in- 
 fant came into his possession; and conclud- 
 ed by pressing the sacred volume to his lips. 
 The babe was then placed in his arms, to- 
 gether with a bundle, and a leathern bag, 
 which, he was told, contain'd two hundred 
 guineas; this information was a cordial to 
 the drooping spirits of felie countryman, and
 
 14 
 
 he was on tlie point of departing, when a 
 loud scream was heard, and a woman rush'd 
 into the cabin — her hair dishevel'd, her 
 looks wild, and her clothes torn and dirty. 
 She threw her eyes, anxiously, around, and 
 seeing the child, snatch'd it from Barnaby, 
 clasp'd it to her bosom, and fell, in a faint- 
 ing fit, upon the floor. 
 
 " Who suffered this maniac to come hi- 
 ther?" demanded the superior, in n voice 
 like thunder. " Tear the brat from her, and 
 take her away.'* 
 
 The crew endeavour'd to force the boy 
 from her, but in vain ; the poor wretch's 
 arms were convidsively clasp'd around him, 
 and caused him to scream loudly. 
 
 '' Fiends of destruction ! why am I not 
 obey'd?" demanded their chief. 
 
 '' We can't separate 'em, your honor, 
 without hurting the boy — the vv^oman grap- 
 ples him so fast," said one. 
 
 '' What is that to me ? Yvliat care I, if the 
 brat be strangled? — I am a soft fool to spare 
 it. Tear them asunder, instantly, or let 
 them be thrown into the sea, together !" 
 
 With difficulty, they extricated the child.
 
 15 
 
 and restored him to the countryman's arms, 
 at the same moment that the woman open'd 
 her languid eyes, and besought them not 
 to take him from her. " Let me," said 
 she, in a faint accent, and endeavouring 
 to raise herself on her knees, " let me go 
 with him. — I will not breathe a word — I 
 will be as mute as death — but do not sepa- 
 rate me from the son of my beloved.'* 
 
 The inhuman w^'etch, w ho had given his 
 instructions to Barnaby, cramm'd a hand- 
 kerchief into her mouth, at these w^ords, and 
 cut the thread of her discourse; and two of 
 his myrmidons bore her from the cabin. — 
 Old Treadaway, then, took his leave, glad 
 to turn his back on such a scene ; the boat 
 re-convey'd him to the shore, and, without 
 repining at his burthen, (particularly the 
 leathern bag) he jogg'd home as fast as 
 he could. 
 
 When Susan beheld her husband, she 
 mightily rejoiced, and welcomed him home 
 a thousand times ; and, w ben she was re- 
 leased, she did not forget to inquire what 
 had happen'd to him, during his absence. 
 
 '« Happen'd!** repeated her good man.
 
 16 
 
 pausing to take breath, and with an air bor- 
 dering on contempt; — " Talk of g/iostesscs f 
 all the knights that ever went on arrantSy 
 (aye, or even their betters, their squires y to 
 boot) ne'er met ivV hike of what I ha\ sin'' I 
 seen thee.'* 
 
 " Why, thee ha'' na seen a ghost ?'* inquir- 
 ed the dame eagerly. 
 
 " Noa; but I ha" seen the devil, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 Susan took this speech in it's literal sense, 
 and began to tremble ; when her attention 
 was engaged by the sight of the infant. 
 
 '^ Heyday ! what ha' thee got here. Bar- 
 ny?" said she. '^ As I do hve, it be a 
 child ! and a sweet babe it be, too. Where 
 do un come from ? " 
 
 Sit thee down, and I'll tell thee all about 
 un: but, first, fetch me a mug of beer — for 
 I be mortal dry, and as cold as any thing." 
 
 Su«an obey'd him with alacrity, for she 
 had her share of that curiosity so justly at- 
 tributed to her sex, in general : she placed 
 herself opposite her good man, took the 
 child, and kiss'd it, while he imparted to 
 her that with which the reader itJ already
 
 acquainted ; and, at the conclusion, she re- 
 peated her caresses, protesting the sweet 
 creature should never want half a roll, while 
 she had a whole one. 
 
 " Stop thy foolish tongue!*' cried her 
 husband j who, to say truth, though a very 
 good sort of man, did not regard gold with 
 the indifference of a philosopher^ but, ra- 
 ther, as the Persian eyes the rising of the 
 sun. He emptied the contents of the bag 
 upon the table, and continued — '' Look^ee 
 here! here be that will make the pot boil, 
 Sue." 
 
 Dame Treadaway's eyes glisten'd at the 
 first sight of the gold, (such is the resistless 
 influence of that metal) but her husband's 
 last words caused her to withdraw them. 
 " For us?" said she. " Aye," replied he, 
 rubbing his hands," we shall ha' plenty to 
 pay for bringing him up, you do see." 
 
 '* Too much, Barny ; we ought only (if 
 we do teake any) to teake as much as will 
 pay board for the poor creatur. Make pot 
 boil, indeed ! — Don tee make use of a brass 
 far din for ourselves — I should think the 
 meat would stick feast in my throat, when
 
 18 
 
 the price on't were teaken away from thie 
 helpless.'* 
 
 Treadaway made no reply, but by a very 
 significant shake of the head — as much as 
 to say, " I am not fool enough to follow thy 
 advice." — His wife read his determination — 
 
 *' She saw Othello's mind in his visage,^^ 
 
 and prudently gave up the point; and, as it 
 was now verging toward morning, she wrapt 
 the little boy in his night-gown, put him 
 into bed, and, with her husband, retired to 
 rest; observing — '' It was lucky for some 
 people, who could get children with so hitle 
 trouble!"
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER. II. 
 
 Gravity is a mysterious carriage of the fcodt/, invented to cover 
 the defects of the mind, 
 
 RoCHEFOUCAUtT. 
 
 In obedience . to the order her had received 
 on board the vessel, old Treadaway intro- 
 duced his young charge (about six months 
 old) in the village of Oakendale, as the or- 
 phan son of a sister of his own, lately de- 
 ceased, and caird him Philip Travers. 
 
 At ten years of age, the said Philip was a 
 remarkably fine, blutf boy, with an open 
 countenance, and dark-brown hair; but, so 
 prone to mischief, that his supposed aunt 
 declared, '•' it was beyond her to manage 
 him — he was a nineted one.'* Nor did she 
 complain Vvithout good ground: when he 
 had no other method of amusing himself, he
 
 so 
 
 would sweep down the dame's well-ranged 
 crockery ware, from off the chimney-piece, 
 cut the good man's casting nets to pieces, 
 grease the old woman's spectacles, or, (on 
 any particular occasion) if he could get pos- 
 session of her huswife, would stick the seat 
 of her chair full of needles. 
 
 Susan (who could boast no greater share 
 of patience than the rest of her sex) serious- 
 ly, though unwillingly, told her husband, 
 she could no longer execute her domestic 
 duties, unless Philip were removed from 
 home, during some few hours in the day, 
 and proposed to send him to a day-school; 
 which proposal was readily acceded to by 
 Barnaby; and, the following week, he es- 
 corted him to the house of Mr. Dennis 
 O* Demagogue. 
 
 The aforesaid Mr. Dennis was as arbitrary 
 and tyrannical, in his way, as any Otto- 
 man Prince that ever sway'd the sceptre of 
 Turkey ; and as much hated and dreaded by 
 those who were subject to his control. He 
 was ignorant and cruel; supercilious to 
 those he thought beneath him, and as sub- 
 missive to his superiors; particularly, if lid
 
 21 
 
 had any point to carry, wherein their influ- 
 ence nii^ht b- nefit him. ^'They may laugh 
 at me as mvchthey plc^ase, for bowing," he 
 would say, to himself; ''but, if I rise by 
 stooping, they can't ?ay I have made any 
 very gi ear bully by my soul 1" His person, 
 moreover, was ludicrous. Ke had a large 
 unmeiaiing countenance, spiteful eyes, over- 
 hung hy a mixture of thick red and grey 
 brows; a profusion of hair, of the same pie- 
 ball hue, grew from his nostrils, and his head 
 was adorn'd with an enormous bushy wig. 
 He was extr^Aiely short and corpulent, with 
 one leg some inches shorter than the other, 
 wdiich gave him a shambling gait, and, to 
 remedy which, he wore a high shoe, or, as 
 it is vulgarly caird, a hox-^ron-heel. Added 
 to this, he had a inigJity big brogue , was a 
 pedant, and, altogethei, an object of ridi- 
 cule, rather than veneration, amongst his 
 pupils. 
 
 '^ This here be the young lad I told thee 
 on, Measter D amy our gag,'' said Barnaby. 
 
 " Well, and, I hope he is a good lad ; for, 
 upon my conscience ! he is not an ill-looking 
 one. — But, we should not judge from ap-
 
 2^ 
 
 pearance, before we have seen any thing of 
 a person, at all. Can you read, my lad ?'* 
 
 '' I don't know," replied Philip. 
 
 '' Not know ! — Arrah ! what do you main 
 by that?" 
 
 " I never tried." 
 
 '' Ne\^er tried ! upon my conscience ! that 
 is some raiwn. Don't you be quite so sharp 
 HI your answers, but learn to pay proper 
 rtfspect to your superiors. Go mto school, 
 and don't be giving me cause to reprehend 
 you, there, — or Doctor Birch will be after 
 making free with you, honey. '* 
 
 Barnaby shook the boy by the hand, and 
 (telling him it was his aunt's wish, as well 
 as his own, that he should attend to what his 
 master said, and did, and copy him, as 
 much as possible, in every thing) left him. 
 
 Away ran PhiUp to the school- room, 
 where he was quickly surrounded by the 
 pupils of old Demagogue; and, as he was 
 not of a very saturnine disposition, he began 
 to deliver his opinion of his new master, 
 very freely, accompanied by an excellent 
 imitation of his speech and manner; in which 
 he was mterrupted by the entrance of the
 
 23^ 
 
 object of his ridicule — when he concluded 
 with, '^ Oh ! here comes the little gentle- 
 man, under the cauUJioiver-zvig T^ 
 
 Mr. C Demagogue took his seat, gave 
 two or three hems, and, addressing himself 
 to his new scholar, said — '^ Come here, Mr. 
 Terrible; bring your book in your hand, 
 and let us see what we can do with the al- 
 phabet. — Arrah ! move a little quicker, 
 can't you ? — "Well, now, you see that letter, 
 that's for all the world like the gable-end of 
 your father's cabin, with a beam across the 
 middle of it — what letter is that ?" 
 
 '^ I don't know," said Philip. 
 
 ^' And why don't you know ?" 
 
 '* Because, I can't tell." 
 
 '' That is called A^ you see ; and A stands 
 for apple, or artickoke, or any other fruit of 
 that soit — mind that. — And what's that 
 next letter, that 's German-cousin tothe little 
 jout'em :n that hums about the gardens, in 
 his black bonnet, and yellow velvet breeches, 
 sipping tlie flowers, and carries a mighty 
 long sting in his tail?" 
 
 '' 1 don't know." 
 
 •' Don't know, again ? — That is called B;
 
 24 
 
 md B stands for bluhberlips. Arrah ! now, 
 don*t pout out your lips, in that way, but 
 draw in the selvage of your mouth, blow 
 your nose, and hold up your head, like a 
 man. 
 
 " That letter, which is like the sign of 
 the half-moon in full mournings where they 
 sell all kinds of spiritual liquors, is called 
 Cs and C stands for curate^ or Kitty ^ or cu- 
 cumber. 
 
 ^' The next — hodderation I don't be after 
 shooting the flies, on the ceiling, with your 
 eyes, sideways — but, squint, straight-for- 
 ward, at your book. — The next, that is hke 
 a pair of snuffers, with the handles broke off, 
 is called D; and D stands for dunce (och ! 
 why did not you learn to read, before you 
 came to school ? ) or any thing that begins 
 with it. 
 
 " His next door neighbour is called E; 
 which the English call E~E, as if there were 
 two of *em in partnership ; and E stands for 
 elephant or element^ or any thing, else, in 
 natural history. 
 
 '' The next, that looks for all the world 
 like a gibbet, with a plug in the middle, for
 
 25 
 
 the hangman to put his foot on, (heaven 
 keep your father's son from the hke on't !) — 
 can you tell what letter that is ? — Don't 
 know, again r — Bad luck to you ! — That is 
 called F; and i^, stands for Jidlei\ or physic 
 cian, or any thing of that sort. 
 
 *^ The next is what the carmen say to 
 their horses, when they want them to go fas- 
 ter — and that is called G; and G stands for 
 Giles, or gingerbread, or jockey, d'ye see? 
 
 '' Now, if any one should ask you, which 
 of your hands goes barefoot, for want of a 
 pair of gloves, you may tell 'em H; and // 
 stands for house, or hammer — at least, they 
 tell you so, though the devil of anj^ such let- 
 ter there is in the whole four and twenty. 
 
 " There, now, go, and knock that under 
 your skullcap; and, by and bye, I'll be af- 
 ter teaching you the other half — as we have 
 just finish'd a third. — Hubbuhboo ! come 
 back. — Where are your manners ? — ^lake 
 your bow, if you plaise — blow your nose, 
 once more. — Och ! by my soul I I'll never 
 be able to make a clergyman of you !" 
 
 To those who may, haply, marvel that 
 Philip had past the first ten years of his life 
 
 VOL. r. c
 
 26 
 
 under the eye of a woman, who had, herself, 
 been a schooUmistress, yet did not know his 
 alphabet, we have to observe, that he could 
 read, (possibly, as well as themselves) but, 
 disgusted with his preceptor, at first sight, 
 he had| form'd the very laudable design of 
 giving him all the trouble in his power. 
 
 His dislike to Mr. O' Demagogue, increas- 
 ed with every hour; nor could he reconcile 
 himself to the confinement, which the cus- 
 toms of the seminary necessarily exacted, 
 and all of which were extremely repugnant 
 to bis sentiments. Of the utility of learn- 
 ing he was, yet, too young to form a proper 
 estimate, and conceived it the achme of 
 cruelty to be forced to pore over his book, 
 when he might have been so much better 
 employed, at cricket, football, or prisoner's 
 base; and all this in compliance with the 
 commands of a tyrant, without whose per- 
 mission it was illegal to move from one part 
 of the room, to the other. The second day, 
 he wish'd the pedant at old Nick; the 
 third, he tore his book; the fourth, he blot- 
 ted those of others ; and the fifth, he went 
 home, full of indignation, and ask'd for his
 
 .27 
 
 tea, M ith the same brogue his tutor would 
 have done; and, on being ask'd by his aunt 
 what he meant by it, he made answer — 
 '' My uncle told me to notice every thing 
 my master did and said, and to copy him as 
 closely as I could ; so, as he splutters Irish 
 like the devil, I must do the same, I take it.'* 
 
 " Ungracious boy ! your ineastei^ can't 
 help it — it be his misfartiii, and ought not to 
 be mock'd,'' quoth Susan; "mocking be 
 catching, remember that.** 
 
 " Very well," said Philip ; "but, I sup- 
 pose, 1 must copy him in what he docs, 
 though not in what he says .^" 
 
 " Do'ee, do'ee: Mr. D amy our gag be too 
 good a mon to do any thing bad.*' 
 
 A few days after, dame Treadaway caught 
 her hopeful nephew thrashing a neighbour's 
 son, of about his own age ; and (as the bo}'- 
 called loudly for mercy) she interfered, and 
 insisted upon knowing what he meant b\^ 
 such behaviour. 
 
 " Master does the same,'' replied he, with 
 some sullenness. 
 
 ^' Your measter has cause, when he beats 
 any one, wicked urchin." 
 C 2
 
 2S 
 
 " So had I — I was anojry with Joe Skel- 
 lum, for behaving ill to Rachael Harr!yman> 
 (a cowardly dog !) and as master beats every 
 one he is angry with, I beat him.'* 
 
 "Indeed!'* cried Susan. '* Well, / he 
 angry with thee, and Til beat thee." 
 
 She kept her word ; and, at every blow he 
 sustained, he exclaim'd — " Very well, go 
 on ; but, if I am not even with Mr. O'Dema- 
 gogue, my name is not Philip !" 
 
 On the subsequent morning, he w^as ena- 
 bled to put a trick upon his master, for 
 w^hich he was chastised in a manner that 
 added fuel to the fire of his resentment, 
 and render' d him implacable. 
 
 Be it known, Mr. O'Demagogue had an 
 utter aversion to the letter ZT. On the above - 
 mention'd morning Philip was call'd up to 
 read ; and coming to the word honor, he as- 
 perated the H^ and called it honow '' Ho- 
 nor!" repeated the pedant; '^ what do you 
 mean by /zonor ? The word is pronounced 
 onour." — " Lord, sir," said the boy, ''does 
 not it begin with HF' — " What of that, 
 you istupid httle rascal! don't you know 
 that ZTis 720 letter?"
 
 29 
 
 O'DemagoQjiie, whose custom was to 
 breakfast in the school, and who never let 
 young Travers want employment, if he 
 could help it, gave him a muffin, and told 
 him to heat it. The boy took the cake, but 
 made better use of his time ; for when his mas- 
 ter caird to him, and ask'd, whether he had 
 done what he order'd him, with the muffin, 
 he said — " Yes, sir, I have done what you 
 order'd me, exactly ^ I have eat it." — ^' Eat 
 it }'' cried the enraged O'Demagogue. 
 *' You little, infernal villain 1 I told you to 
 heat it.*' 
 
 *' So you did, sir,'* replied Philip ; '' but, 
 you kno^v, you said — H ivas no letter /'*
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or nought, 
 
 Away went hat and wig ; 
 He little dreamt, when he set out, 
 
 Of running such a rig ! 
 
 COWPER-W 
 
 The leading trait, and one of the few ble- 
 mishes, in Philip's character, was an ex- 
 treme warmth of temper, which, ultimately, 
 was the cause of much inquietude to him. 
 He could not, even from infancy, brook the 
 slightest shadow of an insult, without re- 
 sentment ; but that resentment once evinc- 
 ed, the offence was effaced from his me- 
 ji^ory — save where Mr. O' Demagogue was 
 concerned ; towards him tlie youth was in- 
 exorable, and the flogging he received, for 
 concurring in opinion with his master ftJiat
 
 51 
 
 // zvas no letter) was the ground- work of 
 as strong an inveteracy as ever subsisted be- 
 tween two human beings. 
 
 The day subsequent to the one just men- 
 tion'dj he tore a sheet of writing paper into 
 long strips, and roll'd them up in the form 
 of darts; these he discharged, with such 
 admirable dexterity, from between his fore* 
 fingers, at the very enormous wig of his pre- 
 ceptor, that the decorations of his caxon re- 
 sembled 
 
 ** Quills upon the fretful porcupine." 
 
 Being discovered, he underwent a second 
 castigation, and a much severer one than 
 the former; but which did not, by any 
 means, tend to lower his spirit : it is true, 
 he continued quiet for some months -, but, 
 no sooner was the winter set in, with a hard 
 frost, than a scheme, which he had long 
 had in contemplation, was put into effect, in 
 the following manner : — 
 
 The pedagogue had been- presented, by 
 the father of one of his pupils, (who was an 
 East- Indian) with a buffalo, on which he
 
 32 
 
 set great value ^ and which, from the re- 
 semblance his bushy frontlet, and excres- 
 cence between the shoulders, gave him to 
 his present owner, Philip called Dennis, 
 This animal had the run of a field, at the 
 back of the garden, and was to be one of 
 the engines of his plot. Philip scaled the 
 garden- wall, (at a time he knew himself ob- 
 served by his master) caught the buffalo, 
 and was galloping him, at a desperate rate, 
 over the turf, when O' Demagogue open'd 
 the gate. This was what the youth wish'd, 
 and expected : after a time, spent on his 
 part in exercising the animal, and on that 
 of his master in fruitless execrations, the 
 former dismounted, and made towards a 
 piece of water, which was frozen over, and, 
 leaping from the bank, gained the centre 
 of it, while his pursuer endeavoured to fol- 
 low by the only beaten way ; but (awful to 
 relate !) he had not taken above three steps, 
 when the treacherous ice gave way, and his 
 lower half was immersed in water, while the 
 upper part of him somewhat resembled the 
 ghost of Gaffe?' Thumb, when it appears to 
 the terrified King Arthur; and thus he re-
 
 33 
 
 maia'cl, without hat or wig, (for he had lost 
 them in the chace) grinning and chattering 
 like an angry baboon. 
 
 There Philip left him, exulting in his vic- 
 tory; for, be it known, he had contrived 
 to cut a sort of trap-door in the ice, (about a 
 yard from the only part of the margin that 
 was easy of access) through which, as he 
 had surmised, and has been seen, the ill- 
 starr'd wight made a descent, and crown'd 
 the scheme v.ith success, beyond the pro- 
 jector's most sanguine expectations. 
 
 The luckless object of his resentment hav- 
 iii2: extricated himself from his disa^^reeable 
 situation, though not without some diffi- 
 culty, returned to his house, shivering w ith 
 cold, and dripping wet, and rung for his 
 old housekeeper; to whom, having impart- 
 ed the nature of his disaster, he said — 
 '' Och ! Mrs. Deborah, I thought I w^as 
 going to the shades of Clint arf ! I 'm as 
 dead a man as ever I was in my life ! 
 thought I. Do, honey, make me a pint 
 of half and half, quite hot; put it into one- 
 mug, and be sure you don't mix it." 
 
 For the last harmless humor, Piiiiip was 
 C 6'
 
 o4 
 
 rewarded with another flagellation, which, 
 so far from curing him of his propensity to 
 mischief, augmented his inclination that 
 way — and involved his preceptor in fresh 
 trouble and humiliation. 
 
 He purchased a quantity of jalap, which 
 he found means to infuse into a mess of 
 milk-porridge (design'd for Mr. O' Dema- 
 gogue's breakfast) and which had such an 
 effect on the schoolmaster, that he moved 
 backward and forward, in and out of the 
 room, with much more velocity than he 
 had been accustomed to do, for some time. 
 And, here, Philip's good genius prevail'd; 
 for it was never known (save as far as 
 canjecture went) who had been the apo- 
 thecarx). 
 
 Though it must be allow'd that the scale 
 of retaliation turn'd in favor of our youthful 
 champion, his life was as intolerable to him 
 as to a galley-slave; and an event occur- 
 red, before he had been twelve months 
 under the jurisdiction of O'Demagogue, 
 which determined him no longer to submit 
 to his control, be the consequence what it 
 mirfit*
 
 35 
 
 On his return from afternoon-school, he 
 threw himself into a chair, and, after a 
 pause, made known his resolution, not to 
 return to O 'Demagogue's school any more.
 
 SG 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 No disguise can long conceal love where it is, nor feign it 
 \vhere it is not. 
 
 ROCHEFOUCAULT. 
 
 Four years roll'd away, without any mate- 
 rial change in the situation, or sentiments, 
 of Phihp, (who was now fifteen) when an 
 accident occurr'd, that eventually produced 
 a resolution in both, by removing him from 
 the humble walk of life, in which he had, 
 hitherto, moved, with much reluctance. 
 
 Near the village of Oakendale, lived Sir 
 James Proby, lord of the manor, justice of 
 the peace, and custos rotolorum; as worthy 
 a character as ever gain'd the esteem of his 
 fellow- creatures. By him, the needy va- 
 grant was never wantonly committed to a 
 loathsome prison, the child of poverty never
 
 37 
 
 left his arate uubefiiended, nor was the hum- 
 ble petitioner answer'd with the supercili- 
 ousness of pufT'd-np power. But, where he 
 ascertained a being worthy of punishment, 
 w^ithin his jurisdiction, that punishment was 
 made exemplary — whether the o])ject were 
 in an exalted or low station. In shorty he 
 was the friend of virtue, and the scourge of 
 vice ; the opponent of the wealthy tyrant, 
 the champion of the oppress'd poor ; the 
 aged bless'd Sir James Pro by, and even 
 children were taught to lisp his name with 
 gratitude. 
 
 Sir James was the son of a clergyman, 
 who, having a large family, and no inde- 
 pendent fortune, placed him, at an early 
 age, in the compting-house of an eminent 
 merchant, in the city of London. There 
 he soon recommended himself so strongl}', 
 by his application to business, and conci- 
 liating manners, that his patron tender VI 
 him the hand of his niece, and a moiety of 
 the concern. This offer was gratefully ac- 
 cepted by the .young man, (who had long 
 admired the modest demeanor of the 
 lady), and they were united, to the great
 
 58 
 
 joy of the old merchant ^ who died, soon 
 after seeing his wish accomplish'd, leaving 
 the bulk of his vast property to young 
 Proby. 
 
 He, after a few years, grew weary of 
 business, and retired to the village of Oak- 
 endale, where his father-in-law had pos- 
 sess'd the same estate ; but, previous to his 
 departure from the metropolis, he had been 
 created a baronet ; nor did he now quit his 
 present place of residence, save when his 
 parliamentary duty call'd him to town. He 
 had, not long since, followed an amiable 
 wife to her long home; whose loss he never 
 ceased to lament, and who left him one, 
 only, child — we wish we could say the in- 
 heritor of her virtues ! Elijah Proby was, 
 when even a boy, artful and designing, cow- 
 ardly, and insolent ; bullying those lads who 
 would submit to his imperious temper, and 
 busy in secretly vilifying such as opposed 
 him : yet, was he so consummate a hypo- 
 crite, that his fond father thought him en- 
 dow'd with every valuable quality the hu- 
 man heart can boast. 
 
 In Sir James's family was also included
 
 the dauglitcr of a deceased friend, to whom 
 he was guardian; a handsome and accom- 
 comi)lish'd young lad}^ free from the least 
 particle of pride, or affectation, and in the 
 possession of thirty other charms — each 
 worth one thousand pounds. 
 
 It was to the last PhiHp owed the sudden 
 and advantageous change in his situation, 
 which we have alreadj^ intimated. 
 
 His love for the daughter of Walter Har- 
 dy man, an honest yeoman of Oakendale, 
 was above what is usually felt at his years. 
 He was never so happy as w hen with Ra- 
 chel — would stroll with her into the fields 
 — steal his aunt*s books, to read to her — 
 sing scraps of old love-songs, always substi- 
 tuting her name for that of the heroine — 
 and had long since declared, he hked her 
 better than all the girls in the neighbour- 
 hood. It is true, they had their little bick- 
 erings — and what lovers are without them ? 
 Rachel would sometimes gently chide him 
 for neglecting his education, and having 
 refused to listen to the lessons of Mr. O'De- 
 magogue 3 and on these occasions only did
 
 40 
 
 lie exhibit the least spark of resentment to- 
 wards his Rachel. 
 
 '* You talk/' he would say, " and rea- 
 son, without knowing your ground, Ra- 
 chel. Old O'Demagogue is as ignorant of 
 the matter as I am — or can you think I 
 would have been so much my own enemy 
 as to have withdrawn myself from school ? 
 An overbearing fool I I have often, when I 
 have seen him thrash my school -fellows, 
 been on the point of proposing to flog him 
 — for he richly deserved it. You have fre- 
 quently heard me say, my mind zvas made 
 lip to have no more to do with him ; then 
 do not, my dear girl, dwell upon a subject 
 that is the only one we can diiferon. Leave 
 me to myself in this, and command me in 
 cwery future business of my life.'* 
 
 Thus abjured, she would kindly desist; 
 and her lover never ravish'd the enviable 
 kiss of reconciliation from her ruby lips, 
 without protesting he could never love an- 
 other. 
 
 Returning from an evening ramble with 
 his loved companion, (whom he just had left
 
 41 
 
 at her father's cottage) he saw a runaway 
 horse galloping along the road, at a furious 
 rate, towards him ; and, on it's nearer ap- 
 proach, perceived a young lady on the 
 back — who, in a voice of terror, cried 
 aloud for help. This was enough for Phi- 
 lip : he threw himself before the animal, 
 made a snatch at the bridle, and, by a 
 sudden jerk, not only check'd the velocity 
 of his motion, but turn'd him half round; 
 and, in the same instant, he received the 
 lady, fainting, in his arms. 
 
 He watch'd her with much care and so- 
 licitude till she revived, and, finding herself 
 in the arms of a stranger, gently released 
 herself from his support — while the modest 
 blush of the rose suffused that cheek, where, 
 lately, the lily vied. 
 
 '' I hope," said young Travers, with 
 energy that could not be mistaken for the 
 cold dictate of politeness, '' I sincerely 
 hope. Miss Stanhope has received no hurt ; 
 and bless my good fortune, that has given 
 me an opportunity of being serviceable to 
 her." 
 
 If the lady was, at a first glance, struck
 
 42 
 
 with the person of her preserver, her sur- 
 prise was no less excited on the dehvery of 
 the above speech, utter'd in a tone of feel- 
 ing, and with an air of elegance, that would 
 not have disgraced one accustom 'd to the 
 most polish'd circles — yet proceeding from 
 a youth attired in a coarse drab-frock, and 
 scarlet waistcoat j nor could she account 
 for his knowlege of her person — having 
 never, to her recollection, seen him till 
 then. 
 
 " I have sustain'd no inconvenience but 
 what has been the result of apprehension — 
 thanks to your bravery," said the young 
 lady. *« But, you look pale — I hope you 
 are not hurt?" 
 
 " But shghtly, I believe," replied Philip, 
 endeavouring to raise his left arm, which 
 now hung useless by his side. 
 
 '' Good God !" cried the fair one, in the 
 utmost alarm, '' your arm is broken !" 
 
 *' I trust not: but allow me to escort you 
 home, for the damps of evening begin to 
 fliU." 
 
 " Not for the world i" quoth she. " Ra- 
 ther, should you be conveyed home 3 fori
 
 A3 
 
 perceive you are in great pain. Where can 
 my servant be ? he stopp'd at a house in 
 the village, to deliver some orders from Sir 
 James; and (as my horse took across the 
 fields when he ran away with me) I suppose 
 he is gone along the road. However, I will 
 make the best of my way to the hall ; and 
 let me entreat that you, my generous deli- 
 verer, will get home, and procure some ad- 
 vice ', first, favoring me with your place of 
 abode, that I may, to-morrow, have an op- 
 portunity of repeating my thanks.'* 
 
 *^ Pardon me, madam, that I venture to 
 disobey your orders," said Philip ; '* but it 
 would ill become me to le^ive vou. I will 
 conduct you to the hall-gate, and there 
 take my leave." 
 
 She strenuously objected to this; but Phi- 
 lip (as v/as customary with him) was pe- 
 remptory, and drawing her arm through 
 his, with the bridle in the same hand, they 
 measured their way toward the hall. 
 
 At the gate they found the worthy owner, 
 -who, alarm'd at the servant's return with- 
 out his mistress, was about to start in quest 
 of her, and who welcomed her home with
 
 44 
 
 every expression of joy. She thank'd him, 
 and introduced her companion, as one who 
 had haply rescued her from death ; in doing 
 which, she much fear'd, he had fractured 
 his arm. Philip strove to make light of his 
 own accident, but the acute anguish he en- 
 dured discover'd itself in large drops, which 
 roll'd down his forehead, in his own de- 
 spight. 
 
 Sir James's humanity would not allow 
 him to depart till he had obtained chirurgi- 
 cal aid ; and, indeed, the agony was now 
 so intolerable, that he would hardly have 
 been able to have reach'd home ; he, there- 
 fore, complied with the baronet's request, 
 to remain there for the night; and a servant 
 was dispatch'd for a surgeon, as well as to 
 advertise the Treadaways of the misfortune 
 which had befallen their nephew. 
 
 The surgeon examined the arm^ and 
 found it to be a simple fracture — but, from 
 the pain his patient had endured, he disco- 
 ver'd a considerable degree of fever about 
 him. He gave him a composing draught, 
 and order'd him to be kept perfectly quiet 
 during the night. Soon after his departure.
 
 Dame Treadaway made her appearance, 
 and demanded to see her nephew. 
 
 " Oh! my poor boy!" cried the affec- 
 tionate old creature, '^ where be he? Let 
 me see un, or I '11 tear the eyes out on thee 
 all — that 's what I ivuliy 
 
 ^^ We cann't let vou see him, to-nidit, 
 good woman," said the housekeeper, *' be- 
 cause it is the doctor's strict order, that he 
 should not be disturb'd ; and nobody will 
 go near him till the morning, except an old 
 servant, who sits up with him, as nui*se." 
 
 " And why should not I be his nurse?'* 
 replied Susan, sharply. " It would not be 
 the first toime, I can tellee,'' 
 
 " Pray, be pacified ; come with me to 
 my own room, and refresh yourself, and call 
 again to-morrow.*' 
 
 " I ivoant, I zvoant, I tellee — so don't 
 think to come over me with yowv flim-Jl am s, 
 — I do want to see Philip — and 1 uiull see 
 
 wir 
 
 " What is the matter, my good dame?" 
 said Sir James, who, overhearing this con- 
 versation, then open'd the parlour-door. 
 
 " They want to keep me from my ne-
 
 46 
 
 phee, your honor," quoth Susan. '^ He hcC 
 broken his arm, they do tell me, and if ^^- 
 bc he c/o want a nurse, ivi submission, I do 
 think, that I be the proper person to wait 
 on un.^^ 
 
 " By all means. Show this poor soul to 
 the youth^s apartment, Mrs. Johnson," said 
 Sir James. " But let me request you will 
 keep a guard on your feelings before your 
 nephew, and not let him discover your un- 
 easiness ; for every thing depends on his be- 
 ing kept quiet." 
 
 '^ Never fear me. Heaven bless your 
 honor! heaven bless your honor!" cried 
 the old woman, curtseying to the ground, 
 before she follow'd the housekeeper; who 
 led her to the room where Philip lay, bu- 
 ried in sleep — from the effect of the opiate 
 he had swallow'd. 
 
 " You may go," said she to the domes- 
 tic, whom she found in waiting — ^' I he 
 come to tend on im — so don tee trouble 
 yoxw^Aino more about the matter. — There, 
 good night, both — good night to ee." 
 
 She scarcely gave them time to reply, 
 but hurried them out of the room, with so
 
 47 
 
 little ceremony, that Mrs. Johnson was quite 
 discomposed, and, on her reaching her own 
 room, was obliged to have recourse to the 
 contents of her corner- cupboard, to tranquil- 
 lise her spirits. 
 
 Phihp continued to slumber until some 
 hours after day- break, and being ask'd how 
 he now felt, he answered, that his corporeal 
 pain was great, and that his mind also was 
 ill at ease ; for that he had appointed to meet 
 Rachel Hardyman, that evening, and that 
 she might, ignorant of the injury he had 
 sustained, be punctual to the assignation, 
 and think she had reason to accuse him of 
 neglect ; or, should the report of his disaster 
 reach her, it would, most likely, be attended 
 with such circumstances of exaggeration, 
 as, almost constantly, accompany occur- 
 rences of a like nature. Such being his ap- 
 prehension, he begg'd his aunt to see Ra- 
 chel, and to state to her the real cause of 
 his absence." 
 
 '^ I do wish, with all my soul, thee 
 v/ouldst get tXmi there Rachel out on thy 
 noddle," quoth Susan. '' I tellce, once for 
 all, she be not a fit lass for thee,"
 
 48 
 
 *^^ Not fit!" repeated Philip, somewhat 
 piqued : '* there is not, in the whole coun- 
 ty, a better girl than herself: nor hardly so 
 good a one of her age — for she is only four- 
 teen next MY^dnesday.'* 
 
 '' I doant mean to say notJnng again her, 
 but she btnt well enow off for thee — thee 
 ought to look a little higher, lad.*' 
 
 '' Ah ! my dear aunt, your affection for 
 me runs away with you. What right have 
 I, a poor lad, without fortune — I won't 
 say friends — " (and he kiss'd his aunt's 
 hand) — '' what right have I to cast my eyes 
 higher?" 
 
 '^ Nonsense ! you don't know^ as much as 
 I do, or you would not talk so." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said he: '^ but I make 
 it my particsilar request, that you will bear 
 my excuses to Rachel." 
 
 " 1 11 do it," replied the old woman re- 
 luctantly ; but, in sooth, without any inten- 
 tion of fullilli'ig her undertaking; not that 
 she w^as prone to lying — but, in this in- 
 staiic|,v she thought the youth's interest at 
 siaktil She liad been accustom'd to consi- 
 der him as one descended from a superior 
 
 3^
 
 49 
 
 family ; and, though his boyisli tricks had, 
 sometimes, chased away those high-flown 
 thoughts, and she had even gone so far as 
 to chastise him, stitl, when her passion gave 
 way to reason, the idea of his exalted birth, 
 always recurr'd to her, and she look'd on 
 his future marriage, wnth the daughter of a 
 farmer, as -an act of great injastice to him- 
 self The reason v/e have stated proved a 
 bar to the delivery of Philip's message to 
 his love ; and the old woman consoled her- 
 self with the reflection — that, at most, it 
 was but a xvhite lie. 
 
 li love w^ere amusing himself with the 
 feelings of poor Travers, he was not idle in 
 the gentle bosom of Caroline Stanhope. The 
 resolution with which her deliverer had im- 
 peded the progress of her horse, had not 
 escaped her, even in the perilous situation 
 %vhence he had rescued her, and the con- 
 stancy with which he persevered in his ofr 
 fer of seeing her home (notwithstanding the 
 excruciating pain he must have suifer'd 
 from a broken limb) penetrated a heatt sus- 
 ceptible of every softer passion, and made a 
 
 VOL. h D
 
 50 
 
 more lasting impression there, than the 
 hurt he had received was hkely to leave on 
 his arm. So true it is, that nothing can 
 recomniend a man more strongly to the 
 good graces of the fair sex, than personal 
 courage and politeness. 
 
 " Lord !'* thought she, as she was un- 
 dressing, " I can't think what ails me to- 
 night ! I do, verily, believe I am bewitch'd 
 — I never was so melancholy in my life. 
 Ileigho!'' and she sigh'd aloud. 
 
 " Why do you sigh, miss?" said her 
 woman, who 'was attending. ^^ You have 
 no cause, I hope?" 
 
 *^ Indeed I have, Betty : I have been the 
 occasion of breaking the arm of a poor 
 youth, and, I believe, it is that which has 
 this effect upon me." 
 
 *' Dear ! how can you talk so, miss ? 'Tis 
 better he should have broke his arm, than 
 you your neck ; a doctor will soon set his 
 arm to rights, but I never heard of one that 
 had the knack of mending a broken neck." 
 
 " I would rather have endured any con- 
 sequence, than he should have suffered as
 
 51 
 
 he has done s and never shall I cease to up« 
 braid myself as the cause, though innocent- 
 ly, of his disaster.'* 
 
 " Never trust me, if you are not in love 
 with the lad, miss?'' ; 
 
 *' In love !" repeated Caroline, with un- 
 affected surprise: " What should I knoMr 
 of love?" 
 
 '' That's best known to yourself, miss» 
 You are of a very pretty age to be a jadge 
 of the passion. Let me see, you are just 
 sixteen, and the youth who has put your 
 little heart into such a flutter " 
 
 ^^ Nonsense, Betty!" interrupted Caro- 
 line. 
 
 *' Is about the same age, I take it — so 
 your situation is a very ticklish one. But, 
 have-a-care, miss^ this youngster, I know 
 who he is, is in love already." 
 
 Carohne turn'd pale. 
 
 " Nay, miss, don't be cast down,'* 
 persued the girl; '' for, though they do 
 say, his sweetheart is Farmer Hardyman's 
 daughter — what could they say, if he was 
 false to her, for the sake of such a beau° 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP U!iwnt<?
 
 52 
 
 tiful young lady as you are, and one so rich 
 too?" 
 
 *^ / say/* replied Miss Stanhope, " that 
 I should hate, as much as I now love — I 
 mean, respect him — could he be guilty of 
 such meanness/'
 
 CHAPTER \\ 
 
 Here's a simple change in a man's fortune f 
 
 COLMAK, THE YOCNGER. 
 
 Her name was Envie» knowen well thereby, 
 Whoes nature is to grieve, and grudge at all 
 That ever she sees doen praise-worthily.— 
 
 Spckser; 
 
 Sir James visited the invalid^ punctually, 
 during the few days he was confined ; and, 
 in that time, found his understanding so su- 
 perior to what he had expected to meet 
 with, in one of so low a station, that he 
 could not resist the impulse he felt, to give 
 him an opportunity of cultivating it ; and, 
 accordingly, invited him to spend some 
 time in the family ; where he would reap the 
 benefit of the instructions of young Proby*s 
 tutor. This liberal offer was as gratefully 
 embraced by young Travers, who was now 
 Gonsider'd as one of the baronet's family — 
 la the extreme satisfaction of Dame Tread-
 
 54 
 
 away j wlio, already, anticipated the day, 
 when she should see her adopted nephew 
 restored to his proper sphere. 
 
 The gentleman to whose care the forma- 
 tion of the minds and manners of the 
 youths were assigned, was one, every way, 
 competent to the important task. He was 
 a bachelor turned of sixty years of age ; and 
 the moral precepts he inculcated carried 
 certain conviction, when aided by the un- 
 affected dignity of the venerable speaker — 
 
 ** Truth from his lips, prevaii'd with double sway.** 
 
 He discovered, in Philip Travers, every 
 thing he could have wished a pupil to be. 
 He was no longer the same obstinate, sulky 
 boy, who had given O'Demagogue's birch 
 so much employment ; but, now, imbibed 
 the instructions of his worthy preceptor, 
 with as much facility as the lattei* could in- 
 stil them. 
 
 The praises which Mr. Heartwell (so was 
 the tutor calFd) lavished on Philip, in pre- 
 sence of Sir James, were wormwood to his 
 other pupil. He saw the progress his rival
 
 55 
 
 was making towards perfection, and his en- 
 vious mind was ever on the alert, to do him 
 some ill office ; but the result of his plans 
 was, generally, to the confusion and morti- 
 fication of the projector. 
 
 Fortunately for the good and virtuous, the 
 arrows of E^ivy often miss their aim ; or, 
 glancing from the impenetrable breast-plate 
 of truth, subvert the heart which discharged 
 them ! 
 
 Philip, whose disposition was as open and 
 liberal, as the other was contracted and en- 
 vious, paid no regard to the machinations of 
 his enemy. — As soon as he was able, he 
 took his ac customed walk to farmer Har- 
 dy man's cottage, hoping to see his dear Ra- 
 chel — but, alas ! no Rachel was there to 
 welcome him — and, he was told, she was 
 gone to London, for a few weeks. 
 
 He hasten'd to his uncle's residence, and 
 inquired, if she had left no message for him, 
 there, previous to her departure 3 and, being 
 replied to in the negative, he flung out of 
 the house (no less full of indignation than 
 disappointment) in such a manner, that old 
 Susan, who followed him to the door, ex-
 
 56 
 
 claiiiiM : *' Bless my soul ! I do tliink the 
 poor boy's brains be got out on their roight 
 pleacer 
 
 " Mighty well^ Miss Rachel !" said he^ 
 to himself, " mighty well, indeed ! to leave 
 the country, witlfout so much as a parting 
 remembrance ! — J had almost fretted my- 
 self dead, because my illness prevented my 
 seeing you ; while you, ungrateful girl ! — 
 But, why do I torment myself about her P—^' 
 She is not worth my care ^ and I '11 let her 
 see, henceforward, that my pride is as great,, 
 as my love has been sincere. From this 
 moment, I banish her from my mind, for. 
 ever!" 
 
 Spite of this stretch of his philosophy, 
 young Travers found a resolution of the 
 above sort more easily form'd, than carried 
 into effect 5 and, on the very evening of her 
 return home, his steps led him to her fa- 
 ther's cottage, whither he went for the ex- 
 press purpose of upbraiding her with her 
 unkindness,, and of bidding her an eternal, 
 adieu. 
 
 On raising the latch, he beheld her, alone, 
 contemplating a locket, and her eyes suf-
 
 fused with tears. — His anger instantly va-- 
 iiish'd, and he was about to accost her> 
 with all the tenderness of lon^-divided love, 
 when, seeing him, she hastily deposited the 
 locket in her bosom, and regarded him with 
 a disdainful look, while she ask'd bim the 
 purport of his visit. 
 
 " You cannot imagine, I am come Iq 
 overwhelm you w^ith thanks, for the manner 
 in which you left the countryy ' replied he j 
 "but to assure you, I will repay your neglect, 
 with the indifference it merits.'* 
 - **' Rather own, you are glad of an excuse 
 to palliate falsehood, and gratify ambition. — 
 I am no stranger to the conquest you have 
 madej and, as the youui^ lady, at Oakendale 
 Hall, doubtless, expects you, I beg you may 
 not lengthen your visit, on my account." 
 
 *^ This is a poor subterfuge, and unwor- 
 thy of you, Rachel; but, as I scorn to ask an 
 explanation, where I own no wrong, I take 
 ray leave, and you need not dread being, 
 agai?2, annoy'd by my presence. But, be- 
 fore 1 go, take back this relic of your de- 
 parted love, (your hair) w hich, for two years^. 
 I have worn next my heart. — You have re- 
 D5
 
 warded my constancy with such ingrati- 
 tude — that — that — it had better remain^ 
 where it has been so long ! — (and he put 
 it into his pockety again,) " But, remem- 
 ber; you will see me no more.'* 
 
 *' Stop, Sir/' cried Rachel; " as I have 
 lost your heart, 1 disdain to preserve any 
 memorial of what I, once, was dupe enough 
 to esteem it. — Here is your hair ; and, be- 
 lieve me, I return it with as much satisfac- 
 tion, as I received it." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew the locket from 
 her bosom, and took a lock of hair from 
 within, which she tender'd to Philip. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 *^ And do you return it with pleasure, 
 Rachel ?" said he, after a pause.' — " Can 
 you forget the time when you accepted it ? 
 — 1 never shall. — It was oa May- day — 
 we had been dancing together, (we shall 
 never dance together, again, Rachel !) 
 and, when I led you to the bench, looking 
 more lovely than the roses which grew a- 
 round you, I cut a love-lock from your 
 head, and placed it close to my heart. — 
 "^ Whi^t/' cried you, ^' do you mean to
 
 59 
 
 make me no return ?" — I, instanth', gave 
 ;\ou a lock of mine; and the blush of mo- 
 (Jesty, with a\ hich you took it, made me re- 
 gard you as a superior being, and myself as 
 the happiest fellow alive. — Then, don't 
 say, you feel ^ny satisfaction in giving it 
 back to me." 
 
 " ^ly feelings are of little consequence to 
 you, I believe ; however that may oe, I 
 now return it, and hope you will be more 
 sincere in your professions of future attach- 
 ment, than you have been to me ?" 
 
 *' Stubborn to the last!" exclaimed Phi- 
 lip; but, observing tears start in her eyes, 
 he exclaimed. My Rachel, do not cry : 
 you know my temper — I can't restrain it — 
 and you ought to make an allowance for it.'* 
 
 " Y^y what right am I, now, authorised 
 to criticise your conduct?" demanded the 
 maid, striving to smother her feelings. — 
 " That task devolves an your new conquest. 
 Miss Stanhope ; and, as I before told you, 
 it is far from my wish to detain you from 
 her." 
 
 This second mention of the above lady 
 seemed to assure Philip, that there was som^
 
 60 
 
 portion of jealousy in Racliel's resentment^ 
 and, consequently, that her love was not ex- 
 tinct. — The tears of the latter subdued his- 
 stubborn spirit; he fell on his knees, and in- 
 voked Heaven to witness his vow, that he 
 loved her alone. At the same time, he en- 
 deavour'd to make light of her suspicions,, 
 with regard to Carohne ; for, such were his 
 ideas of the delicacy due to that young 
 lady, that, even to his Rachel, he could not 
 confide the partiality, it was too evilent 
 she entertained for him. — Overcome with 
 tenderness, the blushing girl thiew herself 
 into his arms, and the kiss of lovely virtue 
 more than rewarded him for all the mental 
 and bodily sufferings, which he had lately 
 endured. 
 
 Determined, if possible, to chase every 
 shadow of jealousy from the mind of his be- 
 loved, betook a step beyond what could 
 have been expected from a lad, to convince 
 her of his sincerity. — He waited on her fa- 
 ther, and, without the least circumlocution, 
 told him, that he had loved his daughter^ 
 ever since he had been the height of his 
 walking stick 5 and that, when he should
 
 61 
 
 liave attaiii'd a proper age, he hoped, he 
 would bestow her on him. 
 
 ^' You may, perhaps, think me, (asmany 
 in the village, I know, have) anidle,worthless 
 fellow — if so you are deceived," continued he, 
 — *^ I had no prospect of ever bettering my 
 fortune, and that, naturally damp'd my ar- 
 dor. — Now, a new scene opens on me — 
 it will be my own fault, if I do not make my 
 w^ay in the .world ; and, with the hope that 
 I shall, one day, be rewarded with the hand 
 of Kachel, I shall think nothing impracta- 
 ble. — What say you, farmer ; shall I have 
 her?'^ 
 
 This proposal, from a boy only fifteen 
 years old, amazed the father of Rachel; but 
 the blunt, and even manly style, in which 
 it was couch'd, accorded so well with his 
 own ideas, that he shook him, heartily, by 
 the hand, and replied — if nothing trans- 
 pired, to lessen him in his good opinion, 
 he need not despair — but,, that he would 
 not bind himself by any absolute pro- 
 mise. 
 
 Hardy man's answer elated the sanguine 
 hopes of the youth beyond conception : al-
 
 62 
 
 ready, in inmgination, he was blessed in the 
 possession of his Rachel, and, for the first 
 time, contempkited futurity with unallay'd 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Meantime, Elijah (who was tw^o years 
 older than our hero) could not observe the 
 preference with which Miss Stanhope 
 honor'd Philip, without feeling the influ- 
 ence of envy. — 'Tis true, he, also, perceived 
 that Philip made no farther return than 
 what common politeness exacted ; but, to 
 a mind stored with that unmanly passion, 
 that was sufficient food for discontent. — 
 He had reckoned on calling her (or, what 
 w^as to him the most desireable, her fortune) 
 his own j and he could not brook the idea of 
 seeing the golden fruit snatclVd from him. 
 — He suspected that Phihp's indifference 
 might be assumed, (so does a mean mind 
 judge of others) and he, inwardly, form'd 
 the design of ruining him in the good 
 opinion of Sir James, the fust opportunity 
 that might present itself. 
 
 In the first place, he took a most paltry 
 method of venting his ill ^^ill toward Tra- 
 vers i it was by deputy, and that in the
 
 person of a creature, as insignificant as anj 
 thing that ever bore the human form. 
 
 Peter Brainless, a distant relation to tl:e 
 baronet, and of the same age as his son, 
 made a visit to Oakendale Hall, about this 
 time. — Having spent a \vinter in London, 
 he had contracted a desire for fashionable 
 habits, without having been able to acquire 
 the essentials j and every thing he witnessed, 
 that met his approbation, " Was mon^ 
 strous good I he ! he ! he !" — the reverse — 
 '^ A cursed twaddle y pon honor !'' 
 
 Such wag the person, who, coming from 
 the gay city, young Proby thought fit to 
 make a tool of, in his plans against Philip ; 
 and many tricks unworthy of their years, 
 did he put in practice against him — taking 
 care to make his companion the chief en- 
 gine, on all such occasions. — For instance, 
 the latter way-laid him in the church-yard 
 (enveloped in a white sheet) at night ; for 
 which the ghost got such a substantial drub- 
 bing, as effectually to allay his splint. 
 
 Another time, they dared Travers to go 
 into the vault of the church, at a late hour, 
 and take thence a skull y — which he agreed
 
 64 
 
 to. do; but, as he went one way, they sent- 
 a man, who was in their confidence, ano- 
 ther, who hid himself in an obscure corner 
 of the cemetery; andj when Phihp entered, 
 with a lamp, and took up a skull, a hollow 
 voice cried — 
 
 " That's mine !" 
 
 He took up another; 
 
 '' That's my father's !'.' 
 ,He, then, took a third. . 
 
 " That's my mother's ! 
 
 *'' Zounds ! they can't all belong to the 
 family !" replied Philip, and ran off, with 
 his prize to Oakendale Hall, (the man fol- 
 lowing, and crying — " Give me my head P* 
 and, on joining his companions, he laid it 
 on the table. 
 
 " There,'' said he, " is the skull — but, I 
 believe, the owner is at the door !" 
 
 Various other tricks were attempted 
 against our hero ; but, unfortunately for the 
 confederates, he was more than a match for 
 them, both. He perceiv^ed ^ that their aim 
 was to render him ridiculous ; and, there- 
 fore, he made up his mind to turn the tables 
 on them.
 
 65 
 
 And, h^re, let it be remember'd, though 
 he paid the utmost deference to the instruc- 
 tions of Mr. Heartwell, Philip had not en- 
 tirely wean'd himself from his former strong 
 propensity to mischief; which he eonsi- 
 der'd himself now sanctioned to exercise, by 
 way of retaHation. 
 
 Brainless boasted of the fashionable 
 amusements of London, where, he said, 
 thousands were risk'd in galloping mag- 
 gots, swimming hedge-hogs, billiards, faro, 
 pedestrian-racing, prize-fighting, and other 
 edifying persuits; to which the inhabitants 
 of the country were utter strangers. Phi- 
 lip altow'd, that might be true ; but that 
 the Londoners were, in turn, deprived of 
 many country sports ; such as hunting, 
 shooting, &c. : but, this Peter would not, 
 by any means, allow: averring, there was 
 plenty of game, and several good packs j?f 
 hounds, within twenty miles of the capital ; 
 within which distance, all sorts of hunting 
 were to be had. 
 
 " Were you ever (?rt/-huntiDgr" demand- 
 ed Philip.
 
 66 
 
 " Ow/-hiinting?'' repeated Peter, *' I 
 never heard of such a thing, 'pon honor !" 
 
 " I dare say, you never did ^ so you find, 
 though you have been in London, you have 
 not learn'd every thing. However, I '11 
 show you the sport ; and, if you are not 
 pleased with it, you and I shall differ in 
 opinions, that is all/' 
 
 " I '11 attend you," replied Brainless. 
 " Owl-hunting ! he! he ! he ! must be mon- 
 strous good sport, 'pon honor !" 
 
 "It is very good," said Travers; '''and 
 will serve to convince you, the wisest may 
 be caught, sometimes — when, even Miner- 
 va's own bird, the ^w^/d'/w of wisdom, cannot 
 always escape." 
 
 According to appointment, Philip took 
 Peter to assist in the above sport. He rais- 
 ed a ladder against the outside of a barn, 
 which the latter ascended, with a sieve in 
 his hand ; this he was told to place against a 
 large hole, in one of the planks, to' prevent 
 the escape of the bird, that way; as it 
 would, of course, make for the opening, 
 when disturb'd by Philip, within. Brain-
 
 67 
 
 less took his station, and applied the sieve to 
 the aperture. In the mean time, Travers 
 ascended a ladder, within. 
 
 "Look out!" now 'tis coming!*' cried 
 he; and, in the same instant, emptied a pail 
 full of water, through the sieve, into the 
 face of poor Peter; who descended, gasping 
 for breath, and swearing never again to be 
 caught — hunting the owl*. 
 
 Another time. Brainless was recounting 
 several feats of strength, which he had wit- 
 ness'd ; and to which Philip made answer, 
 he would bet him a trifle, he knew a cat 
 that would draw him through a piece of wa* 
 ter, in spite of his teeth. 
 
 "He! he! he!" cried Peter, monstrous 
 good, *pon honor! — But, I can't believe 
 it." 
 
 " If you think fit to put it to the 
 proof, you shall be convinced, this even- 
 ing." 
 
 *^ I '11 bet you a guinea on it." 
 
 * This is a trick frequently practised on the poor 
 Londoners, in many parts of England, and is call'd 
 — '' Hnnting the OivC
 
 68 
 
 ** Done !" replied Traverse''* and, be as- 
 sured, you '11 lose it." 
 
 This being agreed to, they met to decide- 
 this curious wager. Brainless was station'd 
 on ©ne side of the pond, with a rope round 
 his middle, that extended to the other j^ 
 where Phihp stood with the cat. 
 
 '* Are you ready ?" inquired the lat- 
 ter. 
 
 ''Yes,'' replied the other; " and now w^' 
 shall see how grimalkin will win your wager 
 for you." 
 
 Hardly had he articulated these words, 
 'ere he was plunged, head-foremost, into the 
 water, and landed, spite of his exertions, on 
 the opposite bank; where, to his confusion 
 and mortification, he discover'd that it was 
 a ^W6>-legg'd eat had treated him with this 
 ducking. 
 
 Whilst he stood, shaking his dripping 
 ears, like a water-spaniel, Travers laugh'd 
 at his disaster; and told him not to pride 
 himself on his tozvji-zvit, until he was 
 assured country - people were the mere 
 bumpkins many imagined them to be., 
 Peter was very much nettled; but, as^^
 
 69 
 
 he did not think it prudent to avow his 
 resentment, he chew'd the cud of dis- 
 content, in silence — and mentally term'd 
 Philip — ** A monstrous savage, 'pon ho- 
 nor'''
 
 70 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 So dear to heav*n is saintly Chastity, 
 That when a soul is found sincerely so, 
 A thousand liveried angels lackey her. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Travers had been an inmate at Oaken- 
 dale Hall, four years, without any particu- 
 lar circumstance occurring, save what has 
 been already noticed. 
 
 Sir James employed his time, as usual, in 
 succouring the distress'd, and righting the 
 injured; — he lived but to serve his fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 Caroline Stanhope, still, nourished a hope- 
 less, but an ardent, passion for Philip, 
 which, like the canker-worm, seem'd to 
 prey upon her spirits, and sap her constitu- 
 tion ; while he and Rachel were as blest as
 
 71 
 
 tbe enjoyment of mutual affection (and what 
 can be more delicious ?) could render them. 
 Nor were these the only persons, at Oak- 
 endale, with whose hearts Cupid was mak- 
 inof free. — Miss Rebecca Oldham sidi'd 
 before the altar of the urchin, and paid her 
 adoration, with all the enthusiasm of eigh- 
 teen ; and, yet, this love-sick damsel had 
 past her forty-fifth year in a sttite of celiba- 
 cy! — Not that she vVanted inclination to 
 change that state — far from it — the truth is, 
 her virgin-fruit had withered on the tree, be- 
 cause no one had thought it worth the 
 plucking. — She had been in Sir James's fa- 
 mily seven years, (in quality of governess to 
 his ward) and when Philip was first intro- 
 duced there, she considered him, merely, as 
 a very fine boy: but, when the down of 
 manhood began to spread itself over his chin, 
 and the lad grew up, into a fine-looking fel- 
 low, near six feet high. Miss Rebecca began 
 to regard him as a conquest well worthy her 
 attempting. Had not her vanity been in 
 it's dotage, she might have seen the impos- 
 sibility of her engaging a heart, that the 
 beautiful and accomplish'd Caroline Stan-
 
 72 
 
 hope wish'd to make her own. But, Love is 
 truly stated to be a blind deity : at least, he 
 completely hoodwinks his disciples; and, 
 surely, nothing else could excuse the folly 
 of Miss Oldham's attempt. 
 
 Often did she throw out hints to the ob- 
 ject of her tender passion, that she could 
 not deny a youth, like him, any tiling; — but, 
 he did not, or would not, comprehend her 
 meaning. Nevertheless, she persisted, time 
 after time, though in vain; consoling her- 
 self, hke a veteran general, with the idea — 
 that, though she had been defeated, to-day, 
 Fortune might deign to smile to-morrow — 
 and that nought can be achieved, without 
 patience and perseverance. 
 
 She watch'd him in his evening rambles, 
 (which he continued constantly to take with 
 Rachel) as a hawk would a sparrow, and, 
 generally, found means to pounce upon him 
 in his way home ; on which occasions she 
 never fail'd to intimate that she was an heir- 
 ess, (she had five hundred pounds in the 
 three per cents.) and so well-born, that she 
 endeavour'd to prove herself fifteenth cou- 
 sin to a Scotch baron; or, at least, enter-
 
 73 
 
 taiii*d him with some tale, whereof she was V 
 the heroine. — But, unfortunately, some oc- 
 currence, usually, took place, in the midst 
 of her egotistic panegyric, to lower her 
 pride, and make her appear very ridi- 
 culous. 
 
 One evening, in particular, when she had 
 arm'd herself, cap-a-pie^ for conquest, and 
 thought he must, infalliblj-, yield to the 
 powers of her personal and eloquent charms, 
 she was most cruelly humbled — the circum- 
 stances of which were as follow. 
 
 " Bless my soul! Mr. Traversl" said she, 
 affecting surprise, at sight of him — *' this is 
 an unexpected pleasure. You are' return- 
 ing home, I take it ; and, as I have extend- 
 ed my walk beyond what I designed, with 
 your permission, I will avail myself of the 
 opportunity of accompanying you." 
 
 '* Phihp bow'd, and coldly replied: " If 
 you please, madam." 
 
 " How charming the face of the country 
 appears," observta she. — *'Such is the sea- 
 son our poets celebrate, when they sing of 
 swains and nymphs, blest in the joys of mu- 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 
 
 tual affection. — Halcyon days! bow few, 
 now, experience similar delights ! — Ah ! Mr. 
 Travers, had you seen the grounds of my 
 late cousin. Lord M^Pauper, you would 
 have allowed, that they resembled the Ita- 
 lian grove, described by amorous authors, 
 of old/* (Here she cast a loving glance 
 towards Philip — who wish'd her at the bot- 
 tom of the Red Sea). — " Now, alas ! he is 
 gone; and, though I have a pretty little 
 competency, Mr. Travers, yet, that I may 
 not diminish what some worthy man may, 
 one day, call his own, I am content to un- 
 dertake a situation, that the pride of my fa- 
 mily would revolt at, did they know it. — *Tis 
 true, I have nothing to complain of — for Sir 
 James's whole family is interested in my 
 welfare; the bar6net, in particular, treats 
 me with the kindness of a father. — Indeed, 
 the neighbourhood, in general, respects me : 
 I am honored with the countenance of the 
 higher order, (I wish to speak it without va- 
 nity) and the poorer sort idolise me; they 
 never think they can suiiiciently testify their 
 respect for me."
 
 75 
 
 As the}^ turned an angle of the road, they 
 met a countryman, who addressed the lady 
 thus : 
 
 '' I say. Madam Oldham, I be desperate 
 glad to see thee, hoivsomevery 
 
 " What," demanded the governess, with 
 a look of sovereign contempt, *^ are your 
 commands with me?" 
 
 ^' Commands?" repeated the man, with a 
 loud laugh.^" Commands be for our bet- 
 ters. — But, I do want to knov/ how much 
 you mean to give me, for the use of my ass." 
 — (The gentleman stared — the lady color'd) 
 — ^^ You knock 'd un about, foinely, yes- 
 terday ; and you think to pay me with a 
 shilling, for your ups and downs." 
 
 '' If nature has endow'd you with one 
 particle of common sense, hold your tongue, 
 and go about your business. I have paid 
 you for the use of your animal, and will not 
 give you any more," said the enraged Re- 
 becca. 
 
 '' Bless your heart ! it's too little, mistress,** 
 quoth the countryman. '^ Why, setting 
 the case in this here light — we 'W say, you 
 let your ass, for the day; and that it's bang'd
 
 76 
 
 and knock'd about, cruelly — you *d think it 
 devilish hard, to have no more for it, than a 
 shilling. What *s v^orse than all, some of 
 the servants (it was they, I suppose) have 
 rubb'd his rump, all over, w^ith turpentine, 
 and set fire to it; so that his tail is as bald 
 as a coot, and none of the ladies, here, will 
 ride him, till the hair grows, again.'* 
 
 " Let us proceed, Mr. Travers," cried 
 Miss Oldham, taking the arm of her compa- 
 nion 5 " this monster has so flurried my 
 nerves, I shall not recover my tranquillity, 
 for this week.*' 
 
 ^' What, then, you won't give me any 
 more ?** demanded the man. 
 
 " Hold your tongue,*' interrupted Phi- 
 lip. — '' Here are two shillings for you; and, 
 now, (for one day's riding) I suppose, you 
 have received a fourth of the value of your 
 beast." 
 
 "Lord love your head ! master," replied 
 the countryman. " It don't become a man 
 to praise his own property, to be sure ; but, 
 my ass is as good a one as any in the 
 county — it 's true — and I keep it for the 
 milk, too!*'
 
 77 
 
 It may be recollected, that Philip, while 
 under the dominion of Mr. Dennis O* De- 
 magogue, was caught by his aunt, in the 
 act of inflicting corporeal punishment on a 
 boy, of his own age, named Joe Skellum. — 
 Those blows had rankled in the heart of the 
 latter; and a conreilality of sentiment hav- 
 ing led Elijah, at ivn early age, to select him 
 as his favorite playmate, and that intimacy 
 continuing as thev grew up, (for Joe lied, 
 pimp'd, and did every thing — save fight — 
 for his patron) he confided to him his ex- 
 treme hatred of Travers ; and many plans 
 were laid between those two disciples of i^d*/- 
 zebiib, to expel him Oakt- iidale House. — 
 But, for a long time, all they could do was 
 in vain; when, after various inuendoes 
 thrown out against their intended victim, in 
 presence of Sir James, a circumstance took 
 place that enabled them to carry their dia- 
 bolical design into execution. 
 
 In one of Philip's evening walks to the . 
 cottage of farmer Hardy man, he thought, 
 on reaching the door, he heard the voice of 
 Elijah, within. Something like jealousy- 
 flash' d across his brain : he paused without
 
 78 
 
 the tliresliold, trembling with anxiety, and 
 iindeierniined whether to depart, or to enter, 
 and upbraid Rachel with her infidelity — 
 when his indecision was converted to indio^- 
 nation, by the following words. 
 
 " Philip Travers ! can it be possible that 
 your heart is set on that b^^gar?'* cried the 
 well-known accents of Elijah. '' If such 
 are, indeed, your sentiments, it will be a 
 laudable act to erase them. Women sel- 
 dom persevere in their resentment, towards 
 the man whom love impels to liberties > and, 
 since you turn a deaf ear to my prayers, 
 thus will I force you to be kind.*' 
 
 Rachel scream'd; and Philip, unable 
 longer to contain himself, burst open the 
 door, (to the terror and amazement of the 
 guilty Elijah) and caught the trembling 
 maid in his arms; — who would, there, have 
 considered herself in safety, though environed 
 by a host of enemies. 
 
 The villain, like the stag at bay, endea- 
 voured to rally his spirits, and demanded, 
 by what right Philip intruded on his pri- 
 vacy. 
 
 " By the right of humanity," replied
 
 79 
 
 he—" which authorises every man to stand 
 forward, in defence of a helpless female.** 
 
 " What/* rejoin'd the other, sneering- 
 \y, '' you would monopolise the fruit — would 
 you ? — Curse on her affected coyness ! — I 
 should have carried my point, but for your 
 interference.** 
 
 '' Harkye ! sir ! that I have forborne to 
 give you the chastisement your unmanly at- 
 tempt deserves, you have to thank your wor- 
 thy father. But, dare not to utter a sylla- 
 ble against that young w^oman, (who is as 
 virtuous as she that bore you) lest I forget 
 what I owe to that revered man, by cor- 
 recting a son, who is a disgrace to him !'* 
 
 " She is as virtuous, as you are honest !*' 
 said Elijah. ^^ I know ye, both; and know 
 her to be an attainable wanton.*' 
 
 Philip was roused almost to a pitch of 
 frenzy, and aim*d a violent blow at the head 
 of the calumniator, that brought him to the 
 ground. 
 
 While they were thus situated, (Philip 
 supporting the affrighted Rachel, with his 
 arm round her waist, and Elijah scowling at
 
 so 
 
 him, like the Demon of Revenge) Hardy- 
 man made his appearance, and demanded 
 wliat was the matter. The guiUy Elijah re- 
 mained in sullen silence ; and Philip replied, 
 — «<No great matter j I have only punish'd 
 a monster, in the form of man, for having 
 dared to insult one of the sex it was his du- 
 ty to protect." 
 
 Rachel, a tear still trembling on her eye- 
 lid, approach'd her parent, and related, as 
 delicately as she could, the whole transac- 
 tion ; not forgetting to dwell, with peculiar 
 emphasis, on the generous assistance afford- 
 ed her by her brave defender — and the abu- 
 sive language of Elijah, which had terminat- 
 ed in his merited chastisement. 
 
 The countenance of Hardyman flushed 
 with honest indignation, at the recital : he 
 turn'd with a mingled look of anger and 
 contempt, and thus addressed him. 
 
 " Harkye ! wretch ! by what authority 
 dare you enter the house of an English yeo- 
 man, and insult his child ? — Begone ! and 
 thank your stars I did not return, before the 
 interference of my young friend, here, — If
 
 81 
 
 you had not, already, felt the weight of his 
 arm, I would have taught you what is due, 
 from the first lord in the land, sirrah! to a 
 virtuous woman. — Damme! if I 'd have left 
 a whole bone in your skin ! — Begone ! and 
 never set your foot over my threshold, again, 
 as you value your own carcass. I would 
 not injure a worm; nor shall any man in- 
 jure me, with impunity. Remember my 
 caution, and profit by it. As to thee, young 
 man, (turning to Philip, and shaking his 
 hand) you have bound me to you, for ever : 
 God bless you ! — and, believe me, the good 
 wishes of an honest farmer are more likely 
 to prevail in your behalf, than the malicious 
 ones of exalted villainy are to tell against 
 
 you." 
 
 During the last sentence of this speech, 
 the culprit sneak'd ofT^ execrating his own 
 cowardly nature, that prevented him from 
 returnmg Philip's sahite, and imprecating 
 curses on himself, if he took liOt amrle 
 vengeance on him, the farmer, and his 
 daughter. 
 
 *' Let him go his ways," resumed Har- 
 dymaa — ^^ a pitiful chap ! — Damme ! but
 
 32 
 
 my fingers itch'd to be at him! I'd have 
 soused him in the horse-pond, and rubb'd 
 him dry with an oaken towel, if you had not 
 been before-hand with me — Bless ye, both^ 
 my children ! looking, alternately, at Rachel 
 and her champion. — ^' Zounds ! you must 
 come together — you shall.^ — He deserves 
 you, my girl ; and, if you have any friend 
 that you wish well, give her this piece of 
 advice: never to marry the man that is not 
 able, and willing, to protect her from in- 
 sult. Oh! I know what you are going 
 to say^ — that I have made you happy. — 
 You know, I love to make you happy, 
 you hussy — I live for no other purpose. 
 But^ mind,^ no marriage till I appoint the 
 day — I am older than yourselves, and can 
 manage these matters better, d*ye see ? 
 = — Come, come, Rachel, see what you can 
 give your sweetheart for supper; for the 
 devil a bit he stirs out of this house, till 
 he has drank confusion to every would- 
 he seducer, and may virtue always escape 
 the snares of the vicious !" 
 
 Philip needed no pressing to accept the 
 invitation : he eat a hearty supper, pledg-
 
 ed his host, in a glass of excellent strong 
 beer, and repair'd to Oakendale Hall, 
 elated at the unequivocal way in which 
 honest Hardyman had declared his daughter 
 should be his.
 
 84 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 To the liege-lord of my dear native land 
 I owe a subject's homage ; but ev'n him. 
 And his high arbitration, I'd reject. 
 Within my bosom reigns another lord — 
 Honor — sole judge and umpire of itself! 
 
 Home. 
 
 Early, next morning, Philip was summoned 
 to attend Sir James, in his study. He 
 attended, and found him much ruffled ; the 
 native smile of good humor was banished 
 from his brow, and it*s place usurp'd by the 
 scowl of anger. 
 
 " Sit down, young man,'' said he, moti- 
 oning to a chair. 
 
 Philip bow'd, and seated himself; and 
 the baronet, after a pause, proceeded. 
 
 " It is a disagreeable task that is imposed 
 upon me ; but my feelings must not prevent
 
 85 
 
 me from censuring you, as you merit, for 
 your late ill conduct ; as well as cautioning 
 you to keep a curb oq your levity, and im- 
 petuosity of temper, which will, otherwise, 
 I fear, prove of serious consequence to you, 
 hereafter.'* 
 
 '' In what have I been so unfortunate as 
 to incur your displeasure, and render this 
 preface necessary?" said Philip. 
 
 "In what?" repeated Sir James, in an 
 accent of astonishment. " Surely this ig- 
 norance must be assumed ; or your memory 
 is very treacherous. You cannot, I imagine, 
 have forgotten the events of last evening, in 
 which my son, as well as yourself, was con- 
 cerned." 
 
 " I conceive to what your words allude, 
 sir; but, I must own, I was unprepared for 
 the subject; for I thought your son (who, 
 doubtless, is your author) vyould have con- 
 cealed a circumstance, that must tell against 
 himself, from every ear— particularly, sir, 
 from 2/011 r's.'* 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, since you are so well 
 able to censure his cpnduct, you, doubtless^, 
 recollect your own, too ?"
 
 86 
 
 *« Never shall I forget it ; 'twill form a 
 subject of pleasing retrospection to my dy- 
 ing day !** 
 
 " What, you glory, then, in that which 
 you have done; and, doubtless, think it a 
 feather in your cap of youth, that you have- 
 presumed to raise your hand against the son 
 of your benefactor.'* 
 
 " I would have raised it, in such a cause, 
 against the son of my father !" replied Phi- 
 lip, with much animation. 
 
 " Rash, and ungrateful, young man ! it 
 would better become you to own your fault,, 
 and sue for forgiveness, than to evince this 
 exultation, after having offended me, in the 
 person of my boy — and that in defence of a 
 wanton.'* 
 
 " Hold !" exclaim'd Philip, starting from< 
 his seat ; " not a word of disrespect against 
 the innocent, in whose cause I stood for- 
 ward. You are deceived, sir, grossly duped; 
 and the author of this vile calumny, on one 
 of the most spotless of her sex, is Ehjah — 
 the fabricator of a falsehood against a woman!" 
 
 *' False ?" cried Sir James, with increased 
 displeasure.
 
 87 
 
 ^' As God is true ! — Oh ! sir ! Avould you 
 but listen to the circumstances I could re- 
 late — on my honor...." 
 
 ^' I'll not hear one word on the subject, 
 sir; and I must doubt his honor, who, after 
 having disgraced the son of the man who 
 shelter'd him, by a blow, would seek to ex- 
 tenuate his offence, by accusing him of false- 
 hood. I be2:in to fear vou are incorrioible ; 
 and I should be justified in the opinion of 
 the world, were I to discard you, for ever. 
 But, I will have nothing to upbraid myself 
 with: this once, I caution you; and now, 
 peremptorily, declare, if you repeat such 
 gross provocation, as the last, that instant 
 will I withdraw my protection from you." 
 
 " And I must tell you, sir, with the same 
 candor, that I now resign all pretensions ta 
 that protection. Believe me. Sir James, I 
 am sensible how much I am indebted to you, 
 for all your former goodness; and my eyes 
 will never be closed in sleep, until 1 have 
 breathed a prayer for your prosperity; but 
 here I fmd it impossible to remain. You 
 have wounded my feelings, have blacken'd 
 me with the charge of ingratitude, have
 
 88 
 
 doubted my honor, (the only treasure I 
 possess, and I will cherish it, as 1 would the 
 apple of my eye) and have reproach 'd me 
 with my dependent state. My pride re- 
 volts; and, as I have youth and health, I 
 will endeavour, by industry, to secure a 
 competency. To-morrow, I will leave this 
 roof, for ever,*' (a tear started in his eye, at 
 the idea, but he dashed it away, indignant- 
 ly) '' and may your domestic comfort, to 
 which I have been an involuntary bar, be 
 perfectly restored by my absence!'* 
 
 He bow*d, respectfully, and hurried out of 
 the study ; and, on gaining his own cham- 
 ber, he gave uncontrol'd vent to the fulness 
 of his heart. 
 
 He past great part of the day, in making 
 preparations for his removal, and sent to apo- 
 logise to the family for not attending the 
 dinner-table. In the afternoon, he rallied 
 his spirits, to the best of his ability, and set 
 out, to take a parting leave of his uncle and 
 aunt, as well as to bid a tender adieu to his 
 beloved Rachel. He first went to the cot* 
 tage of old Treadaway, and found the good 
 man at home 5 who, as well as Susan, ex-
 
 89 
 
 press'd great surprise at sight of him 
 — it being about the usual hour of his 
 dini ng. 
 
 He inform'd them, that certain circum- 
 stances had occurred, which rendered his 
 longer stay at the Hall improper: that it 
 was time he should exert the facuUies Hea- 
 ven had given him, which would free him 
 from a state of dependence, and that he 
 meant to commence his journey towards 
 London, next morning. 
 
 *' What,*' cried the old woman, jumping 
 up, and clasping her hands, '' thee dost not 
 mean to leave us, Philip." 
 
 *^ I must, my dear aunt^ my duty calls 
 me from you." 
 
 " Thy duty ? it can never be thy duty to 
 break an old woman's heart; and, I he 
 mortal sure, that will be the end on't, if 
 thee do go." 
 
 " Doant'ee leave us," said Barnaby ; 
 " deame do love thee, as though thee were 
 her own son." 
 
 ^' I should be a monster of ingratitude, 
 could I doubt her Jove, or your\s. But, 
 cease to importune me, where necessity for-
 
 90 
 
 bids me to listen. My pride has been wound* 
 ed^ to the quick.'* 
 
 " Nature will break out — it be all non- 
 sense to try to keep it under j it will show 
 itself, like a Will-o*-th'-wisp, in a dark 
 riight/' cried Susan. 
 
 '^ I have been reproached with my de- 
 pendent state; have been galFd with , 
 
 Well, well, no matter; 'tis true, I ought not 
 to have needed reminding^ that the manner 
 in which I have past the last five years, has 
 ill become one of/wj/ humble birth." ' 
 
 " What, has any one dar'd to say, thee 
 art base-born?" interrupted Susan, color- 
 ing with indignation. *' Marry-come-up ! 
 I could tell them,, thee art, perhaps, of a 
 better stock than any in the parish. Don't 'ee 
 Barny Treadaway, be making ugly faces at 
 me, to hold my tongue — for, I ivunt — I 
 tviint, I teU'ee." 
 
 Philip look'd astonishment. 
 
 '^ For Heaven's sake ! explain the mean- 
 ing of your mysterious words!" said he. 
 " You have, before, fill'd me with curiosity, 
 by various expressions, which have fallen 
 from you, and that curiosity is, now, raised
 
 91 
 
 to a pitch beyond endurance. What am I 
 to conceive, from all this ?'* 
 
 " That you are no nephew of our'si — 
 No son of Barnaby's sister, Esther Tra- 
 vers." 
 
 " Indeed! whose son am I, then?'* ea- 
 gerly demanded the youth, on the tiptoe of 
 expectation. 
 
 But, all his hopes fell to the ground, 
 when Susan replied, in a tone of disappoint- 
 ment — 
 
 '^ I can't tell. Thee were brought here, 
 in a strange way, when tliee were in arms ; 
 and Barnaby were threatened to be put to 
 death, if ever he blabb'd about the matter; 
 but, roight 's roiglit^ and you mustn't leave 
 us, without knowing that thee art not thyself, 
 Barny, do thee tell the story.'* 
 
 Barnaby rehearsed the principal events 
 of the first chapter of this volume — while 
 Philip 
 
 *' With a greedy ear, devour'd up his discourse,'* 
 
 and, having made a conclusion, Susan went
 
 92 
 
 to an old chest- of- drawers, and took out a 
 miniature, which she gave her adopted ne- 
 phew. It was the portrait of a young and 
 most beautiful woman; and, at the back, 
 was a phiit of auburn hair, with the letters 
 L M, in pearl. 
 
 '' Of whom is this the resemblance?" de- 
 manded young Travers; and, again, the un- 
 satisfactory reply, *' I don*t know,'* grated 
 on his ear. His aunt told him, that, amongst 
 the linen which old Barnaby brought w^ith 
 him, from on board the vessel, was that pic-^ 
 ture ; and that she would advise him to keep 
 it, as it might be the means of discovering 
 who his parents were.'* 
 
 Philip knelt between the old couple, and 
 kiss'd a hand of each, while he blest them 
 for their disinterested kindness ; at which, 
 the farmer look'd somewhat sheepish : and 
 when the young man offer'd them a hun- 
 dred pounds, as a third of his pecuniary pos- 
 sessions, the dame positively refused to ac- 
 cept a doit, avowing herself his debtor in, at 
 least, a moiety of that sum ; which, as may 
 be imagined, was rejected. At length, after
 
 93 
 
 many embraces, and much lamentation on 
 the part of the old woman, Philip departed 
 for Walter Hardyman's cottage. 
 
 If he had not declared his intended jour- 
 ney, witliout evident internal perturbation, 
 at his ^ast place of calling, it was with three- 
 fold aifticulty he made it known, there ; and, 
 when he had so done, the sympathetic girl 
 threw herself into his arms, and sobb'd on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 *' Damn it ! Rachel, said the honest yeo- 
 man, " don*t take on in this way. Philip 
 will come back, and you will, both, be hap- 
 py — I know it — there's something that tells 
 me, you will ; or, rather than you shall be 
 made miserable, I Ml give him half my stock, 
 and, hey, for Oakendale church, imme- 
 diately !" 
 
 " To that proposition I must beg leave to 
 object,'* quoth Travers. " You cannot, 
 Rachel, nor your father, doubt my wish to 
 call you mine; every action of my life must 
 be stimulated by the desire of rendering my- 
 self worthy of the blessing of your hand. 
 But, I cannot forget what is due to myself. 
 The transactions of this day have opened
 
 94 
 
 new scenes to my imagination; and reflec- 
 tion must, one time, convince the woman, of 
 my heart, that she had married a reptile, in 
 the man who could be content to partake 
 the produce of her parent's industry. My 
 destination is fix'd — peremptorily fix'd — and 
 I set out for London, early to-morrow morn- 
 ing. Nay, dearest j^achel, this sonoV is 
 unavailing: rather, by your example, ani- 
 mate me to endure my banishment, with 
 patience, and to employ my absent hours in 
 such a manner, as shall to both our future 
 days give ample competency.'* 
 
 ^' Well," said she, " I will endeavour to 
 be firm; but, should you prove false, Philip, 
 the life of her you say you love, must 
 end." 
 
 *^ I'll be damn'd, if he will!" vociferated 
 old Hardy man. '' I '11 answer for him, as I 
 would for myself; so, girl, rest satisfied with 
 knowing that all is for the best; and that 
 you will meet again, before long, I hope." 
 
 To those who ever felt the pangs of part- 
 ing from a beloved object, we leave the con- 
 ception of this separation; and shall follow 
 our hero home ; in the way to which, he,
 
 95 
 
 fifty times kiss VI a gold chain, which his 
 Rachel had just given him, in return for a 
 ring, which he had placed upon her finger; 
 by which, they had mutually pledged theni- 
 selves, in presence of the farmer, never to 
 swerve from constancy, till such time as 
 they had parted with those tokens; which 
 they, as solemnly, protested never to do. 
 
 On a second interview, which took place, 
 that evening, Sir James declared his wish, 
 to bury all that had lately past in oblivion, 
 and that his protege should still reside at 
 the Hall; but, on this point, the latter was 
 inflexible; nor would he deign to accept of 
 a five hundred pound bill, at parting: the 
 cash, with which the baronet's liberality 
 had, at various periods, supplied him, he 
 thought himself justified in retaining, as well 
 as his horse, that v/as to carry him his jour- 
 ney. With unfeigned sincerity, he, for the 
 last time, thank'd his benefactor for past fa- 
 vors, and retired. 
 
 It has been observed, that friends, like 
 swallows, fly off in the winter of adversity ; 
 but the conduct of the worthy Mr. Heart-
 
 96 
 
 well proves that not to be, always, tlie 
 case. 
 
 Philip had been in his room, above an 
 hour, and was gazing on the miniature 
 given him by his supposed aunt, and rumi- 
 nating on the mystery of his birth. At one 
 time, he thought of consulting Mr. Heart- 
 well on the subject ; but, the little probabi- 
 lity there was, that his advice could aught 
 assist him, in the present instance, and the 
 silence it behoved him to preserve, for the 
 sake of poor Barnaby, (whose life had been 
 threatened in case he divulged) restrain'd the 
 idea, and he was, still, puzzling himself 
 with vague conjecture, when a gentle tap at 
 his door announced Mr. Heartwell. 
 
 Philip was pleased, though not surprised, 
 at this mark of attention : he had calculated 
 on the visit, and the smile which play'd upon 
 his features, at sight of the worthy man, was 
 a sufficient indication to the latter, that he 
 was no unwelcome guest. 
 
 '' I come for the pleasure of a few mi- 
 nutes' conversation with you : it may be very 
 long, before we meet, again," said he. He
 
 97 
 
 paused; then, regarding his companion with 
 a scrutinising eye, '' Are you posit iveli/ fix' d 
 on leaving Oakendale-Hall ?" resumed he. 
 
 " Peremptorily, sir," was the reply. 
 
 '^ I would have you (pardon me, my dear 
 Philip, and do not impute my interference 
 to any, but the right, cause — my w'ish to 
 promote your welfare) I v\ould have you 
 well w^eigh the consequence, before you 
 take a step of such importance. You are 
 very young, and not aware of the many dif- 
 ficulties evejy man has to encounter, who 
 launches, an unknown adventurer, on the 
 world." 
 
 ^' Unknown, indeed!" sighM Phihp, in- 
 Avardly, '^ even to myself!" 
 
 " You are ill-calculated to make your 
 w^ay upon that stage of hypocrisy ; to 
 flatter the vain, and prey upon the thought- 
 less prodigal ; and yet, such are the times 
 we live in, these are, generally speak- 
 ing, the only certain steps by which the 
 poor can hope to climb the ladder of that 
 coy goddess, Fortu7ie. Your own innate 
 independence of spirit, and the precepts 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 
 
 which have been my study to instil, disqna- 
 lify you for so degrading a task: your vir- 
 tue, I know, would shrink from it, with ab- 
 horrence.'* 
 
 PhiHpbow'd, and was gratified. 
 
 *' Do not give way to your poHteness, 
 until you have heard me out," continued 
 Heartwell, with a smile. ^' There are mor- 
 bid parts in the most wholesome bodies, to 
 which friendship should apply the in- 
 strument, unrestrained by any false delica- 
 c}^ You have some feelings, my dear 
 young friend, which may plunge you into 
 greater difficulties than you are aware of. 
 You have an impetuosity of temper, and a 
 levity of disposition, which the gay scenes 
 of London will rouse into twofold activity ; 
 and, if you are not completely on your 
 guard, they may, eventually, prove your 
 ruin. But, by tke exertion of your good 
 sense, uninfluenced by passion, all may be 
 W'cll. Nevertheless, I had rather you would 
 drop this harum scarum scheme; nor am I 
 singidai'm that particular — it is Sir James's 
 desire, too."
 
 99 
 
 ** I am obliged to Sir James," replied 
 Philip ; but, he is acquainted with my sen- 
 timents; and, give me leave to say, I should 
 do little justice to the pains you, my re- 
 vered friend, have thought proper to bestow 
 on me, could I (Hke a weathercock) shift 
 from a resolve founded upon reason and 
 principle. 1 am not the first who has ven- 
 tured on the world, unusher'd ; but, what- 
 ever may be my destiny, I will not so far 
 forget my debt to you, as to commit an ac- 
 tion that may call the blush of shame into 
 my cheek." 
 
 " I never doubted it. But, this is no part 
 of your answer to what I have said to you. 
 Bo you reject Sir James's offer ? If so, 1 
 know a pair of blue eyes that will shed tears 
 in abundance. Nay, don't affect ignorance 
 of my meaning; you cannot but be aware, 
 that Caroline Stanhope regrets your propos- 
 ed departure." 
 
 '^ She is all goodness, and Heaven will re- 
 ward her. But, ere we part, sir, allow me 
 to give you a commission. You know the 
 confmed circumstances of those who rear'd 
 me; and it is my wish, as far as my means
 
 100 
 
 will admit, to render their latter days com- 
 fortable. I have three hundred pounds in 
 my possession, one of which they rejected, 
 when I tender'd it. Now, sir, I venture to 
 entreat, that you will take charge of that 
 sum, and give it to them, in such a manner 
 as may seem best to 3"our own good sense.** 
 
 " Generous, good, young man!" ex- 
 claimed the tutor. *^ Providence will take 
 especial care of you, I doubt not. Farewell ! 
 Philip, farewell ! — persevere in virtue, and 
 be as happy as I wish you !" 
 
 Philip threw himself on the bed; but sleep 
 was banish'd from his lids, and the sun ush- 
 ered in the morning, ere he had closed them. 
 He arose, and proceeded towards the stable, 
 where his horse was ready saddled; having 
 left orders that his apparel, &c. should be 
 forwarded by the first conveyance to Lon- 
 don. 
 
 In the hall, he was accosted by Miss 
 Stanhope*s woman, who delivered him a let- 
 ter, wish'd him a pleasant journey, and dis- 
 appear'd. 
 
 Philip broke the seal, and perused the 
 following lines : —
 
 101 
 
 «^ If you are as liberal in sentiment as I have 
 every reason, as well as inclination, to be- 
 lieve, yotr will not, surely, <;ondemn the step 
 now taken by me ; nor will you permit an 
 erroneous sense of delicacy to deprive me of 
 the satisfaction of showing myself your 
 friencL You are, evidently, possessed of 
 every thing a good man ought to have, save 
 money; while I have more than should, or 
 would, have been my portion, had not For- 
 tune been as blind, as she is said to be. 
 
 ^' If from wealth we derive happiness, the 
 feeling mind can experience none, equal to 
 that of conferring happiness on those we es- 
 teem ; and under that selfish consideration, 
 I now venture to beg you will accept the 
 inclosed trifle. 
 
 " ^y condescending to accede to this re- 
 quest, you will confer a favor; whilst a re- 
 fusal will inflict a wound, in addition to the 
 one you have, so recently^ caused, in my 
 heart. Perhaps, I ought to blush for having 
 indited the last sentence — I know not — I 
 speak the language of resistless nature — and 
 cannot smother her dictates. The world, I 
 know, would condemn me — let it— I can
 
 102 
 
 smile at the reproaches of the mahcious, 
 while my own conscience forbears to up- 
 braid me. But, enough of what must (to 
 you) be uninteresting. Adieu ! and that 
 every happiness may attend you, shall be the 
 prayer of, 
 
 *' Your well-wisher, 
 
 '' Caroline Stanhope.'^ 
 
 The letter contained a bank-note for two 
 'hundred pounds ; and, though he felt every 
 lively emotion, save love, towards the fair 
 donor, Philip could not reconcile the thought 
 of pecuniary aid from the hand of a female. 
 He wrote a few lines, expressive of his feel- 
 ings, in which he returned the money; then 
 mounted his horse, and commenced his, 
 journey.
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Adieu to the village delights. 
 
 Ltttletox. 
 
 Silence Is only commendable 
 In a neat's tongue dry'd, and a maid not vendible. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 With a heart torn by a contrariety of emo- 
 tions, Philip departed from Oakendale; the 
 3pot which, from early infancy, had been 
 the place of his abode. He paused on the 
 summit of^the hill, whence he was to take 
 a last view of the scenes of his youth ; 
 and a sigh burst from him, as he gazed on 
 the smoke which issued from Thomas Har- 
 dyman's cottage, embosom'd in a copse of 
 elms. 
 
 " There?,'* said he, " there is the abode 
 of honesty and innocence — of my beloved 
 Rachel! perhaps, she will, sometimes, be
 
 104 
 
 stow a thought on Philip, whilst he is stem- 
 ming the tide of fortune, far distant from her. 
 And, oh ! my more than parents ! {whose 
 kindness foster'd me when, unknown, I 
 was thrown upon your mercy) never will I 
 forget the debt of gratitude I owe you !'* 
 
 The manor-house next attracted his at- 
 tention, where for years he had experienced 
 the kindest attention from it's opulent own- 
 er ', and to which he was, haply, about to 
 bid an eternal adieu. His lip quivered, and 
 the big drop of regret trembled in his eye j 
 but the sensation was transient. 
 
 « Why should I repine,'* said he, '^ at 
 leaving a roof, where hypocrisy lords it over 
 honesty, and damn'd dissimulation perverts 
 the feelings of humanity ? Could I meanly 
 stoop — avow myself in error, when my con- 
 duct had been mark'd by rectitude ? hum- 
 ble myself before a coward ? — a liar ? Base- 
 ly cringe to the wretch whom I despise ? 
 Rather, be poverty my lot through life ! 
 Oh ! that the son of the worthy Proby 
 should be so degenerate ! But I have done 
 with him — with the valley of Oakendale — 
 with .....''
 
 10.5 
 
 His feelings became too acute to sufler 
 him to proceed in his soliloquy : he gave iiis 
 horse the spur, and descended the opposite 
 side of the hill at a round gallop. By the 
 time he had gainVl the inn, where he was 
 to rest for the night, his good sense had re- 
 stored him in some degree to his accus- 
 tomed tranquillity; and, finding the call for 
 hunger too sharp to be disregarded, (for 
 had eaten but little during the day) he de- 
 sired the landlord to provide him a broiled 
 chicken, to which he did great justice: he 
 then retired to bed; when fancy led him 
 back to Oakendale, and his beloved Rachel. 
 Having breakfasted, he desired the waiter 
 to send for a hair-dresser ; and, in a few mi- 
 nutes, a tall, meagre figure, with a nose and 
 chin that seem'd strongly disposed to ''join 
 issue y'^ enter'd the room, with an obse- 
 quious bow. 
 
 " You are the person I sent for, I sup- 
 pose ?" said Philip. 
 
 '' I am, sir,'' quoth the knight of the 
 razor. ^' The waiter told me you were in 
 haste, and (as I am particularly careful no- 
 body should wait for me) I came like an 
 F 5
 
 106 
 
 arrow. My name is Bustleton, Billy Bus- 
 tleton, at your service, or any body's else. 
 I am as expeditious as a telegraph, and as- 
 full of business as a prime minister. What 
 am I to do for your honor? Your hair 
 doesn't want curling, I perceive.'* 
 
 ^' I sent for you to shave me." 
 
 « Shave you ?" cried Billy. '^ Ha ! ha I' 
 ha ! you Ve as much occasion for a razor, 
 as a duck has for an umbrella.'* 
 
 ^' You '11 allow me to be judge of that, it 
 you please." 
 
 '^ Certainly, certainly; my place is to 
 work, not to talk : though, when I once^ 
 begg'd leave to be Judge of a piece of busi- 
 ness, which concern'd only myself, I was 
 told I look'd a damn'd deal more like ii 
 cninijial. Beg pardon I hope no offence- - 
 meant no allusion to the present case." 
 
 ^' Well, well, to business," said Philip; 
 ** I am in haste, to proceed on my jour- 
 ney." 
 
 *^ I'm glad on't; I like every body to 
 be in haste, because, it's just my own way 
 — nobody waits for me. They call me, 
 here, ^ the idle man of Inmness s' but, I
 
 107 
 
 laugh at lluit — fuv the ill word of the igno- 
 rant has no more eilect upon me, than snow- 
 balls on a^buttervj or beauty on a dead dray- 
 horse.'* 
 
 *' Very true," interrupted Phihp j '-'but 
 shave me, and, if you must, talk after- 
 wards." 
 
 " I despise talking — I *m as silent as a 
 tombstone." 
 
 *^ With an elaborate inscription." 
 
 *'Ha! ha! ha ! very well, indeed, sir. 
 By the bye, talking of tombstones — we 
 have a very extraordinary physician in this 
 place; a gentleniian on excellent terms with 
 himself, and who has cured more patients 
 than ever were nnder his care ! Bnt, 
 you're in a hurry — so am 1 — nobody waits 
 forme — so, now, for dispatch." 
 
 He took out his razors, and began to strop 
 one of them. 
 
 " Fine weather for the ducks — heavenly 
 growing showers, and as desireable to the 
 farmers, as a quarrel to a lawyer, candle- 
 light to a decay'd beauty, or the sight of a 
 French fleet to an English sailor. Talking 
 of the French fleets — I think, they have
 
 lOS 
 
 been so closely shaved, of late, that they 
 \von*t wish to take another irimming, at our 
 hands, in a hurry; they have had several 
 good dressings, and had better not waste 
 any more powder, by risking another brushy 
 or they '11 get themselves cursedly lather' dy 
 I beheve !" 
 
 " I wish you would lather vie, or say, at 
 once, you don't choose to do it." 
 
 " Not choose to do it ?" repeated Bustle- 
 ton. " Pardon me ! that would be as un- 
 becoming in me, as pride in a bishop, or si- 
 lence in a meeting of old maids. Talking 
 crf old maids, puts me in mind of my wife's 
 tabby cat, that I kill'd, yesterday, because 
 I thought she was going mad — made two 
 excellent swan-doxim-piiffs of poor GrimaU 
 kin's skin. By the bye, talking of puffs, 
 have you seen any extracts from the French 
 papers, lately ? One would think they had, 
 already, taken possession of our little 
 island, and had forgot we h^iyeivooden walls 
 to defend it. Their Emperor may sit, at 
 Calais, and gaze at our coast, like the fox 
 in the fable, but, he'll never be goose 
 enough to try to come here, I think. Goose
 
 109 
 
 is an excellent bird, and greatly admired by 
 every body, except actors, who have a 
 great aversion to Iii^sijig. Are you fond of 
 goose, sirr" 
 
 " What 's that to yoii> sir ? In one 
 word, will you, or will you not^ shave 
 me?" 
 
 '^ Shave you in a twinkling, sir, but, 
 don't be in a passion : I like every body to 
 be as cool as a cucumber — but you look as 
 if you had found a shilling, and lost eigh- 
 teen pence. Bless my soul 1 the water is 
 as cold as any churchwarden's heart. Talk* 
 ing of w^ater, we had a fire, here last week* 
 I'll ring for some warm. Pray, be calm, 
 sir, and let your whiskers grow — you shall 
 be trimm'd with care and expedition. Oh ! 
 •waiter, bring some water ; and let it be as 
 hot as the devil, for this young gentleman's 
 in a hell of a hurry to be taken by the 
 nose.*' 
 
 '^ Damnation! you'll drive me madl'* 
 exclaim'd Philip. 
 
 '• I hope not, sir," replied Mr. Bustle- 
 ton, with most insulting coldness: '* but, if 
 such a thing should happen, I'll shave your
 
 110 
 
 head, as well as your cliln. I'll stick to 
 you like a leech. By the bye, talking of 
 leeches, I have a particular razor for law- 
 yers, that's as ragged as a saw — talking of 
 ragged razors, reminds me of an excellent 
 story. I'll tell it you." 
 
 " I had rather not. I only want to be 
 shaved." 
 
 " This is a shaving story, and an excel- 
 lent one, too. You are to know, that, in 
 all Catholic countries, gentlemen of my 
 profession are obliged to keep the chins of 
 the clergy free from hair, on their asking 
 it ' fo?' the love of Saint Peter T One of 
 those gentry went into a barber's shop, (for 
 so the vulgars call them) and said : ' Shave 
 me for the love of Saint Peter /' The ten- 
 sor, who knew he w^ould not receive the va^ 
 lue of his soap, for the job, (priests are very 
 slippery fellows), took a razor — which he 
 called his rasp — and with which he began 
 to scrape his customer's ruby gills, till the 
 tears trickled down his cheeks, and made 
 him groan like a bankrupt. During the 
 operation, a dog past the shop-door, making 
 a most hideous howl. ' What can they
 
 Ill 
 
 have been doing to that poor animal?' cried 
 the tonsor. « I suppose,' sigh'd out the 
 agonised monk (looking as melancholy as a 
 cat in a strange garret) ' somebody has 
 been shaving the poor creature '• for the 
 love of Saint Peter /" 
 
 " What do you think of my story ?" con« 
 tinned he, applying the brasli to Philip's 
 face. ^' I wonder which howl'd loudest^ 
 dog, or monk ! Talking of howling," (con- 
 tinued he, running to the window, and leav- 
 ing his customer in the suds) "there's a 
 ballad-singer in the street, and she's sing- 
 ing away, like a tea-kettle — ' IVhat's life 
 without passion — siveet pass^ion of love T — 
 What ? why it 's like mustard without beef> 
 you silly wench. Bless my soul ! pardon 
 me ! I have left you with a chin as white 
 as a cauliflower." 
 
 '^ I wish you were at the devil, with all 
 my soul '" cried Philip. 
 
 " Heaven forbid 1" return'd the barber: 
 *' What would become of my wufe, and my 
 five children ? But, sit still, sir, and I '11 
 proceed to business — nobody waits for
 
 112 
 
 He brandish'd his razor, and, after some 
 (qw pauses, to make his own comments, 
 completed the operation, to the great joy of 
 Phihp, who inquired what he was indebted 
 to him, for the same. 
 
 " What you please, sir," rephed the bar- 
 ber: ^^ I never dictate to my customers ; I 
 do my best, and leave the rest to their gene- 
 rosity/' 
 
 " There's half-a-crown for you, then; 
 for, if you are as long about all your cus- 
 tomers, I do n't know how you keep the pot 
 boiling." 
 
 ** My wife does that — for she's as indus- 
 trious as a troop of ants, and as busy as a 
 whole hive of bees — nothing is at a stand in 
 our house. Sir, lam your grateful servant ; 
 and, should you travel this way again, you'll 
 remember Billy Bustleton, I hope; who 
 powders perriwigs, shaves beards, sets ra- 
 zors, and cuts faces — (bless my soul ! I 
 mean hair) — as well as any man in the 
 county, and with as much expedition. You 
 can't mistake my house, there's a Jong 
 pole, like the mizen-mast of a frigate.. ..Who 
 calls ? — Coming— I fly hke the wind — no-
 
 113 
 
 body waits for me ! — A pleasant journey to 
 you, sir !** 
 
 " You are a devil of a fellow for expedi- 
 tion, to be sure!'* thought Philip, as Billy 
 closed the door; ^*' but if you take me by 
 the nose, again, I '11 give you leave to shave 
 me ^ for the love of Saint Peter T "
 
 114 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Over the mountain, and over the moor, 
 Hungry and barefoot, I wander forlorn ; 
 
 My father is dead, and my mother is poor. 
 And she grieves for the days that will never return. 
 
 Our traveller was just about to mount his 
 horse, when his attention was arrested by an 
 object that excited much interest in him. It 
 was a youthful female, meanly attired, but, 
 beautiful in the extreme : she wore an old 
 straw hat, faded scarlet cloak, russet stuff 
 gown, and shoes that had once been perfect; 
 yet, did her native cliarms break through 
 the rags, in which they were enveloped, hke 
 a full-blown rose, showing it's lovely head 
 amidst surrounding thistles. 
 
 '' Indeed, sir, my tale is true!'' said slie, 
 in a voice that sunk to the soul of Philips
 
 115 
 
 *' here is a certificate of the case, from the 
 parson of our parish. My beloved father 
 fell in battle, at Aboiikir, under the gallant 
 Nelson ; and my poor mother, and my 
 wretched self, were journeying toward Lon- 
 don, to receive our portion of the sum raised 
 by the grateful countrymen and women of 
 those brave men, who died in their defence, 
 when, between sorrow and fatigue, she v/as 
 taken ill, in this town ; and the little stock 
 with which we started, was consumed. Still 
 does my parent languish on the bed of sick- 
 ness; and I have no alternative, but to beg 
 for her, or see her perish. — Oh ! then, dear 
 gentlem.an, as you hope for mercy, hereaf- 
 ter, have some on me ! and contribute a tri- 
 fle, to nourish the weak frame of her who 
 gave me being !" 
 
 This pathetic appeal was made to a little 
 burly- faced man, in a blue coat, and a scar- 
 let waistcoat, with a gold binding ; and whose 
 countenance denoted a heart, destitute of 
 every social virtue. 
 
 '' Hold your jabber," said lie, ^^ I '11 hear 
 no more of your flummery, and your lies. I
 
 116 
 
 am too much used to these here kind of do- 
 ings, to be so easily imposed upon; aiid 
 them people, as sent you to mc, ivas very ill 
 advisers. I am a justice of the peace, and 
 the duty of my station bids me to commit 
 all such vagrants, as you are, to the house of 
 correction." 
 
 " Friend,'' cried a mild voice, from the 
 opposite side of the street, "it iset'^n/manV 
 duty (no matter what his station, may be) to 
 relieve the distressed — particularly, a help- 
 less female.'* 
 
 *^ Trouble your head v^ith your own af-- 
 fairs," said the justice: "you have no more 
 right, old Primrose, ta offer for to dictate to 
 me, than I have to unblock your beaver,, 
 which you would not much thank me for, I 
 believe." 
 
 " Thou dost argue like a man who lacketh 
 certain materials, called brains," returned 
 the other, Avho was a quaker; " the snow o£ 
 time is sprinkled on thy pate, bat the wis- 
 dom of age doth not enlighten thy under- 
 standing. Come hither, fair damsel; I will 
 administer to thy pecuniary wants, and there
 
 117 
 
 IS One above, -who, peradventure, will soon 
 extract tiie arrow that now rankles in thy 
 gentle bosom." 
 
 The female totter'd across the street, and 
 Philip observed, with extreme regret, that 
 her footsteps Jcx1t the print of blood behind 
 them ; for, her shoes were old, and her deli- 
 cate feet were mangled v/ith travelling. 
 
 " What, you mean to assist the beggar^ 
 do you ?'* still higher elevating the tip of his 
 turn-up nose, cried the justice. 
 
 ^' Yea, I do, Friend Adamant, in spite of 
 thee. Here, damsel, is a small bit of gold, 
 called an half-guinea — and may the angel of 
 peace soon revisit thee/' 
 
 She held out her hand, to receive the 
 good man*s donation, (whilst the tear of gra- 
 titude bedew'd her pallid cheek) but, it 
 trembled so violentlv, that she let it fall. 
 
 '' You see," observed Adamant, with a 
 sneer, ^' your charity is useless 3 she can't 
 hold it fast, but has dropt it." 
 
 '' I do; and I perceive, moreover, that it 
 hath rolled into that from whence thou didst 
 .spring — namely, the kennel." 
 
 '' Vat ! bless ma soul ! have you got so
 
 118 
 
 fnucli 7no7ues, as to let it ran into de ken- 
 nel ?" cried an old Jew, picking np the coin, 
 and putting it into his pocket. " Dat is 
 making ducks and drakes of it^ vid a ven- 
 geance!" 
 
 ^' But, you have made shift to pick it up, 
 and have put it in your pocket, though it is 
 all over mud and dirt," said Adamant. 
 
 ^' Yes, I did take it up, I don't deny it — 
 and I did put it in ma pocket — and vat denP 
 — I do ho[}e T/oii vill never pocket any gold, 
 vat may be got in a dirtier vaij, vid all my 
 heart!" 
 
 ^' Silence, fellov/, and don't prate," said 
 the angry justice, with much self-conse- 
 quei:ice. " I know you — you are a Jew — 
 there's no mistaking any of you." 
 
 '^ Tank you! tank you !" rephed the Le- 
 vite. " I do know dat many humane Chris- 
 tians do say, dere is a mark set on all Jews, 
 and you may know 'em by der countenance. 
 Now, vid submission^ dere is a mark on 
 your's, dat, 1 link, votdd hang you in any 
 court in England — it is, vat you call, a 
 tamn d unfeeling mark, and, if dis poor 
 girl's tears had not XxM-plinded her, she
 
 119 
 
 louhl never liave thought of axi}}g you for 
 charity, I do not doubt, but, at your parish- 
 tinners, vou do drink ' de vooden vails of 
 Old England, and de brave tars, vat guard 
 your property ;' but, dat is all stuff, if, ven 
 deij have lost der lives, in defence of dcr 
 country, you do refuse, goot Mr. Justice, to 
 succour dcr vidoics and orphans, left behind. 
 Dere, via dear, is your naonies ; and now let 
 us go, togeder, and comfort your poor 
 vioder.'^ 
 
 " This ? Oh ! good sir, it was a haY-gui- 
 nea that worthy gentleman gave me, and 
 which you took off the ground, and this is a 
 five-pound note !'* 
 
 " VelU never you mind dat^' said the old 
 man, and taking her arm within his, and 
 drawing the back of his other hand across 
 his eyes, " You see, ven an affectionate 
 child exerts herself, for r/e' sake of a distress'd 
 parent, Providence vill suffer monies to mul- 
 tiply, tenfold, even in de pocket of a poor old 
 Jew." 
 
 " So," thought Philip, '^ thus much for 
 the Jew and tlie Christian ! — for the despis- 
 ed, the butt of fools and children — and for
 
 120 
 
 ibe magistrate — the censor of morals, and 
 the deputy of the legislature ! — Let Christi- 
 anity blush ! and, tearing away the veil of 
 prejudice, wherewith reason and liberality 
 have been so long hoodwink'd, expand the 
 heart, and teach it to glow with feeling 
 for the worthy, of whatever country, or 
 religion !" 
 
 He put his horse up, again, and slowly 
 followed the Jew and his unfortunate com- 
 panion, till they stopp'd at the door of a 
 public-house. 
 
 " Here, good sir,'' said the female, " is 
 our poor lodging." 
 
 '' Veil, do 3^ou lead the vai/, my loaf, and 
 I shall follow you up de stairs." 
 
 *' And will you suffer one, who dives not 
 into scenes of distress, but from a wish to 
 lend his feeble aid, to accompany your" 
 demanded Philip. " I witnessed your late 
 conversation with that unfeeling man, and 
 am interested to be better known to you, fair 
 maid, and to this worthy man." 
 
 '^ Dat you do feel an interest for dis love- 
 ly girl, I do not ro??^^r— every body must 
 do the same," returned the Jews 'Vbut I
 
 m 
 
 own, I am a littlB^ astonished, dat you should 
 1;/^-/^ to know any ting of a poor old Jew. I 
 do believe, few young gentlemen, like to 
 yourself, do ever interest demselves about 
 vmi of us, but ven dey vant to touch our prin- 
 eipal. But, come your vays; valk in vid us, 
 and help to cheer dis young vomaii s heart, 
 and dat of her sick moder'' 
 
 ' They ascended a narrow staircase, and 
 •nter'd a miserable room, v^here, on a truc- 
 kle-bed, lay the object of their visit — a wo- 
 man Just past the prime of life. 
 
 " My dearest mother, cried the affectio- 
 nate girl, running to the bedside, " here are 
 two gentlemen come to visit you — to bring 
 you comfort.'* 
 
 '' Yes, my good voman, ve do vish to do 
 so," observed the Israelite; ^^ve are here for 
 dat purpose ; and, first of all, I do pray you 
 to taste diss it is a drop of good vine, fvat I 
 drink, ven I am travelling) and it v ill do 
 you nmch goot.** 
 
 The woman complied, and seem*d some- 
 what revived; but, when the old man bade 
 her to be of good cheer; for that all would 
 
 VOL. L G
 
 122 
 
 go well, she shook her head, and, with a 
 glance of incredulity, replied, it would ne« 
 ver be well with her, again. " I have lost 
 my husband,*' continued she, "and should 
 wish I had been bury'd in the sea, with him, 
 but for the sake of that poor girl ; though 
 'tis much the same — my heart is broke, and 
 I shall soon follow him. — Then, who will 
 take care of my dear Sally ? — No one; and, 
 when she is left without father and mother, 
 she will fall a sacrifice to some gay, de- 
 signing villain, or die, like myself, in po- 
 verty.'* 
 
 "Banish such gloomy thoughts!*' said 
 Philip; "Providence will never suffer a du- 
 tiful child to become the victim of seduc- 
 tion, or to perish in penury. You may 
 find friends, where you least expect 
 them." 
 
 " Dat is true, young man, upon ma 
 vordT' cried the Jew; "andr/a^ Im^y prove 
 ma vordy I do beg you not to fret about your 
 child; for I vill take care of her, and cherish 
 her, all as vo7i as if she vas my own. You 
 vill not be afraid to trust her vid me ; I am
 
 not one of your ^ gay villains.' Poor Abra- 
 ham Levi is pretty veil known, in dis 
 part of de country ; and I swear, by de 
 beards of my forefaders! I vill never desert 
 her!'* 
 
 ** Am I to believe you V replied the wo- 
 man. *' Surely you would not trifle with a 
 dying wretch. Nay, don't you cry, Sally , 
 we must all die — sooner or later — and the 
 thought of leaving you with a protector, will 
 smooth my death-bed pillow.'* 
 
 The girl tried to answer her, but tears 
 choked her utterance 3 she knelt by the bed- 
 side, carried her mother's hand to her lips, 
 and, burying her face in the clothes, re- 
 mained in that situation. 
 
 " Come, come, vc vill talk no more up-a- 
 ^t'/> of this subject. I must go, and order 
 you something to eat, and get you a better 
 room. Bless ma soul ! die, indeed! no, no, 
 you shall live, and your daughter shall live, 
 too — and vel — vilst old Levi has got ion gui- 
 nea in hisp^/o-.'* 
 
 So saying, Levi left the room; and Philip, 
 having, once more, entreated the mother 
 and daughter not to despond, descended the 
 G 2
 
 124 
 
 staircase, and found the Jew in the kitchen, 
 busy in preparing a chicken, and ordering 
 the landlady to send for a doctor, immedi- 
 ately. He waited, till the old man had put 
 the fowl into the pot; then, drawing him 
 from the kitchen, he saluted him with a pa- 
 negyric that came warm from his heart. 
 
 "Too much! too much!" cried Levi, 
 muffling his visage in his gabardine;" you 
 make de color come in ma face, vat never 
 vas dere before. It is bad ting, veil Chris- 
 tian tink so much of a little act of kindness. 
 Your faith do teach charity ; but, under fa- 
 vor, it*s disciples are not very much in the 
 -practice of it." 
 
 " I am sorry to say, there is too much jus- 
 tice in your observation," quoth Travers; 
 '' but, there are exceptions to every rule; 
 and, to prove that your example has worked 
 one good effect, 1 request you will allow me 
 to subscribe this trifle, in addition to the 
 assistance you may mean to give to those 
 poor sufferers." 
 
 He tendered him five guineas, which 
 the Levite put away, with the back of his 
 hand.
 
 125 
 
 " 1 can't touch von o^ deniy^ said he; ^^ clis 
 is no partnership-account — all vat I do, I 
 must do, at top of my own bottom. I do 
 tank you, however, and vill take care to tell 
 dem, how much dey are obhged to you, for 
 your good vill.'' 
 
 " Will you not let me contribute my mite, 
 then?'* 
 
 " Indeed, I vill not. Not a brass varding 
 shall go tovards their help, but vat come out 
 of ma own pocket." 
 
 " Generous creature !" exclaim'd Philip, 
 ^* let me shake your hand. Heaven will re- 
 ward you !** 
 
 " I ani retarded, already — here;'' said 
 the benevolent Israelite, laying his hand 
 upon his heart. " You are a goot young 
 man, a very goot young man, and I am 
 sorry I cannot suffer you to have a share in 
 (//.y business; — but, it belongs to me, alone. 
 I am de poor agent for a great principal, 
 above, and de interest I do vish for my mo- 
 nies — is gratitude to de Giver of all Good! — 
 By giving to dat poor girl and her inoder, 
 vat have got nobody else to help dem, I 
 do ti?i/i I am likely to secure it, by a bond
 
 126 
 
 from de heart. Your charity may be em- 
 ploy 'd, elsewhere — for dis vorld do abound 
 in misery. I do vish you 2i goot morning, 
 sir; and I pray, henceforvard, (I do not vis h 
 to boast) to beheve, that a Jezv may have as 
 much feeling as a Gentile P''
 
 127 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 For which foul deed 
 The powers, delaying not forgetting, have 
 Incens'd the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures 
 Against your peace. 
 
 Tempest. 
 
 On the second night, Phihp stopp'd at 
 an indifferent inn, and was told, there was 
 no town within the distance of seven miles , 
 so that he made up his mind to proceed no 
 Jarther, till morning. And, as his host en- 
 ter'd the room, with his supper, he deli- 
 ver'd a message from a traveller -, who, if 
 agreeable, W'ish'd to partake his meal. To 
 this request he returu'd a polite acquies- 
 cence, and the stranger was introduced. 
 
 He was a middle-sized man, about fifty 
 years of age, though an observer might 
 have taken him for more ; as he had, evi-
 
 128 
 
 dently, from the sallowness of his complex- 
 ion, resided in a tropical climate; nor did 
 that, alone, give him the appearance of a 
 premature old age — his brows bore legible 
 marks of care, though his dark eye was now 
 illumined with a faint smile. 
 
 Their repast ended, the stranger desired 
 the waiter to take care he had a safe bed- 
 room, as he had a great deal of property 
 about him, which he could not afford to 
 lose; to which the other made answer, if 
 he had thousands, they would be perfectly 
 safe. 
 
 They conversed on various subjects, the 
 stranger rather wishing to glean, than be- 
 stow information; and, understanding that 
 his companion was on his way to the metro- 
 polis, he begg'd leave to accompany him 
 thither. 
 
 " I am,*' said he, ** though an English- 
 man, almost a stranger to this country ; 
 and shall feel myself much indebted to you, 
 if you will allow me to be your fellow-tra- 
 veller." 
 
 " Willingly,'* replied Philip : *' and I 
 heartily wish it were in my power to be of
 
 U9 
 
 more service to you, in the way of a guide ; 
 but, you will not expect much at my hands, 
 when I tell you, I am a perfect stranger to 
 London, myself ; that I have left my near- 
 est and dearest connexions, and am now 
 travelling, for the first time in my life, to 
 the great city — whence I shall, probably, 
 embark for some foreign country, and seek 
 to improve the little stock I possess, by com- 
 merce.'* 
 
 •* Have you the consent of your parents 
 to the undertaking ?'* inquired the stranger, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Alas! I have no parents!" quoth 
 Philip. " The persons who have supplied 
 the place of father and mother to me, are, 
 indeed, averse to my intent — but I have no 
 resource.'* 
 
 " And would you, maugre that opposi- 
 tion, persist in your design ? Would you 
 wound the hearts of those who rear'd you ? 
 Oh I shame ! shame !'* 
 
 Philip looked displeased, and observed, 
 his language was such as the nature of their 
 short acquaintance did not justify, and his 
 own temper could not brook. 
 G5
 
 ISO 
 
 '' I am to blame," said the stranger: 
 *^ your words came home to my fe^hngs, 
 (bringing painful retrospection with them), 
 and threw me off my guard. I perceive I 
 have been guiltyof a piece of impertinence, 
 and earnestly entreat your pardon.'* 
 
 Philip replied, he had more than made 
 reparation; and accused himself of too 
 much heat, in resenting what a minute's 
 reflection would have convinced him, had 
 not been meant as an insult ; and conclud- 
 ed by cordially shaking his companion's 
 hand. 
 
 " Generous young man!'* cried the 
 other, " I cannot bear to suffer in your 
 opinion ; and, when I tell you, that I owe a 
 hfe of misery to an early propensity to ram- 
 bling, and that, in my boyish days, I de- 
 serted the best of fathers and mothers, to 
 indulge that inclination — leaving them a 
 prey to anxiety, on my account," (and here 
 his feelings almost overpower'd him), " you 
 v/ill, I trust, excuse my warmth. If the 
 istory of my early folly, and subsequent suf- 
 ferings, i^e worth your attention, I will re- 
 late it; and, though there may be httle to
 
 131 
 
 entertain, you will, at least, find something 
 instructive, in the recitaL'* 
 
 Having received for answer, that his tale 
 would be listen'd to with pleasure, the 
 stranger thus began : 
 
 " I am the son of a respectable mer- 
 chant of Dover, (named Brookes), who rear'd 
 me with truly paternal tenderness, till I 
 was fifteen years of age ; when the latent 
 desire I had always indulged for a sea-far- 
 ing life, was blown into a flame by the 
 commander of a privateer, who was intimate 
 with my father, and happened to take up 
 his residence with him, on returning from 
 one of his cruizes. 
 
 '' This gentleman entertain'd a great 
 liking for me; he was rough as the element 
 by which he lived, and would amuse me 
 with long accounts of his voyages, his bat- 
 tles, and his captures; taking care to paint- 
 his description of a maritime life in such co- 
 lors as would not fail to gratify a youthful 
 mind, already more than half-inclined to 
 the profession. From that time> my every 
 thought was devoted to my favorite pro- 
 ject, and I applied to my father for permis-
 
 132 
 
 sioii to accompany his friend in his next 
 cruize ; which he, peremptorily, refused ; 
 conjuring me to give up all idea of a pro- 
 fession, which would militate against the 
 plans he had in view for me, and was dis- 
 agreeable to my mother, as well as him- 
 self. 
 
 " Had I not been lost to all sense of duty, 
 or even nature, I should have paid implicit 
 obedience to his desire ; but, so strong was 
 my infatuation, that no consideration could 
 check it. When I imparted my disap- 
 pointment to the captain, he encouraged 
 my proposal of absconding from my pa- 
 rents 3 and, accordingly, I left my father's 
 house, and embark'd on board the Tartar, 
 commanded by Captain Death, (so was 
 he call'd), little aware of the numerous 
 trains of evils I was destined to en- 
 counter. 
 
 " We set sail v^ith a fair breeze, and fa- 
 vorable weather ; and I anticipated the 
 delights of a sailor's life. Soon, however, 
 the wind chopped about, and blew a perfect 
 hurricane, right in our teeth ; the sea toss'd 
 the vessel to and fro, and the violent nau-
 
 1^3 
 
 sea, occasioned by her motion, was so dread- 
 ful, that, for the first time, I repented the 
 step I had taken. The storm, however, 
 subsided , and, with it, every throe of com- 
 punction. 
 
 " We were destined for the coast of 
 Africa; and, by the time we made it, I was 
 as complete a tar as any onboard. 
 
 " Our first enterprise was against an Al- 
 gerine, of superior strength. We might, 
 indeed, have avoided coming to action with 
 her ; but Captain Death swore he had rather 
 die, than not face an enemy ; and all hands 
 were piped to quarters. 
 
 " We fought, 3^ard-arm and yard-arm, 
 for above an hour, when we were obliged to 
 strike; our commander having, previously, 
 fallen, while nailing the colors to the mast, 
 the ensign staff having been shot away. 
 
 *' The enemy set sail for Algiers, where 
 I became the property of the Dey, and was 
 employed in the gardens of the palace ; in 
 which menial station I remained ten weary 
 years, wishing that death would put an end 
 to my captivity and hfe at once ; when many 
 acts of kindness, conferred on me by the
 
 134 
 
 viceroy's son, somewhat reconciled me to 
 my lot, and won me to him, very much. 
 
 '' He entered the garden, one morning, 
 before any of the officers of the palace were 
 stirring, and accosted me ; desiring I would 
 accompany him to an alcove, in a retired 
 part of the grounds. 
 
 *' When we were there, Alcanzor (so was 
 he named), thus address'd me : — 
 
 " ' Christian, I am about to repose a con- 
 fidence in you, which, if betray'd, will 
 involve me in difficulties, if not go nigh to 
 affect my life. But, first, declare to me, 
 whether you are content to drag on a life of 
 slavery, or if you feel a desire to revisit your 
 native land ? Speak without apprehension j 
 mine is no idle curiosity. I swear, by our 
 holy Prophet ! you shall have no cause to 
 repent your candor T 
 
 '^ I confessed, that time had not, in the 
 least, reconciled me to the galling yoke of 
 slavery ; and that to see England, once 
 again, was the first wish of my soul. 
 
 " 'And would you not risk some danger, 
 for the chance of enjoying that wish ?' de- 
 manded he.
 
 135 
 
 " ' Point out the means/ cried I eagerly. 
 * I can look on clanger, ^vith as steady an 
 eye as another man.' 
 
 '' ' And will you swear, in return for my 
 oath, to be faithful to me r' 
 
 '' I made a solemn asseveration to that 
 effect. 
 
 " ' It is enough,' said he. ' I have 
 not time to declare more now ; but, when 
 the sun's last rays spangle the bosom of the 
 ocean, be in waiting in yonder copse of 
 lime trees, and you will hear from me. 
 Farewell ! and be punctual !' 
 
 " I watch'd the decline of day with im- 
 patience, and took my station, at an earlier 
 hour than I had been order'd to do ; where, 
 after a lapse of time, (that, to my anxiety 
 seem'd an age) a eunuch appear'd, and 
 beckon'd me to follow him, laying his fore- 
 fmger upon his lip, to enjoin silence. We 
 reach'd a private postern, when he took a 
 pocket-handkerchief from his vest, and 
 bound up my eyes 3 then, laying hold of my 
 hand, he enter'd the palace, and conduct- 
 ed me up a flight of steps ; where my eyes 
 were released from the bandage, and I found
 
 136 
 
 jmyself in a aiagnificent apartment, with the 
 prince. 
 
 '' But the object which attracted my 
 chief attention, was a female, who sat be- 
 side him ; and whose beauty rival'd even 
 that which Mussuhnen are taught to be- 
 lieve the Houris enjoy. 
 
 *^ My attention was drawn from this be- 
 witching object, by the words of Alcanzor, 
 who thus broke the silence :— 
 
 " * I promised, when last we met, to ad- 
 mit you to my confidence ; and I am, now, 
 about to do so. Listen, and be faithful. 
 
 *' ' This lady is your countrywoman, 
 born of English parents; but, falling into 
 my father's power, he, sanctioned by the 
 Mahometan faith, (which, you must know, 
 admits plurality of wives), insists on calling 
 her his own, and even upbraids her, that she 
 returns not his passion. 
 
 *^ * Alas ! Love is a deity not to be con- 
 strained, nor even conciliated, where incli- 
 nation leads him not ; at the same time that 
 he binds those hearts, which feel his influ- 
 ence, in chains of adamantine firmness I ' 
 
 ♦* The lady sigh'd.
 
 157 
 
 " * It was my lot/ continued Alcanzor, 
 gazing tenderly upon her, * by chance, to 
 see the beauteous Eleanor. Who could be- 
 hold her without emotion ?' 
 
 ** To this interrogatory my heart gave an 
 involuntary assenr. 
 
 *' ' To say I adored her, in her presence, 
 might appear flattery; to say my every 
 hope of earthly bliss depends upon her — is 
 but to declare the truth. The parent, who 
 bore me, was a Christian ; and, for her 
 sake, my heart inclines towards your whole 
 sect. Should persuasion fail, my father 
 (so well I know him) will employ force to 
 accomplish his desires, and Eleanor will be 
 doom'd to a hfe of misery ; which I, if pos- 
 sible, will avert. 
 
 " ' I have prepared every thing for her 
 escape, and mean to accompany her; to 
 restore her to the bosom of her family ; and 
 if, by time and assiduity, I can obtain 
 some return of the passion I feel for her, I 
 shall be happy, indeed. If otherwise, the 
 wretched Alcanzor will never intrude, 
 where, he knows, he offends — but sigh out 
 his life in solitude. 'Tis necessary I should
 
 138 
 
 have an assistant in my undertaking; and 
 (as your countrymen are famed, throughout 
 the w6rld, for gallantry and valour) I have 
 selected you for that office, convinced you 
 will prove yourself worthy of the trust I 
 repose in you. 'Tis more than life ; it is 
 my happiness you are intrusted with» 
 Speak, Christian ; do you feel any reluct- 
 ance in acceding to my proposal ?* 
 
 ^^ My heart bounded to give utterance to 
 my lips, and I made answer — that, inde- 
 pendent of my liberty, (which every man 
 must ardently desire) the opportunity of 
 rendering any service to a female in distress, 
 would be a sufficient inducement for me to 
 accompany him, and that he should find 
 me faithful. 
 
 " I partook of an elegant collation, and 
 was conducted out of the palace, in the 
 same manner that I had entered it. 
 
 " Frequently, did I see the enchanting 
 Eleanor, and, at each interview, drank fresh 
 draughts of Love's pernicious poison ; until 
 I forgot my faith to the prince, and began 
 to regard him with the jealousy of a rival. 
 
 <« The night of our departure arrived, and
 
 139 
 
 I attended the fugitives, at the usual place 
 of our meeting ; when Alcanzor gave me a 
 casket in charge, which, he said, contained 
 a sufficiency to render us all happy, for 
 life. 
 
 " ' To my brother,* continued he, * I re- 
 sign the succession — the blandishments of 
 state and luxury — and implore Mahomet to 
 bestow on me, love and competency !* 
 
 " A boat was moor'd under the wall of 
 the palace-gardens. Eleanor was wrapp'd 
 in a large cloak, and Alcanzor and myself, 
 taking each an arm, hurried her along the 
 walks, with all possible dispatch. 
 
 *' Already, we were descending the steps, 
 which led us to the vessel, when the gleam 
 of torches burst upon the gloom, and voices 
 were heard, crying — ^ Follow ! follow !* 
 
 " The prince fell back. 
 . '« « We are betray'd,' said he. ' But go 
 on — regard not me. Eleanor's happiness 
 was the first object of my love ; and, if she 
 escape, I shall have the satisfaction of hav- 
 ing promoted it. 
 
 " I convey'd the lady on board, and had 
 just follow'd her, when the voice of Muley
 
 140 
 
 was heard, uttering bitter oaths, and order- 
 ing his guards to seise the prince, and drag 
 us from the vessel. The first command was 
 instantly obey'd, though Alcanzor opposed 
 them, bravely : the latter they could not 
 accomphsh ; the sloop was clear of the wall, 
 and, a fine breeze blowing, we hoisted sail, 
 and bade farewell to Algiers. 
 
 '^ It is observed by a celebrated author, 
 that, in the adversity of our friends, we al- 
 ways find something that does not displease 
 us. So it was with me : I pitied Alcanzor, 
 but I did not regret his absence -, and I soon 
 drew a confession from Eleanor, that, if I 
 loved her, I need not encourage despair. 
 
 ** Our pilot was unskilful, and we were 
 driven on shore upon the negro coast ; 
 where the natives flock'd round, and 
 seem'd disposed to deprive us of our lives, 
 had not a youth, whose mien bespoke him 
 of a superior order, interfered in our behalf, 
 and order'd Eleanor and myself to be re- 
 leased. 
 
 *' His countenance prepossessed me in 
 his favor, and I implored his protection for 
 a pair of hapless lovers. But, a negro, of
 
 141 
 
 ferocious aspect, was for inflicting instant 
 death upon us, to revenge the number of his 
 countrymen, who had been condemned to 
 slavery by people of our color. 
 
 " ' And would you, in pursuit of venge- 
 ance, punish the innocent ?* demanded the 
 friendly negro. ' There you out-run dis- 
 cretion; for no revenge can be justifiable, 
 but what is noble. No; let us set the white 
 men an example of moderation, and teach 
 them, that a feeling heart often beats in a 
 dusky bosom. Fear not,' continued he, 
 turning to us, ^ you are safe ; I swear to be 
 your friend V 
 
 *' He carried us to his residence, treated 
 Eleanor with every mark of attention and 
 respect, that the most civilised being could 
 have done, and imparted to me the source 
 of the melancholy, in which he was fre- 
 quently wrapt. 
 
 " His father (chief of the tribe) had 
 been attacked by a neighbouring leader, on 
 account of the loss of some cattle. Juba, 
 my black friend, then in the early part of 
 life, stood forward, the champion of his 
 parent, and his country : he hurl'd the mis-
 
 145 
 
 sive weapon which transpierced the heart of 
 his adverse chief, and the acclamations of 
 his countrymen rent the air. But, alas ! 
 short-lived was their triumph ! An envious 
 arrow pierced the gallant Juba ; and his fa- 
 ther, overpower'd with grief, sunk on the 
 body of his own son, never to rise again ! 
 
 ^' Fortunately Juba's wound was not 
 mortal. They concealed his father*s death 
 from him, many days. At length, he became 
 acquainted with it; and often did the 
 generous youth, with tears in his eyes, 
 acknowlege to me, he had never ceased to 
 regret his loss. 
 
 " Here, then, were the wounds of com- 
 punction (which, often in my slavery, had 
 smarted) opened afresh. I had received a 
 lesson of filial piety and affection, from a 
 savage; and blush'd, when I reflected on 
 the distinction the white man draws, be- 
 tween the negro and himself ! 
 
 " We had a piece of ground iiKotted us, 
 and, under the friendly auspices of Juba, I 
 and my Eleanor led a happy life ; too much 
 so, to be long undisturb'd. 
 
 " The Chief of a neighbouring district
 
 145 
 
 saw my Eleanor, and was smitten with her 
 charms : he sent his ambassadors to demand 
 her; but Juba return'd for answer, she was 
 the wife of another, and that the laws of ho- 
 nor, and hospitahty, forbade him to separate 
 her from a husband, who loved her. 
 
 *^ Incensed at this reply, the enamour'd 
 chief dispatch'd a second deputation, to 
 say, he was about to put the boasted hospi- 
 tality of Juba to the trial, by coming, un- 
 invited, into his country, and required pro- 
 per attention might be paid to his recep- 
 tion ; otherwise, he should celebrate his own 
 arrival with an illumination, that should 
 make many hearts ache, nor would he re- 
 turn, till he had laid waste the whole coun- 
 try. 
 
 *' Juba was too brave to regard his threat, 
 and dared him to the trial -, observing, his 
 reception should be such as he deserved -y 
 that victory was in the hand of God, alone 
 — but, whether he fail'd, or conquered, he 
 should have the consolation of knowing, he 
 had drawn the sword of war, in a just 
 cause. 
 
 ^' The war commenced.
 
 144 
 
 ** The adverse chief led an army of seven 
 thousand men into the field ; while Juba*s 
 troops amounted to little more than half that 
 number. But, they were disciplined men, 
 accustom'd to conquer under their present 
 leader, and fought for every thing most 
 dear — their king — their country — their 
 wives and their children ! 
 
 •* * What are fifty, what a thousand slaves, 
 Match'd to the sinew of a single arm 
 That strikes for liberty ?* 
 
 ** The fight began, and the enemy were 
 mow*d down, like blades of grass; but their 
 numbers were great, and, as often as a 
 chasm was effected, it was fiU'd up by fresh 
 troops. They visibly gained ground, and, 
 at length, our forces were compelled to re- 
 treat. 
 
 " Juba, with a corps of reserve, now 
 rush'd upon the foe, and bore down all be- 
 fore him, which encouraged the fugitives, 
 who turn'd on their pursuers with renovated 
 courage. 
 
 « I was stationM by the side of my brave 
 friend, who fought like a chafed lion : his
 
 145 
 
 example inspired his own men with valor — 
 while it struck terror into the hearts of his 
 foes — and I had the satisfaction of seeing 
 them fly before his conquering arm. 
 
 '" And, here, the humanity of Jiiba was 
 no less conspicuous, than his courage. 
 He call'd off his men from the persuit 
 (for his generous heart recoil'd at shed- 
 ding blood, wantonly,) and even sent a he- 
 rald to the town whither the enemy had re- 
 treated 3 offering sucli terms of peace as 
 suited, equally, the honor of both par- 
 ties. 
 
 '' In return to this proposal, Juba w-as 
 invited to enter the town, and adjust the 
 differences with the opposite leader 3 and 
 he, ever ready to restore to his subjects the 
 blessings of peace, accepted the invita- 
 tion. 
 
 '^ The treacherous chief, who had in- 
 veigled him, saw his intended victim with 
 a joyful eye, and devised a hellish scheme 
 to terminate the glorious career of the un- 
 suspecting Juba. lie prepared a magnifi- 
 cent banquet, whereat my valued friend 
 and his associates were massacred. 
 
 \ OL. I. U
 
 146 
 
 " < We are betray'd !* he exclaimed, draw- 
 ing his sabre; * but we will sell our lives, 
 dearly r 
 
 *^ With gleaming sword, like a tiger in 
 the toils, he dealt destruction round him ; 
 but a treacherous blow, from behind, cleft 
 his head asunder, and the angel of death 
 closed his eyes in everlasting sleep ! 
 
 *^ Ill-starr'd Juba ! thou art, long since, 
 lost to the world ! bat thy memory will be 
 cherished by thy Admiring subjects, so 
 long as patriotic virtue shall be dear to 
 them. 
 
 " The first intimation we received of our 
 heavy loss, was from the man (the only one) 
 w^ho had escaped the general carnage ; and 
 who bore the head of the deceased, with a 
 most insulting message from the leader of the 
 murderers. 
 
 •^ This relic of their beloved general 
 aroused the fury of the soldiers into mad- 
 ness ; and they solemnly swore to know no 
 rest, till they had avenged his fall. Ac- 
 cordingly, they, once more, took the field ^ 
 but, after a hardy struggle, were compell'd 
 to yield to the superior powers of the
 
 147 
 
 enemy, and were most of them slaugli- 
 ter'd. 
 
 ^' They who escaped death, were brought 
 before the inhuman victor — who regarded 
 them with a contemptuous and insulting 
 smile. Among the rest, myself and my 
 Eleanor — she w^ho had been the innocent 
 cause of the scene of destruction 1 have ref- 
 lated — and, at sight of her, the eyes of the 
 hostile leader sparkled with delight. 
 
 " ' I come, great conqueror ! ' said she, 
 in a tone of irony, ' to congratulate you 
 on the prowess of your arms, and to offer 
 you the object for whom you have, glo- 
 rioush', unsheathed the sabre of desolation 
 — waded through blood — and violated the 
 rights of nations ! — How poor a compensa- 
 tion for the noble deeds you have achieved ! 
 — Here is my hand/ 
 
 *' He advanced, in haste, to meet her, 
 and had just taken hold of the hand she ten- 
 der'd him, (while I stood mute with amaze- 
 ment) when, with the other, she drew a 
 conceal 'd poniard, which sh^ buried in 
 his bosom, and her own, before any one 
 had time to prevent the act. Her life- 
 H 2
 
 us 
 
 blood issued from the wound ; and, castin'g 
 a languid smile on me^ she ceased to 
 breathe ! 
 
 • '' Years upon years have roll'd, since I 
 sustain'd the loss ^ but busy memory is 
 faithful to it's task — and retrospection brings 
 full upon my mind the horrors of that fatal 
 .day, and harrows up my soul to a pitch of 
 phrensy!" 
 
 Here, his words became almost inarticu- 
 late ; the drops of anguish roll'd down his 
 forehead, which he beat with violence, 
 wdiile he gnas.h'd his teeth, and deep groans 
 burst from his tortured breast. 
 
 The paroxysm having abated, he apolo- 
 gised for his conduct, and resumed his nar- 
 rative. 
 
 ^' When the savao-es saw their chief fall, 
 lifeless, they w^ould have wreak'd their 
 vengeance upon me, (who was careless as to 
 what became of me, deprived, as I was, of 
 all that made life desireable) but the next in 
 power commanded them to desist ; observ- 
 ing, death ^would be mercy tome — that 
 I should live — and in the most painful 
 slavery.
 
 149 
 
 *'* I scorn'd to parley with the monsters, 
 and continued kneeling, beside the corse of 
 my lamented Eleanor — and breathing forth 
 my griefs, as if she iiad still been conscious 
 of them. But, even this gratification was 
 not long permitted me. I was torn from 
 the body, and convey'd to the enemy's 
 country, where I languish'd out twenty te- 
 dious years, in bondage. 
 
 *' At the termination of that period, I 
 found means to get on board a French ship, 
 that traded to the coast for slaves ; and, 
 after a speedy passage, I lately landed at 
 Boulogne. 
 
 " There, I met with an English paper, 
 containing an account of my father's bank- 
 ruptcy, and my mother's death — occasioned 
 by a broken heart. This intelligence has- 
 ten'd my departure 3 and I left the Conti- 
 nent, accompanied by a servant, who now 
 attends me, and whom I hired at Boulogne 
 : — his former master, having been obliged to 
 abscond from that place, on account of a 
 duel, had left the poor fellow (a country- 
 man, and a very simple creature) behind 
 him — for which reason, I hired him; and
 
 150 
 
 his fidelity has proved him to be possessed of 
 much gratitude. 
 
 ^* After an absence of five and thirty 
 years, I, OEce more, trod my native soil, 
 and repaired to Dover — , where I received 
 information, that my father had retired to a 
 village, in Lancashire, in great distress. 
 Thither I went, and there I learn'd, that he 
 was gone to London, to which place I am 
 now travelling. Having, in all my trou- 
 bles, taken care to preserve the casket of 
 jewels, given me by Alcanzor, I have 
 enough to make me as comfortable as the 
 recollection of past circumstances will allow 
 me to be -, and to render the declining years 
 of a parent free from want. 
 
 " Thus, you have the story of my suffer- 
 ings ; which certainly originated in myself; 
 and I bow, with resignation, to the hand 
 that has inflicted them — conscious that my 
 filial disobedience can, only, be expiated by 
 contrition the most exemplary. Your de- 
 claration of your intention, of going abroad, 
 contrary to the will of your friends, caused 
 me to trangress the rules of politeness; 
 but, at the moment, I thought, only.
 
 151 
 
 of the pangs you might occasion them, and 
 the many sorrows you might be preparing 
 for yourself. Under these impressions, my 
 words came, involuntarily, from the heart 
 — and it was my wish to counsel, not to of- 
 fend, you.' ^ 
 
 Philip took him by the hand, and thankM 
 him for the recital -, and, at the same time, 
 endeavoured to divert his attention from the 
 past, by congratulating him on the prospect 
 before him — particularly, the requisite de- 
 light of administering to a father's wants. 
 
 They conversed till a late hour ; when 
 Mr. Brookes said, he should rise early, and 
 devote some time to reading, as was his 
 morning-custom; and, for that purpose, or- 
 der'd the waiter to call him at seven. The 
 travellers then parted, and retired to their re- 
 spective apartments.
 
 152 
 
 CHAPTER. XL 
 
 Her? is a sight to make a Matue start with horror, or tttm^f 
 living mau into a statue ! 
 
 It is meat and drink to me to see a clown, 
 
 Shakspears. 
 
 A LOUD rap at liis door awoke Travers, at 
 an early hour; and, to his demand of who 
 it was, tlie subsequent answer was given, in 
 a voice of terror. 
 
 " For the love of God! get up, sir!— 
 There has been murder done ! — Oh ! do 
 make all the haste you can !'^ 
 
 Philip needed little entreaty to obey the 
 dictates of humanity. He dress'd himself 
 with all possible expedition, and join'd the 
 chambermaid (who had calFd him) on the 
 staircase.
 
 153 
 
 '' AVho is murder'dr" demavided he. 
 
 '' The gentlemaa who supp'd with you^ 
 last night, sir. Pray, come witli me, and 
 1 11 show you to the very spot." 
 
 She led him into a field at the back of the 
 house; where, surrounded by a concourse 
 of people, lay the corpse of Mr. Brookes, 
 bleeding copiously ; a pitchfork, stain'd 
 with his blood, lay near him, and he observ- 
 ed a swarthy, ill-looking fellow, in a coun- 
 tryman's frock, (whose clothes w^ere, also, 
 mark'd with the same liquid) secured by tw'O 
 men. 
 
 Philip iearn'd from his landlord, that, on 
 his going into the field, he had heard a 
 groan, and making for the spot whence it 
 appear'd to issue, he had found the deceas- 
 ed, just breathing his last, and the man iu 
 the frock kneeling beside him, — as he sup- 
 posed, rifling his pockets ; (for, now, there 
 was nothing in them) that he call'd, aloud, 
 for help, and, some neighbours coming up> 
 secured the fellow, who, doubtless, had mur- 
 der 'd him. 
 
 ** The proofs are strong against the pri- 
 H5
 
 154 
 
 soner, certainly/' observed Philip. *' Have 
 you examined his pockets ?", 
 
 " To be sure, we have/* replied the land- 
 lord. '^ But, do you suppose, when I came 
 up, that he had not got rid of whatever he 
 had taken from the poor gentleman? Let 
 him alone for that — he's an old offender, I 
 warrant him.'' 
 
 *' That is more than youy or /, can tell," 
 said Travers. *' But, if I understood you 
 rightly, you came upon him, unaware; and,, 
 had he had any property to conceal, he 
 could not have effected it, I thinks without 
 your observation. What have you to say 
 lor yourself?" 
 
 *' Lord ! master," answer'd the culprit > 
 '* it doesn't signify much what a poor man 
 has to say in his own favor. I 've no evi- 
 dence, but my accuser — and he seems in- 
 clined to hang me, without benefit of judge, 
 or jury ; but, I hope, my case will be a les- 
 son to people, in future, not to trouble them- 
 selves with what don't concern them." 
 
 '' Explain; nor fear the voice of preju- 
 dice," said our hero.
 
 i56 
 
 '' My stor}- is a very simple one, and soon 
 told," quoth the fellow. ** I was travelUng, 
 in hopes of getting ahttle bread, (for, I have 
 not eat, these two days — no work was to be 
 had) and, passing through this field, I found 
 a man lying upon his face, with a pitchfork 
 sticking in his back, and all over blood. If 
 I had seen a dog in the same state, I should 
 have done what I could for him : so, seeing 
 he had some life in him, I took the fork out 
 of his back, and was trying to stop the blood, 
 when that man (pointing to the landlord) 
 came up, and charged me with murder. 1 
 made him no answer, I believe, for I was too 
 busy about the poor gentleman ; but he hal- 
 looed out '^ murder,'' and then, being joinM 
 by some of these j^eople, he laid hold of me. 
 If I had been inclined, I could have got 
 away, easily, when I first saw him." 
 
 " There is some reason in what you say," 
 returned Philip: " but, character goes a 
 great way, in a case like your's. Have you 
 uo one to vouch for your's." 
 
 " No," said the fellow, shaking his head ; 
 ** I have no friend, nor relation, in the world. 
 J work, when I can get employment; and
 
 156 
 
 when I can't, I starve. But, that's nothing 
 to the purpose. I shall be hang'd, at last, 
 for doing a piece of kindness to a fellow- 
 creature.'' 
 
 " If you are guilty, you ought, and will, 
 suffer the punishment your crime deserves ; 
 but, if innocent, you need not despair. You 
 will be tried by a British jury — whose deci- 
 sions never swerve from justice. Circum- 
 stances appear against you ; but, for my 
 own part, I am ahvays inclined to side with 
 the accused, and think no man has a right 
 to deem another guilty, until the law has 
 pronounced him so." 
 
 He gave him two guineas. 
 
 '^ Take this," continued he, " and get 
 you some refreshment^ and you, gentlemen, 
 who have taken charge of him, treat him 
 as one human being should treat another." 
 
 Part of th? crowd moved off with the pri- 
 soner, while the other convey 'd the body 
 into the house; and, amongst the latter, 
 Philip, who was conversing on the late me- 
 lancholy event, with his landlord, in the kit- 
 chen; when they heard a loud bustle, and, 
 presently, a number of people hustled a
 
 157 
 
 man into the room — bound, and dress'd in 
 the same coat and waistcoat that the de- 
 ceased had worn, on the preceding night. 
 
 He was a short, squat figure, with a pot- 
 belly, and cheese-cutter legs. His face was 
 large and round ; his forehead high and pro- 
 minent; his brows wide asunder, and ex- 
 tending, from the top of his nose, to the 
 peak of his sun-burn'd locks, on the summit 
 of either temple. He had odd-color'd 
 eyes — the one hazel, the other grey; and so 
 stronii^ a squint with the latter, that it was a 
 matter of some difficulty, when two persons 
 were present, to ascertain towards which of 
 the parties his organs of vision v»'ere direct- 
 ed. His nose was dilated, and so complete- 
 ly turn'd up, that his nostrils were nearer 
 perpendicular, than horizontal ; and he had 
 a mouth extending almost from ear to ear, 
 and so square at tlie corners, that it resem- 
 bled that of a China-lion, which is, frequent- 
 ly, seen, grinning on a chimney-piece. 
 
 " What have 'ee trusted I, in this here 
 way, for all the world like a rabbit, vor F* 
 cried he, trembling. '' I were froightful 
 (now to be call'd out o' my bed, in such a
 
 desperate liurry — that's what I were— with- 
 out being lugg'd away, hke thief to gallows 
 — wi my eyes half open. — What-a-dickins ! 
 do it all mean?'* 
 
 " The meaning is plain enough/' replied 
 a tall, spindle-shank'd, old man, whose dress 
 declared him beadle of the parish; who, 
 with others, had been drawn thither, by the 
 cry of murder, and now held this second 
 culprit b}^ one side of his collar — " too plain, 
 you villain." 
 
 Philip now interfered, and, perceiving the 
 fellow to be much alarm'd, told his interro- 
 gator, it would be better to give him a little 
 time, to recollect himself, before any farther 
 questions are put to him. 
 
 '' He is a rascal, sir. We found him (I 
 and my friend, Mr. Surrogate) in his mas- 
 ter's clothes; and he will not tell us how he 
 came by them," observed the riian, who se- 
 cured the prisoner on the other side. 
 
 " Ecod ! you should ax ?/;?, how they 
 came by /; for I know nought o' matter," 
 replied the countryman. 
 
 *' Don't be alarm'd,'* said Philip; " but, 
 speak freely, and explain this business."
 
 159 
 
 ^^ I imill, xuVy I ivull~-\^ that- ere gemma??, 
 zi'o' his three- cornerVl. cock*d-up hat, and 
 two-pair- of- stairs wig, domit look at me: — 
 but, he froightens every syllabub out o* my 
 poor noddle, by gosliT 
 
 '' Go on," said Travers. 
 
 '^ Well, zur, I were fast asleep, all aloane 
 by myself, and not dreaming o' nothing, at 
 all — when I heard a huge cry o* murder, 
 and the loike — (I could n't ha' been more 
 lestijrd, if I had been killVl, myself). — So, I 
 gets up, all hoddij'doddi/, and goes out to see 
 what zvere matter; and so — and so — these 
 here volks began to coom round / — and says 
 they — says they — ' That he he !' (that were 
 I) and so they laid hold of /—and then they 
 liad /. — x\Dd, then, up comes three-cock'd 
 hat, yonder, and he says to me — ' You wil- 
 lain, you ha' fascinated youv poor measter.^ 
 — ' So,' says I, ' what is fascinated F — So, 
 says he, ' You've kill'd tin.' — So, says I, 
 ' NoQy I wewevfascinated any body, in all my 
 born-days — except Barbara Bur — who pro- 
 mised to stick to me, till death.'-— And so 
 she did, for she died for love of I! — So, then.
 
 160 
 
 he said to I.. ..says he — says he that*s 
 
 what he said — says he !" 
 
 " The case is too plain," observed the 
 parish-officer ; — *' I'm certain he is the mur- 
 derer." 
 
 '' Ay, ay," cried the other person, who 
 held the prisoner, shaking him by the col- 
 lar — ''■ this fellow is more rogue than fool." 
 
 '' Perhaps I he betwixt both,'" answer'd 
 the fellow, leering, alternately, at his de- 
 tainers. 
 
 " Impudent rascal !" exclaim'd the bea- 
 dle, his naturally- sallow countenance deep- 
 ening with rage, to a tawny orange-color. 
 
 '' Impudent, unlike your honor!" quoth 
 the countryman. 
 
 '' Scoundrel!" rejoin'd the jack-in-office; 
 " you have been buzzing about, like a fly, 
 to see what you could lay your birdlime fm- 
 gers upon." 
 
 " Ecod ! I never thought I should be such 
 a blue-bollle, as to bring my self into the web 
 of such along-legg'd oldsplde?' as thee art — I 
 can tell 'ce that." 
 
 *' hriag him along," said the beadle;
 
 161 
 
 *^ we '11 lodge him in the cacre, for to-night ; 
 and, in the morning, we shall hear what his 
 worship will say to him." 
 
 *' What be tliee going to cage IP — I could 
 never shig in all the vassal world." 
 
 '' We'll make you sing small, before we 
 have done with you, 1 warrant. — Away 
 with him." 
 
 Travers, again, interposed, and advised 
 the officer to conduct himself more calmly. 
 Then, addressing himself to the prisoner, he 
 said — 'f Who are you, friend r" 
 
 ^' I be Humphry Hawbuck — and I do at- 
 tend upon the dead gentleman — I be his 
 xcallet-de'Shamble, ' * 
 
 '^ And how come you to have on your 
 master's clothes.^" 
 
 " Why, zur, if I hadn't been so mortally 
 scarified, I would ha' told thee all before. 
 He gid un to /, last night — (when he icere 
 alive) — and told /, to brush iin; and so, zur, 
 when I were call'd out o' bed, all in a dol- 
 drum, I dress'd / mzin, instead o' my own— 
 natural enousfh." 
 
 '' This account is far from unlikely," ob- 
 served Philip.
 
 162 
 
 ** Oh ! very unlikely, indeed, %iir — 1 he 
 no more guiltless, than you be.'* 
 
 '" Well, gentlemen," said Philip, '' to save 
 this poor creature from passing his time in 
 such a lodging as you would fain provide 
 him, I w^ill undertake (and, I dare to say, 
 my host will do the same) the charge of him^ 
 till such time as he can be conveyed before 
 a magistrate.'* 
 
 " That won't do, sir,'* said Surrogate : 
 '' he has insulted the law, in my person, and 
 he shall go to quod, till his worship is up, 
 by way of punishment for his insolence." 
 
 ^'Then, it appears, you consult your own 
 petty malice, rather than the dictates of 
 justice," return'd Travers, indignantly. 
 
 " No matter what I consult, or don't 
 consult, he shall go to the cage. Drag him 
 along." 
 
 ** Do ha' a little Christian commcmora- 
 tionr cry'd Hawbuck, as they proceeded 
 to put this order into execution. " This be 
 as bad as one of the French letter s-to-catch- 
 yel where they snap joxa up, tv'illij-nillyy^ndi 
 pop you into Baystile, to polish your eye- 
 brows against their rusty bars 1— -Ecod ! I do
 
 163 
 
 think, this be a black style o' doing things, 
 as ever were met loi y by gosh! — This define^ 
 ment in the cage will reduce such an evolu* 
 tion in my par son yihdJtiimoiliex were to see 
 her sweet baby, she'd take Humphry for his 
 apparatus — and go into a highstrike fit! — 
 Oh! dear! — Oh! dear! I shall be quite a 
 hopjack^ before they ha done loi I, by goshf^
 
 164 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 Justice, 
 
 Minute in her stern exercise of office, 
 Is comprehensive in effect ; and when 
 She points the sword at the particular, 
 She almg at general good* 
 
 Cd&MANy rut, YouNdSR. 
 
 Oh! that he were but here, to write me down an ass! 
 
 Much Ado About Notbinq. 
 
 The two prisoners were convey'd to the 
 nearest town, whither Travers accompanied 
 them; and, on reaching a large brick-house, 
 with a tremendous brass-knocker, one of tlie 
 constables rapp'd at the door, and inquired 
 if his worship could be spoken withal ? He 
 received for answer, that he was at leisure; 
 and the party was usher'd into a commodi- 
 ous parlour, where, in petty state, sat the 
 administrator of the law! — the terror uf the 
 town ! 
 
 ** Tremendous Justice Midas T""
 
 16.5 
 
 Jacob Snarl was the son of one of those 
 i)oUsJid gentlemen that are to be met with, 
 at the corners of many streets, in the capi- 
 tal, ready to apply the gemdne Japan-liquid 
 to your boots, or shoes ; and, to say truth, 
 he did honor to the stock whence he 
 sprung ; for he was ever ready, and willing, 
 to undertake any diiiy work, whereby he 
 was likely to derive the most trifling emolu- 
 ment. His father died while he was, yet, a 
 boy, and Jacob served, as waiter, in a sniall 
 public-house; in which situation, the half- 
 pence and farthings, given him by the cus- 
 tomers, were hoarded with all the care and 
 anxiety of avarice, and, in time, amounted 
 to a decent sum ; which will not be won- 
 der'd at, when it is consider'd, that he 
 boarded and lodged at the expence of his 
 employers, and that his dress was a3conomi- 
 cal in the extreme. 
 
 During his residence in the above capa- 
 city, an old brazier, who frequented the 
 house, and lived in the neighbourhood, af- 
 ter having taken his pipe and his pint, one 
 evening, declared he had forgotten to put 
 any money into his pocket, and that he
 
 166 
 
 must be under the necessity of leaving lus 
 reckoning, unpaid, till his next visit. Ja- 
 cob, who knew his man, and never lost an 
 opportunity of endeavouring to ingratiate 
 himself, told the old fellow not to inconve- 
 nience himself; but that, if he wanted a 
 small sum for present use, besides, he would 
 accommodate him. 
 
 The brazier look'd astonishment. 
 
 *' Yoti accommodate me ?*' he cried. ^'A 
 little scrubbed boy, whose leger is the back 
 of a tap- room- door, lend money ! — How did 
 you get it, sirrah?" 
 
 '' By savingness, and the like of that there, 
 Mr. Gripe. I always coiisiders, that a pen- 
 ny saved is a penny got — one and one makes 
 ivjo, you. knozos,'*' 
 
 " Thou art a fme lad! a prodigious fine 
 lad!" said Gripe, whose sentiments were 
 congenial with those of the youth. " Ah I 
 Jacob ! stick to these sentiments, and you'll 
 thrive! there is no virtue like oeconomy, nor 
 any vice equal to prodigality. ' Charity 
 begins at home,' and ' self preservation is the 
 first law of human nature,' * Take care of 
 your pence i and your pounds zvill take care of
 
 167 
 
 ihemselves.' Oh ! I foretell, thou wilt be a 
 great man — a very great man ! By the bye, 
 I am, now, without a shop-boy; and, if thou 
 iikest it, the place shall be thine.'* 
 
 The cautious Jacob scraped his foot, but 
 made no reply; and Mr. Gripe desired him 
 to give him an early answer to his proposal, 
 which he promised he would do. 
 
 Half of that night did the plodding boy 
 pass without sleep — his regret to leave the 
 coppers he touch'd in his present service, 
 and his inclination to embrace the brazier's 
 offer, kept him upon the waver, like an ass 
 between two bundles of hay. His present 
 gains were certain, and much more produc- 
 tive than it was possible for him to reap, for 
 some time, under Mr. Gripe ; but then, in 
 the latter instance, there was some prospect 
 of promotion — in the former there was no 
 hope beyond that of '^ coming, sii^T' — In 
 this manner did he rack his mind, pro and 
 con^ till, exhausted with study, he dropt 
 asleep, when he had a vision that complete- 
 ly determined him his future conduct. He 
 thought his father's awful shade appear'd 
 to him —
 
 368 
 
 '* Even in his habit, as he lived," 
 
 who look'd very black, and, shaking liis 
 shining brush at him, upbraided him for 
 folly, in hesitating to give Mr. Gripe's kind 
 proffer the preference. " Remember," cried 
 the dingy spectre, as it vanish'd, '^ you will 
 2Jrqfit by it !" 
 
 Jacob had a spice of superstition in him : 
 his dream made so strong an impression on 
 him, that the hrst thing he did, was to give 
 his master warning; he accompanied the 
 brazier home, the same night, and took pos- 
 session of his dormitory, under the counter. 
 
 By dint of application and servility, he 
 arose from one station to another, until he 
 sustain'd the enviable one of chief shopman 
 — his master regarded him as a pattern of 
 prudence and honesty, and his mistress (who 
 was much younger than her helpmate) was 
 extremely liberal oiher favors to him. And 
 now had Jacob enter'd his twenty- fifth 
 year, when Mr. Gripe, being proved debtor 
 to time, suddenly closed his woildly ac- 
 counts; leaving liis widow a very profitable 
 business, and twenty thousand pounds, in
 
 169 
 
 the five per cents. This was regarded by 
 Jacob as the critical minute : he pUed the 
 widow, incessantly; and so well did he play 
 his cards, that, before the expiration of six 
 months, he led her to Bishopsgate Church, 
 and hail'd her his dear Mrs. Snarl. 
 
 Now, he had a field for his darling 
 passion ; and, what with money-lending, 
 stock-jobbing, and other speculations, (we 
 might say, peculations) twenty years saw 
 him master of seven score thousand pounds. 
 His wife was no longer regarded as the chief 
 source of his prosperity — he treated her 
 with contempt — complain'd, eternally, of 
 her extravagance — and when she requested 
 a separate maintenance, goiei^ously replied, 
 he would pay for her board and lodging, in 
 any cheap town she chose to make her resi- 
 dence. This ill-treatment, fjom a man who, 
 certainly, owed her gratitude, with the use 
 of strong waters, (to which the poor lady was 
 very much addicted) at length, terminated 
 her existence; to the no small joy of her 
 husband,. who reckon'd upon increasing his 
 wealth, by a second marriage. 
 
 Amongst others, whose purses were, oc- 
 VOL. I, I
 
 170 
 
 casionally, replenished by the kindness of 
 Mr. Gripe, (and that at the moderate rate 
 of {\\e and twenty per cent.) was a noble 
 lord, who owed him no less a sum than 
 thirty thousand pounds ; for which the len- 
 der held a mortgage on the estate. The 
 ambition of Snarl (though, hitherto, re- 
 strained by circumstances) seems to have 
 been equal to his avarice; as will be seen in 
 the sequel. 
 
 In pursuance of a plan he had formed, he 
 waited on the peer; and soliciting a patient 
 hearing, thus address'd him:— > 
 
 *^ You'll excuse my coming, at once, to 
 the bit of business that brought me here, 
 my lord. A man of trade, like me, has no 
 right for to cut any flourishes, nor to make 
 none of your rigmaroll speeches, my lord. 
 Hem ! hem ! — You kfiozvs as how Death's 
 snuffers have dipt the wick of poor Dolly's 
 life— she's in her grave, comfortably stow'd, 
 and solder'd down as tight as a new sauce- 
 pan-lid, my lord ; whereby, do you see, I am 
 like a solitary fish-kettle, in a large ware- 
 house. Now, if as how your lordship thinks 
 fit, (with reverence be it spoken) 1 should
 
 171 
 
 like for a parson for to rivet Lady Maryhajid 
 and I together in matrimony ; for we should 
 match hke a pair of plated candlesticks 5 — 
 and so and so — what does your lordship say 
 to my purposal r* 
 
 '' I say," quoth the peer, " that, had I 
 not known you dealt in brass before, I must 
 have found it nowj and that, did not your 
 insignificance protect you, Sancho Panza's 
 exploits in the blanket should be nothing to 
 what you should undergo." 
 
 He utterVi this with extreme wrath, and 
 Jacob began to quake for his carcase. He, 
 at last, however, found means to mollify 
 him, by telling him (in the event of his con- 
 sent to the union) he would give him a re- 
 ceipt for twenty of the thirty thousand due 
 to him; and, in short, made other offers 
 too tempting for his lordship to resist. 
 
 " The perquisite soften' d him into consent^* 
 
 and the old brazier became husband to the 
 lovely and accomplish'd Lady Mary Ann. 
 Upon which, he act the shop, retired to the 
 tot\'n where the reader was introduced to 
 I 2
 
 172 
 
 him, got on the commission of the peace, 
 and hroke his wife's heart within a twelve- 
 month!" 
 
 Such was the man before whom the cul- 
 prit was brought, and w4iose exterior could 
 boast nothing prepossessing, being a little 
 shrivel'd figure, with grey eyes, whose 
 margins were like a raspberry-tart, and a 
 nose that would have put that facetious gen- 
 tleman, Mr, Punch, out of countenance. 
 
 With great self-sufficiency, he received 
 the homage of his satellites, and wisely broke 
 the silence, by saying, " Well, constables, 
 what 's this here matter that vou 're come 
 about, hey?" 
 
 The case was stated, and the evidence of 
 the landlord heard, interrupted by various 
 irrelative remarks from the man in office; 
 who, having ask'd the former if he had 
 done, and being answer'd ^^ yesi^ sapiently 
 observed, " Why, then, I suppose you have 
 nothing more to say. Now let us hear the 
 prisoner, the rascal that was caught in the 
 field." 
 
 The prisoner advanced ; when the learned 
 magistrate eyed him for some time, and
 
 173 
 
 smoothing his deep ruffles — " AVhat *s your 
 name, fellow?'* said he. 
 
 " George Rugby, your honor/' 
 
 " George Rugby/' repeated Snarl. — 
 " Humph ! a very bad name." 
 
 " What a pity it be your worship were 
 not by, to stand godfather to him ! you 
 might have had him christened then to your 
 own loikifig,'* observed Humphry Hawbuck. 
 
 '^ Silence, fellow ! or I '11 send you to the 
 devil !" said Snarl. 
 
 '' I be hugely obliged to you ; but you'll 
 be JiGind enow to carry your messages to the 
 old gentleman yourself — I don't wish to be 
 under marching orders that way." 
 
 *^ Won't nobody stop that there fellow's 
 ugly mouth ? — I 'U commit the ivagabone 
 for contempt of court, if he is not quiet. — 
 And what were you doing in the field where 
 the murder was done, at that hour, sirrah ?" 
 
 " I hardly know what I was doing there 
 your worship; but I thought I was as well 
 there as any where else. God knows, I 
 little supposed I should have brought my- 
 self to this pass, for trying to save a fellow- 
 creature's hfe I"
 
 174 
 
 " For trying to rob him of it, you mean. 
 Will any one pretend /^r to come, for to go, 
 to persuade me that you would be in that 
 there place, for any good ? No, no ^ the case 
 is as plain as the nose in my face."" 
 
 '' Ecod ! then it be plain enough V* mut- 
 ter'd Hawbuck: but the remark was un- 
 heard by the justice, who thus proceeded. 
 " What have you got for to say in your 
 defence?" 
 
 " But little, your worship. I have no 
 evidence on my own part — no one to an- 
 swer for my character. But you shall hear 
 my story : — ' I had been up all night ...." 
 
 " And why had you been up all night?" 
 interrupted Snarl. 
 
 / *^ For a very good reason, your worship ; 
 because I had no bed to go to. No one will 
 employ me, since 'Squire Rigid prosecuted 
 me for robbery — and all because I would 
 not persuade my wife to give way to his in- 
 famous wishes. Thank God ! poor Nancy 
 is dead ! and I am left to rough it as well as 
 I can — if she was alive, this would break 
 her heart. The 'squire kncAV I was inno- 
 cent, and so do many more, if they dared
 
 175 
 
 to speak. But, to the point : * I was stroll- 
 ing about the field at the back of landlord 
 Williams's house, when I heard a groan ; 
 and going to the place it seemed to come 
 from, I saw a gentleman, with a pitchfork 
 in his back, and bleeding freely. I took the 
 fork out of the wound, and tried to stop the 
 blood with his [handkerchief I ask'd him 
 who had done it ; but he was unable to an- 
 swer, and died within a few minutes. Im- 
 mediately afterwards, landlord Williams 
 came up, and made a loud cry of murder, 
 saying, / had kill'd the gentleman. If I 
 had liked, I could have got away, in spite 
 of him; but I knew myself to be innocent, 
 and was determined to face what might 
 happen. This is the truth, so help me God ! 
 and, I trust, I shall not suifer for doing a 
 common act of humanity." 
 
 '^ You are guilty, and shall be hang'd, 
 you villain !*' cried Snarl. *' Make out his 
 mittimousey and do you, constable, tell Mr. 
 Staples, the gaoler, not to be sparing of his 
 irons, but to give him a heavy pair." 
 
 " Oue word," said Phihp. ** Circum- 
 stances are strongly against this man, it must
 
 176 
 
 he allowed; but his statement is not, by 
 any means, impossible. A jmy will acquit, 
 or convict him -, and, till then, justice 
 prompts us to suspend our opinions. It is 
 enough that the poor wretch be committed 
 to prison (I speak with deference) ; 'tis pity 
 to aggravate his sufferings." 
 
 " And pray, sir, (with the like differ eiice) 
 who may you be, that you go for to dictate 
 right and wrong to a magistrate ?*' 
 
 " I am a gentleman.*' 
 
 " A gentleman !" repeated Jacob, who 
 had not divested himself of his former servi- 
 lity towards those he thought his superiors, 
 " that quite alters the matter. Give him 
 cheer y 
 
 Humphrey took the last word in it's lite- 
 ral sense, and set up a huzza (in which he 
 was join'd by many present) that would not 
 have disgraced the organ of a Mow hawk or 
 Cherokee. 
 
 " Constable, knock that there chap 
 down ; or, if he don't hold his tongue, gag 
 him," said Snarl. Then, turning to Tra- 
 vers ; ^' Have you, sir, got any doubt as to 
 the matter of this here man's guilt ? Do you
 
 177 
 
 mean to say as how the old gentleman miir 
 der'd and robb'd himself?" 
 
 *' By no means," replied Philip, with 
 difficulty restraining a smile ; '^ I am far 
 from believing his death to be the result of 
 Felo de se.'' 
 
 '^ Pooh ! to be sure not — in regard to 
 that there, I '11 say this here; that nobody 
 can*t pretend for to suppose he fell into the sea^ 
 for he was not within twenty miles of it 1" 
 
 Philip could scarce allow the evidence of 
 his senses \ and said to himself, '-' Is it to 
 this man's discretion the liberty of his fellow 
 creatures is intrusted r" 
 
 Being convinced the justice was as defi- 
 cient in humanity as in understanding, he 
 forbore to make any further appeal to [lis 
 feelings, and contented himself with the 
 thought of administering what pecuniary 
 comfort he could to the culprit. 
 
 " Do you, sir, know any thing of the 
 prisoner?" demanded Snarl, after a pause. 
 
 *' I never saw him until this morninor,** 
 replied Travers : " nevertheless, I wish jus- 
 tice to be done him, as much as if he were 
 my intimate acquaintance/* 
 15
 
 178 
 
 " Justice shall be done him/' said 
 Snarl, '' or why do I set in this here place ? 
 For the statue of the law directs toe magis- 
 strates to be very particular in all cases of 
 murder. And so, as I said before, make 
 out his mittimoiise.'* 
 
 Humphry's hearing next took place ; 
 the proofs of whose innocence were too ma- 
 nifest to admit a doubt, even in the opi- 
 nion of the magistrate, and he was dis- 
 charged. 
 
 " What will become of/,'' said the 
 poor fellow, on reaching the street : " I be 
 a master out of pocket, and that were all I 
 had in it. Dang it ! this will be a losing 
 champaign! I might as well have been 
 hang'd off hand. — 
 
 «* If I had been cast, and going to dicj 
 There 's many people would pass by ;. 
 
 Wi* a bunch o* strings tied to each knee, 
 They 'd think no lad so flashy as me T* 
 
 " Is it your custom to sing when your 
 spirits are depressed ?" demanded our 
 hero.
 
 179 
 
 *< Always, bh ; I do, sometimes, sing 
 loud — and, sometimes, I do suig small.'' 
 
 " Would you wish for another service ?'* 
 said Travers. 
 
 *' That's what I would, sir; and, if it 
 be your good will and pleasure to take /, 
 I '11 be your faithful friend and servant to 
 command. 
 
 " Come strike hands, then, — 'tis a bargain"-— 
 " Farther on I may fare worse." 
 
 '' I '11 try you," quoth Philip. 
 
 " Not quoite so soon, if you do please, 
 sir — I were very near being tried just now ; 
 and once in a man's life be quoite enow." 
 
 " I mean, I 'II take you as my servant. 
 Your late master spoke well of you, last 
 night; and, on his commendation, I '11 take 
 
 you." 
 
 '^ I do assure you, sir, you can't do a 
 better thing. I be desperate cleve;: at all 
 manner of thin<3cs that do belons: to a s^cntle- 
 mans gentleman. If your honor be mar- 
 ried, I '11 do any thing for madam in the 
 small way ; and I be sure, and certain.
 
 180 
 
 you '11 never have any cause ta apprehend 
 / for my abilities. 
 
 " A measter I have, and I be his man,. 
 Gallopping dreary dun V*
 
 181 
 
 CHAPTER Xlir. 
 
 The quajity of mercy is not strain'd ; 
 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heav'n 
 
 Upon the place beneath. It is tv/ice bless'd; 
 
 It blessethhim that gives, and him that takes. 
 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ! — 
 
 * ********** 
 
 It is an attribute to God himself ! 
 
 J^UAKSP£ARE« 
 
 On leaving the justice's door, Philip pro- 
 ceeded straight to the gaol, and gave the 
 keeper some pieces of money, desiring him 
 to use his prisoner with lenity — which was 
 readily promised, though with little inten- 
 tion of fulfilhng the same. And now was 
 he turning his steps from this abode of mi- 
 sery, when he met a cavalcade of horse- 
 men and carriages^ and, demanding of a 
 passenger what it meant, was inform'd, the 
 judge was arrived, as the assizes commenced 
 on the morrow.
 
 IS2 
 
 '' Ay r* cried Ilumpbiy, '' there be tfie 
 fortune-teller, sure enough — that be he, in 
 the bush- wig, for all the world like a shaved 
 owl,'' pointing to the judge. 
 
 '' A fortune-teller !" exclaimed Philip. 
 
 " Yes, sir, he be one that do tell people 
 when they shall be hang'd; and do, mostly, 
 tell them truth." 
 
 Travers, understanding the assize com- 
 menced so soon, and feeling an interest for 
 the unfortunate Rugby, determined to await 
 the issue of the trial ; for which he received, 
 a subpoena the same evening — and took up 
 his residence, with his new attendant, at one 
 of the best inns. And, here, the latter ask'd 
 permission to return to the house wdiere 
 they had slept the night before, to fetch 
 away his clothes, and election of songs.*' 
 
 " Songs!" repeated Philip. 
 
 " Yes, sir; bless thy heart! I have as 
 many ballots as would peaper this here par- 
 lour, some on 'em such beautiful hairs as 
 thee didst never see. There be '^ The Loife 
 and EebenTURES of Robinson Crusoe;' 
 — '' Sweet Polly of Bedlam Green i' —
 
 183 
 
 '' Death and the Lachj;' — '' Bilbj Taylor; 
 '' The Ghost. .,r 
 
 ** *Tis of a sailor now I write, 
 "Who in the seas took great delight. 
 The female sex for to beguile. 
 And two of them did prove wi' child.'* 
 
 ** Wi* a hundred more populous ones, all 
 of which^ sir, you shall hear, one time or 
 other/' 
 
 The time of Rughy's trial arrived -, the 
 story had been blazon'd abroad, with many 
 additions, and the court, as might be ex- 
 pected, was throng'd. Travers was the first 
 witness ; who deposed as to his having been 
 in company with the deceased on the even- 
 ing prior to the murder, and to the intima- 
 tion of the latter, that he had property to a 
 large amount about him; relating, at the 
 same time, the arrival of that unfortunate 
 gentleman in his native country, after so 
 long and painful an absence. 
 
 Humphry then stated his having at- 
 tended him to his bed-chamber: '^ After 
 which, please your honor and glory !" con-
 
 184 
 
 eluded he, ^^ I never saw lilm till he were a 
 corpse — a comely one, too, I must say/' 
 
 The next evidence was the inn-keeper ; 
 who* said, having occasion to go into the 
 field earlier than was his custom, he saw 
 the prisoner busily employed near a hay- 
 stack ; and, knowing hitn to be a slippery 
 fellow, such a one that nobody trusted fur- 
 ther than thev could see him 
 
 Here the judge, very properly, interposed, 
 telling him to confine himself to facts, not 
 to go into comments, which might tend to 
 influence the minds of the jury* 
 
 The inn-keeper next proceeded to de- 
 scribe the situation in which he found the 
 deceased (as known by the reader in Chap. 
 XI.) ; and the evidence on the part of the 
 prosecution closed with the depositions of 
 many, who had hasten' d to the fatal spot,, 
 on the hue and cry of murder. 
 
 The prisoner being call'd on for his de- 
 fence, made one in a simple and manly 
 manner, to the same effect as when before 
 Jacob Snarl ; and, as in the same instance, 
 regretted he had no one to vouch for his 
 character. Having concluded, the judge. 
 
 J
 
 185 
 
 in a humane manner, summed up the evi- 
 dence, dwelling particularly on the subject 
 of no property having been found upon the 
 prisoner; and urging the improbability of 
 his having been instigated to the commission 
 of such an act, from any consideration but 
 that of plunder. 
 
 The j ury retired ; and, after a solemn 
 pause exceeding an hour, returned the awful 
 verdict of '' Guilty T 
 
 The countenance of the prisoner under- 
 went a change, but it was transient; he 
 seem'd to struggle with his feelings, and 
 heard the judge pronounce the fatal sentence 
 with fortitude, at least, if not with com- 
 posure. 
 
 You have had a fair and impartial hear- 
 
 g," said the latter, '' according to the 
 laws of your native land, and by a jury of 
 your countrymen, who, unanimously, agree 
 in pronouncing you guilty of the charge 
 whereof you stand indicted — a charge of 
 the most heinous nature. The painful task 
 of pronouncing judgment devolves on me: 
 which is, that you be taken hence, to the 
 place you came from ; and that you be re- 
 
 in
 
 186 
 
 moved thence, to the place of execution, 
 &c., and the Lord have mercy upon your 
 soul!'' 
 
 " He's hugely obliged to thee, I dare 
 say/' mutter'd Humphry; " but, I'll be 
 sworn, no one was ever yet known to thrive 
 after thy blessing!" 
 
 " God knows I am innocent !" said the 
 prisoner, as he bow'd and left the court. 
 
 Travers gave orders for the interment of 
 the ill-fated Brookes ; and pursued his jour- 
 ney with a heavy heart — a heart as yet un- 
 vitiated by the ways of life, and ever ready 
 to sympathise with the unfortunate. 
 
 Humphry accompanied him, on a steed 
 purchased expressly for the occasion ; and, 
 by his eccentric manners, and whimsical 
 observations, contributed very much to the 
 amusement of his master; who took occa- 
 sion, during the journey, to ascertain by 
 w^hat means the conversation of his servant 
 v\^as so frequently interlarded with scraps of 
 military phrases, often ill pronounced, and 
 unaptly applied. It seems, Humphry's 
 first employer (whom we have mention'd to 
 have been kiil'd in a duel in France) had
 
 187 
 
 been in the army : Humphry had attended 
 him in camp, and had there picked up the 
 above terms, which he found means, (as he 
 did svith his songs) right or wrong, to intro- 
 duce frequently. 
 
 They set forward on their journey, and it 
 was evening when our travellers arrived in 
 London; and Hawbuck could not conceal 
 his surprise at the large and well lighted 
 streets through which they past; and which 
 indeed were far beyond the expectations of 
 Philip, who had, during his whole life, been 
 confined to the country. 
 
 " Oh ! Lo?idon is afo'nie toicuy 
 A very famous city T^ 
 
 Toar'd out the former in such a tone as in- 
 duced his master to turn round, and enjoin 
 him silence, lest they should have a crowd 
 round 'em. 
 
 " By Gosh !'* observed Humphry, ''this 
 be a main foine place, and do put / in mind 
 of one o^ the fa 7' t (fie d towns upon the contiii- 
 genty where I were with Captain Wildfire, 
 when he were making a toner of all Eu- 
 rope."
 
 188 
 
 " You have travellM a good deal then, I 
 suppose,'* said his master. 
 
 '^ A mortal deal, I do assure you — 
 
 ** I am a wild and a romng hoy J'* 
 
 I were in France, Spain, and Holland, and 
 travell'd over many hills in the Low Coun- 
 tries. I have cross' d the Glaziers among 
 the Apes of Stvitcherland, and been in the 
 Giilph of Venus-, and as to your highlands, 
 I have been at Saddinny, and Mortai\ and 
 Sicily — where there be d^\i\xge,TFoolcanoey 
 that do spout out levers, and' burn like a 
 young hell." 
 
 " Upon my word, your description is 
 very florid." 
 
 *^ Yes, sir 5 you don't think my ^^/(/fc^^- 
 tlon w^ere given / for nothing," replied 
 Humphry. '^ Thank Heaven ! I can tell 
 a great A from a bull's foot, as well as any 
 he that ever handled a musket." 
 
 By this time, they reach'd one of the ho- 
 tels in Jermyn-Street, whereat Philip took 
 up a temporary abode; and, intending to 
 deliver a letter which had been given him by
 
 189 
 
 Mr. Heartwell (recommending him to a per- 
 son of high rank) early in the morning, he 
 swallow'd a slight supper, and retired ; and 
 here, as was his custom, his last reflections 
 wander'd to the cherished scenes of his 
 youth — to the regretted village of Oaken- 
 dale. 
 
 The next day, he waited on the great man 
 with his letter of recommendation, but w^as 
 told his lordship could not be seen ; for, be 
 it known, my lord w^as much occupied in 
 politics ; and, though never in administra- 
 tion himself, he labor'd indefatigably, both 
 by harangues and intrigues, to get others 
 out, that he might get himself in. 
 
 Thrice Philip repeated his visit, and as 
 often he met v/ith the same reply ; till, 
 wearied by disappointment, he was leaving 
 the house, fully bent on never entering it 
 more, when an old officer, who had per- 
 ceived his chagrin, politely accosted him, 
 on the threshold, and told him there was no 
 interest to be made in that house without a 
 pecuniary introduction ; in plain words, 
 that he must bribe the porter. '' Bribe
 
 190 
 
 a servant to obtain ingress to bis master ! 
 Is it possible ?" cried Travers. 
 
 " *Tis too true/' replied the officer: 
 ^* You are young and inexperienced ; but, 
 when you have numbered as many years as 
 I have done, you v^ill not easily be surprised 
 at the tricks and chicanery of this v^orld. 
 I owe you an apology for the liberty I have 
 taken ; but/ if you wish to see Lord Mask- 
 well, the method I have pointed out is the 
 only certain one of so doing.'* 
 
 Agreeably to this idea, he presented him- 
 self at the peer's door; and, giving the por- 
 ter some silver, demanded if he could be 
 admitted. The porter made a very low 
 bow, and show'd him into a parlour (a civi- 
 lity heretofore forgotten), and requested to 
 know what name he should have the honor 
 of sending up to his lordship. Travers re- 
 plied, that was immaterial ; but that, if he 
 would say he brought a letter from the Rev. 
 Mr. Heartwell, he would thank him. 
 
 In the course of half an hour, the porter 
 return'd, ac ompanied by a footman, who 
 introduced Philip to the peer's presence.
 
 191 
 
 Philip presented his letter, saying: ^' From 
 the Rev. Mr. Heartwell.'* 
 
 " My dear Mr. Travers,'* said Lord 
 Maskwell, after having perused the letter; 
 ♦« my very good sir, I rejoice to see you. 
 I assure you, I am not one to utter what I 
 do not feel — you are most welcome." 
 
 Philip bow'd. 
 
 '^ *Tis rarely,** continued the peer, ^^ I 
 have the good fortune to see my valuable 
 old friend who has written this letter : his 
 visits to London are so few, and his time is 
 so much engrossed while here, that I am 
 obliged to be lynx-eyed, even to insure the 
 felicity of his company at a family dinner. 
 Have you known him long, Mr. Travers.^** 
 
 " Some six years, my lord, since I had 
 first the happiness of his acquaintance,** re- 
 plied Philip. 
 
 " A happiness indeed, and one on which 
 I heartily congratulate you.** 
 
 '' I thank your lordship. Never can I 
 be sufficiently grateful for what I owe him. 
 I was his pupil 3 and, besides the advantage 
 of a good classical education, I have to 
 thank him for many a moral lesson — such
 
 192 
 
 as might, in my poor estimation, reform the 
 most licentious." 
 
 " My old friend turned schoolmaster!'* 
 cried Maskwell, retreating in his chair. 
 
 " Not absolutely a schoolmaster ; he is 
 private tutor in a very worthy family, where 
 I had the good fortune to be rear'd." 
 
 " Private tutor ! what. Sir James Proby, 
 one of the richest commoners in Lancashire, 
 a man who can send half a score members to 
 parliament, teaching syntax, andJuvenal!'* 
 
 " I don't understand you, my lord," re- 
 plied Philip ; '' the letter I had the honor to 
 deliver to you was, I believe, written by 
 Mr. Heartwell — the. man to whom I am in- 
 debted for what little acquirements I may 
 possess," 
 
 " By no means, Mr. Travers ; the letter 
 I had the honor of receiving from you, is 
 from my invaluable friend. Sir James Proby. 
 I will not read it to you, because the con- 
 tents may make you proud. But really, 
 young gentleman, you have an admirable 
 turn for raillery — Sir James your tutor! 
 and the steady brow with which you 
 vouch'ditl"
 
 193 
 
 «' Really, sir," said Philip, stammering, 
 " I.... I...." 
 
 ^•' Well, well, no matter," interrupted 
 Maskvvell ; " we '11 explain some other 
 time. You will honor me with your com- 
 pany at dinner to-morrow — six precisely. 
 I beg, I entreat, that you '11 consider this 
 house your own, whenever it is convenient 
 to drop in. You'll find all in the family 
 way. Lady Maskwell will be delighted 
 ■with your society ; and, for myself, be as- 
 sured, my dear Mr. Travers, I shall feel su- 
 perlative delight in serving you by any 
 nieans in my power." 
 
 Philip judged that to refuse the invitation 
 would be superfluous, as his lordship seem'd 
 little disposed to take any denial j and he 
 took his leave, accompanied by a promise 
 not to fail his appointment. 
 
 The mystery of MaskwelFs unexpected 
 condescension was easily unravel'd. When 
 Phihp mentioned the name of Heartwell, on 
 delivering his letter of introduction, (a name 
 unknown to the great man) he naturally re- 
 garded the bearer with coldness. Put, 
 when he came to the perusal, and found it 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 
 
 was from a man of fortune and of interest, 
 one who had power to prop him in his po- 
 /itical system, the case was altered, and no 
 civility could be too great towards a man 
 so strongly recommended by him. 
 
 The generous Heartwell (knowing Philip's 
 proud soul would not suffer him to profit 
 by any further kindness from the baronet), 
 gave the letter in question .as one from him- 
 self, superscribing it with Ji is own hand, 
 l^his friendly artifice deeply affected Tra- 
 vers ; he strongly felt the goodness of both, 
 and, in his next epistle to bis tutor, he 
 accompanied his acknowlegements to him 
 with thanks to his former patron. 
 
 i
 
 19> 
 
 CHAPTER XIV, 
 
 No more, thus brooding o'er yon heap, 
 With Avarice painful vigils keep ; 
 Still unenjoy'dthe present store, 
 Still endless sighs are breath'd for more. 
 O ! quit the shadow, catch the prize. 
 Which not all India's treasure buys! 
 Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bijid, 
 Let nobler views engage thy mind. 
 
 JOHNSOK. 
 
 Travers was punctual to his hour of ap- 
 pointment with the Earl of JMaskwell, and 
 found a motley group j such as siripliiigs 
 infirm through agCy and young ladies who 
 were grandmothers. 
 
 The earl's attention was particularly di- 
 rected to our hero; and, when they ad- 
 journed to the dining-parlour, he placed 
 him on the right of the countess, who sup- 
 plied him with many a tit-bit — his son and 
 K 2
 
 196 
 
 heir, Lord Vulture, chatted on the topics 
 of the day with him, and Lady Helen (the 
 elder daughter) ogled him, during the time 
 they were at table. 
 
 " Who *s for the spring meeting ?*' cried 
 a sprig of fashion. " I '11 bet five to four, 
 Silvertail against any one horse, at New- ' 
 market ; or take the same odds against the 
 iield. GuUey against Gregson for what you 
 dare say do?ie for. What say you, Mr. 
 Travers — will you be a customer ?" 
 
 '' Mr. Travers is new to the town— a mere 
 novice in these affairs,'* said Vulture. 
 
 ^^ Those are the only one's to catch bet- 
 ting. A novice i let him keep you com- 
 pany, he '11 not remain so long, Bob — 
 you 've been in many a good thing." Then, 
 sinking his voice — *' What, he 's a greeii- 
 hojm ! Pigeon him — he has no business here, 
 if he can't take a joke — mum ! — ^}^ou under- 
 stand me. — Pray, Lady Helen, have you 
 been riding, this morning ?" 
 
 ^^ Not she," said the countess, who took 
 on herself to answer ; *' poor timid girl ! 
 she is not fit to risk herself on horse- 
 back.''
 
 197 
 
 •* La! mamma !" interrupted Helen, 
 ** how can you talk such nonsense ? — In- 
 deed, Stanley, my ma would persuade me 
 I am not fit for any thing — but I \xiO\M what 
 I am fit for, better than she can tell me. — 
 By the bye, who votes for the Opera, this 
 evening ? 'Tis a horrid bore, to be sure ^ but 
 Grassini sings, and she may be endured,'' 
 
 ** Because she \s 2^ foreigner T' said an 
 old gentleman, who sat at the lower end of 
 the table. " Nothing goes down, now-a- 
 days, that's home manufacture j but, rot 
 me ! if I would not rather hear Billington 
 sing ^ Sweet Bird,* or Incledon ' Tlie 
 Storm^' than all the Squallinis that have 
 ever been imported !" 
 
 " You have an odd taste, Mr. Cynic," ob- 
 served Lady Helen. 
 
 *' Yesj and so has your ladyship," re- 
 joined he. 
 
 " Y'our society sha* n't keep me from the 
 Opera-House, take my word," — she made 
 answer with a veiy loud laugh. " Mr. Tra- 
 vers, will you do myself and sister the favor 
 to escort us ?"
 
 198 
 
 " With pleasure ; but you'll find me a 
 very unskilful pilot, on the fashionable ocean 
 — having never been in a theatre during my 
 life," replied Philip. 
 
 " Damme !^' said Stanley, in a half- 
 whisper, " Green-horn's the favorite of the 
 day — he '11 distance us all with your sister. 
 Bob." 
 
 The carriage was order'd, and Travers, 
 with Vulture and his sisters, (Helen and 
 Louisa) proceeded to the King's Theatre. 
 The wonder of the first is scarcely to be de- 
 scribed : — the extent and architecture of the 
 building — the brilliancy of the lights — and, 
 above all, the blaze of female beauty which 
 graced it, rapt him in pleasure. The opera 
 was began some time before their entrance 
 — the harmony of which captivated him ; 
 the little pathetic piece of ^' Andromache at 
 the Tomb of Hector'' follow'd, and the de- 
 lightful tones of Grassini had completely 
 charm 'd him into an ecstasy — when a loud 
 laugh brought him to himself 
 
 '^ In the name of common sense ! what 
 ails you, Mr. Travers?" said Lady Helen.
 
 199 
 
 ** One would suppose you came here for the 
 sake of amusement.'* 
 
 " To \vhat other end ?'* replied he. 
 
 " Upon my word, that is an extrava- 
 gantly gallant speecli — with two ladies in 
 your company !'* 
 
 " And what amusement. Lady Helen, 
 can be so gratifying as the society of lovely 
 woman ?'* said he. 
 
 « Very well turned, indeed, for a coun- 
 try gentleman — I shall begin to have some 
 hopes of you. To confess the truth, there 
 is some allowance to be made for your at- 
 tention to the piece — but what can be said 
 for my foolish sister I — Look how 
 
 ' The big round- tears course ©ne another down 
 * Her innocent nose in piteous chase.' 
 
 One v,'ould imagine i/ou had lost your Hec- 
 tor, girl, by that sorrowful countenance.'* 
 
 Travers cast liis eyes upon Lady Louisa, 
 and found the accusation true — although 
 she strove, but in vain, to conceal her 
 tears. He had, from the first, regarded her 
 as a being of a superior soul to her sister :
 
 indeed, the diffidence of her manners, put 
 in contrast with the forwardness of the 
 other's, could not fail to strike every think- 
 ing beholder; and the trait of sensibility 
 evinced by her, on the present occasion, 
 gave her a decided preference in his es- 
 teem. 
 
 The entertainments concluded, the party 
 adjourn'd to the coffee-room 5 where they 
 were assaiFd, on all sides, by butterfly 
 beaux, and belles, and where an incoherent 
 chit-chat (all speakers, and no hearers) filFd 
 up the time, till the carriage was announc- 
 ed. And here, Travers would have taken 
 his leave ; but Lady Helen protested against 
 it, insisted he should accompany them home, 
 to supper, and condescended to declare her 
 design of making him her cicisbeo — an ho- 
 nor, by the bye, which he did not much 
 covet. 
 
 Philip found, in addition to the circle he 
 bad left at the earl's, a gentleman of rather 
 mean appearance, who paid the greatest 
 court to his lordship; which was returned 
 with the most freezing coldness — until an- 
 other person whispering the peer, ** that
 
 the gentleman had two boroughs at his onm 
 disposal,^' the tone and manners were sud- 
 denly changed, and, ^^ My dear Mr. Mad- 
 docks ! my very good Mr. Maddocks," was 
 utter'd twenty times, within a minute. 
 
 *' Zounds!'* cried Cynic, ''one would 
 suppose we lived in a warren, here ; for no- 
 thing does but burrows, I perceive.'* 
 
 *' I wish you were in one !" said Mask- 
 well. 
 
 *' Thank you, my lord," rejoined Cynic ; 
 then should you and I be on equal terms — I 
 should have my prey running about me, as 
 well as yourself.'* 
 
 Faro was introduced, after supper ; at 
 which Travers (whose spirits were highly 
 exhilarated, by the effect of champaign, and 
 the novelty of the evening) lost his money 
 with as good a grace as any one present — 
 nor did he bid adieu to the fascination of 
 the gaming-table, before he had pledged 
 himself to favor Lady Maskwell with his 
 company, on the succeeding day. 
 
 Tlie reflections produced by a walk from 
 Upper Brook-Street to Brompton, (where 
 he had taken lodgings) somewhat lower'd
 
 202 
 
 the false spirits of our hero ^ and he began 
 to mourn the loss he had sustained, which 
 amounted to no less a sum than fifty gui- 
 neas. 
 
 *^ Who goes there?'* demanded a voice 
 from within, on Philip's knocking at his 
 own door. 
 
 " Open the door," quoth he. 
 
 *' Halt you there," returned the voice, 
 which Travers knew to be his serv-ant's. '' I 
 be a century, here, and I loun't open door, 
 without the coiaitivg-sigu. Be thee a friend 
 or an enemy?" 
 
 " A friend, if you do n't 7nake me other- 
 wise." 
 
 '^ So, you be come at last I Dang me ! if 
 I did n't begin to think it were the forlorn 
 hop with thee! Where have you been, 
 sir?" said Hawbuck, opening the door. 
 
 " W^hat is that to you?" repHed Philip, 
 who was very much out of temper. '' Am 
 I to be catechised by my own servant?" 
 
 '^ I beg pardon, sir, I did mean no of- 
 fence y and, I suppose, it be7it the fashion 
 of this Lumuin for a servant to care whether 
 his master be alive, or dead."
 
 903 
 
 '' Pshaw ! I am not offended. But what 
 has made you so anxious about me?'* 
 
 " After what I ha' heard, it would be odd 
 if I were not anxious, as you do call it. — 
 Ecod ! I thought thee hadst fallen into an 
 amber scale.'' 
 
 '-'■ Tell me your meaning, you blockhead, 
 and in as few words as possible." 
 
 ** I icidl, sir, I icull; for I don't hemire 
 having many words with nobody ; and 'spe- 
 cially with thee.'' 
 
 " Rascal ! explain what you have to say,. 
 before I brain you !" exclaim'd his master. 
 
 " Rascal be but an ugly epitaph for a 
 man. However, sir, if thee az^// have it — 
 1 'd advise thee not to get foraging in an 
 enemy's quarters — or you '11 pay the smart 
 for't. — Mrs. Smith for that !'* 
 
 '' Who the devil is Mrs. Smith r" 
 
 '' What, thee pretend' st not to know the 
 pretty lady, at the white house that do pro- 
 ject in — that one that have been newly mo- 
 delisecir' 
 
 *' You tedious booby, tell me, at once, 
 your meaning, or damn me ! if I do n't kick 
 vou down stairs!"
 
 204 
 
 " I Willi, sir, but don't be in such a des- 
 perate fury. You must know, I were i^k^ 
 mg^ soUntarij march, all alone by myself, 
 when a foine lady, wi* black eyes, and a 
 skin like allyhlaster, told I to halt. She 
 were monstrous handsome, and I begun to 
 be afeard I should have another sin to answer 
 for — fori have been a devil among the girls, 
 (the Lord forgive me my innocent mirth !) 
 that be the truth on't. She ax'd I, if I 
 were n't servant to the strange gentleman, 
 at No. 50', so, sir, I said 'yes' — for I scorn 
 a lie, when it be as well to tell truth. 
 ' Then,' says she, ' tell your rneaster, that 
 if he do watch rhe,' (and she pointed to the 
 white house) ' and do make such signs, as 
 he have lately done, while 1 be at the win- 
 dow, I be firmly dissolved, and dissolutely 
 bent, to tell my husband; who, though he 
 be an old man and I a young woman, won't 
 let me be affronted ivithoiit impunity.' " 
 
 Philip thought the fellow mad ; not recol- 
 lecting any female in the neighbourhood, 
 who had engaged his slightest attention. 
 
 *' And this lady resides in mibibtis, I pre- 
 sume?" said he.
 
 205 
 
 " I don't know the pleace, sir — she do 
 live, I tell thee, at the Avhite house — it be 
 guoite contagious — and there be some des- 
 perate hars, if you don't know more o' the 
 matter than I.*' 
 
 " Ridiculous I you have been dreaming^ 
 or drinking. I know nothing of the person 
 you have been speaking of ; and I desire I 
 may not be annoy'd, again, by your vague 
 accounts. Give me a candle, and leave 
 me." 
 
 '' He have left I in the dark,*' as his 
 master walked away ; but there be a woman 
 in the case, and that do account for it/' 
 
 Philip's mind was not, as may be sur- 
 mised, in the calmest state. He had ex- 
 hausted, in one thoughtless hour, nearly a 
 sixth part of his worldly possessions ; nor 
 had he the prospect of an additional guinea, 
 save what he might derive from professional 
 exertion. His object was the army; and 
 he hoped, through the interference of Lord 
 Maskwell, to obtain a commission. But, 
 then, to join a regiment, in the first in- 
 stance, without the means of appearing on
 
 ^06 
 
 a par with his brother officers, (which, he 
 was aware, his pay, alone, would not enable 
 him to do) was what he rerolted at. He 
 had frequently heard Heartwell expatiate on 
 the ill effects of gaming — on the misery re- 
 sulting from it — and one night's experience 
 had sufficed to convince him of the justice 
 of his revered tutor's animadversions. He 
 concluded his meditations with a vow never 
 to repeat his folly. 
 
 On his way to town, next day, he could 
 not help looking towards the house men- 
 lion'd by Humphry; and, at the drawing- 
 room- window, he saw a very fine woman, 
 whose person well ahswer'd the description 
 given — but who did not seem to regard him 
 with the least symptom of displeasure. He 
 kiss'd his hand to her;- which salutation she 
 return'd, accompanied with a smile that 
 might have warm'd the blood of frozen 
 age. 
 
 The day pass'd in conviviality. Philip 
 drank freely of Champaign — Faro was in- 
 troduced; and, elated with the generous 
 wine, and sanguine in the hope of reim-
 
 207 
 
 bursing himself, he, again, enter'd into 
 play — and came off deficient, in nearly 
 double the sum he had forfeited before. As 
 he lost, he drank deeper — until, completely 
 overcome, he was put into a hackney-coach, 
 and convey 'd home. 
 
 '* Alay our evening amusements bear our 
 morning reflections /" is a hackney 'd, but a 
 wise, sentiment. Far was it from beinorthe 
 case with poor Travers — he awoke with a 
 parch' d throat, a feverish pulse — and a la- 
 cerated mind. lie blu^li'd for his second 
 lapse from right -, and, to avoid the possibi- 
 lity of another transgression, he made up his 
 mind to discontinue his attendance at the 
 dinner-parties, in Upper Brook- Street. 
 
 His servant met him with a most dismal 
 face; and groan'd heavily> as though he 
 had something on his mind that labor'd for 
 utterance. 
 
 His master interrogated him upon the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 *' I am, already, half consumed by blue 
 devils," said he; and that rueful visage of 
 thine brings a whole legion — enough to de- 
 Tourme."
 
 208 
 
 *' Blue devils be better than black ones, I 
 take it," replied Humphry. — *' But it be 
 no bread and butter o* mine, and I shall hold 
 my tongue. 
 
 " As you brew so you may bake." 
 
 " Speak j what is the matter ?*' said his 
 master. 
 
 " I be afeard to tell thee, sir, thee were 
 so mortal snappish to I about it, yesterday; 
 and, yet, I can't let thee get thyself shot, 
 without telling thee o' the enemy *s motions 
 
 — no, I xvitn't let thee die — I.. ..I Dang 
 
 It ! I can't hold no longer! Will thee be an- 
 gry, if I do tell thee all?" 
 
 Receiving for answer that he might speak 
 freely, and that without fear, he went on. 
 
 " The white serjeant were at I, again,, 
 about thee." 
 
 '' The white serjeant ?" repeated Philip 
 — " what is it you are at?" 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir ! I do forget thee dost 
 not understand milintary mispressions. I do 
 mean the foiiie leady — and ^^he do say, if 
 thee do tap at her door, after twelve o'clock, 
 and thee dost try to get in, (as thee didst
 
 . 209 
 
 last night) she'll put thee into black-hole, 
 or ha' thee shot through the head. — Dang 
 me ! if I were not putrified to hear her. — 
 '^ Advance three steps backzvards, Hum^ 
 phryT cried I — and march'd away as 
 sulky as you please. Thee dost know thy 
 c<2«ouvres, sir; but, wi' submission, I would 
 not clap my head into a cannon*s mouth, 
 for the best she that ever follow'd a knap- 
 sack — and I be sure they '11 be upon the 
 watch for thee.** 
 
 Philip ponder'd on the purport of the 
 lady's caution ; and, unpractised as he was 
 in the talent of intrigue, as well as free from 
 vanity, he could not but regard it as a chal- 
 lenge from the fair one; but, in order to de- 
 ceive his servant, he thank'd him for his ad- 
 vice, and promised to keep himself out of 
 danger.
 
 'SIO 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Cease, rude Boreas ! blustVing railer ! 
 
 List ye landsmen all to me! 
 Messmates, hear a brother-sailor 
 
 Sing the dangers of the sea ! 
 
 G. A. Stevens. 
 
 " SOHO ! soho ! where are you, my boy, 
 Travers ?" cried Stanley, who rush'd into 
 the room, followed by Vulture. '' Writing, 
 eh ? — You look devilish pale. Took too 
 much, last night — and are not, yet, sea- 
 soned." 
 
 " I certainly took too much, which may 
 account for my lomig too much,'* said Phi- 
 
 lip. 
 
 '^ You had infernal luck, there's no de- 
 nying — Fortune is a skittish one, and will 
 throw the best horseman going. Damn 
 her ! I have no reason to praise her ! she
 
 211 
 
 cleanM me out of eighty thousand pounds, 
 before I came to years of discretion.** 
 
 " Before you were of age, you had better 
 have said/' obseiTed Vulture ; ** for you 
 will never come to years of discretion.'' 
 
 " The longer I remain otherwise, the 
 greater is your chance — you ought to glory 
 in my ignorance — eh. Bob ? — But, you are 
 jolting me out of my story. I say, that 
 deep old dowager, Fortune, left me in as 
 bad a condition as a spavin'd post-horse — 
 for I did not know how to keep my legs. — 
 What then ! whirl went her wheel, and up 
 came a good estate, once more — and I wish 
 I may ever say — 
 
 * Iterum, iterum, iterumque !' 
 
 To be sure, my second windfall is cursedly 
 oat at elbows— dipp'd for half it's value— 
 and another 3'ear, or two, will completely 
 dish me. Then 1 must cut and run, as 
 
 many a good fellow has done before me 
 
 The jade has been playing her tricks with 
 you a little. Traverse but, pshaw! never 
 mind — bad luck now, better another time — 
 you are but in training. Come, trim your
 
 212 
 
 chin, and buckle on your body clothes 
 
 and let iis have a stroll. Vulture would 
 drag me here, on foot, though, he knows, I 
 hate walking as I do the devil; and, as you 
 may be of the same way of thinking, I wish 
 to give you a treat.'* 
 
 Philip made answer, it was his intention 
 to continue at home — having several letters 
 to write, which demanded dispatch. 
 
 *^ Rot your letters ! don't sit poring over 
 your pen and ink, like Tattersall's ledger- 
 keeper— but, come along,*' cried Stanley. 
 
 " Indeed, my dear Travers, you must 
 give us your company," said Vulture — • 
 " My mother expects you ; and Helen will 
 row you well, when she sees you, if you are 
 not as good as your word. We have, now, 
 two hours good, so dress, and let us be 
 off." 
 
 Philip suffered himself to be persuaded; 
 and accompanied these sprigs of fashion to 
 town. 
 
 " There goes a knowing one," said Stan- 
 ley, pointing to a man, who pass'd them, in 
 a lofty tandem—." he is asdeep as the North- 
 star. You are new upon town, Travers—
 
 213 
 
 how do you think that fellow first found 
 means to make a splash ?'* 
 
 " It is beyond me even to conjecture,*' 
 replied Philip; '' possibly by jumping into 
 a horsepond." 
 
 *' By informing against the non-resident 
 clergy — hampering the pudding sleeves : 
 that, with money-scrivening, and a few 
 lucky hits upon the turf, put him in cash — 
 and, now, he has the impudence to set up 
 for a gentleman/' 
 
 " And is he countenanced in society ?" 
 ask'd Travers. 
 
 *' Countenanced r" return'd Stanley— 
 " You are very ignorant!" (Philip bow'd). 
 •^ I beg your pardon !" continued the other, 
 " but, while a man can command the kijig's 
 countenance, there are few who will set their 
 faces against him.'* 
 
 By this time they were in Bond-Street ; 
 when a lady, passing them on horseback, 
 drew forth an exclamation from our hero — 
 *^ that she was a prodigiously handsome 
 young woman." 
 
 ''Oh! you flat!" cried Stanley. "Young ! 
 — She's old enough to be your mother, at
 
 214 
 
 least. I remember her an old courser, about 
 town, when I was a boy. What with Bow- 
 man's wigs — stays ^ d- la- Diana — vegetable 
 rouge — milk of roses — bloom of Circasia — 
 and fifty other cosmetics, (that I would not 
 dress my horses with) there's no distinguish- 
 ing old from young — for, when a man thinks 
 he's chasing a Venus, he is likely to attack 
 his grandmother ! — And the worst of it is, 
 you can't tell their age by their teeth — for 
 Kidmore lugs out the stumps, and claps in 
 pearly grinders that would deceive the 
 devil." 
 
 ^^ You seem an adept in the mysteries of 
 the toilet," said Vulture; '' and might ven- 
 ture to engage yourself as a lady's own wo- 
 man." 
 
 " I would, a devilish deal, rather engage 
 myself as a lady's own man,'' return'd 
 Stanley. " But, damme ! there's new game ! 
 
 Stag yonder old one, in the rusty black, 
 
 and buckskins, with his hair buckled up, 
 like a dowager's coach-horse. That is a 
 lawyer, (a hollow one) who, once, exhibited 
 more actions at the hazard-table, than ever 
 he did before the Chief Justice. Yet, now.
 
 the conscientious gentleman stickles for re- 
 formation ; and, as morality's champion, is 
 become a respectable informer — he ransacks 
 every house in Sj:. James's parish, where the 
 tats are at work, to punish those for what 
 he, himself, practised, until he was told 
 out; and (in pursuance of the proverb) ^ he 
 is a thief set to catch a thief!' " 
 
 '^ V/ell, well; every man to his hne," ob- 
 served Vulture. 
 
 " With all my heart," rejoin'd Stanley — 
 ^' for ^ halter is his, and so must he be cer- 
 tain to come to the gallows ! But, here we 
 are at your door. Bob ; and I close my 
 mouth, now, hoping I shall open it to better 
 account, presently — for I am cursed hun- 
 
 gry- 
 
 The countess and Lady Helen were as 
 profuse in their attentions to Travers as they 
 had, heretofore, been, but he w^as in vain 
 importuned to join the Faro-table; and he 
 retired to another part of the room, with 
 Stanley— where they were join'd by Air, 
 Cynic. 
 
 This gentleman had always returned Pin-
 
 216 
 
 lip's salutations with a slight inclination of 
 the head; and the latter once thought he 
 heard him mutter, '' that he wish'd he had 
 met him in bettei' company, '' The old gen- 
 tleman never play'd ; spoke but little, and, 
 when he did, usually uttered a sarcasm — 
 but, as his ill-natured remarks were, indis- 
 criminately, level'd at all, and proceeded 
 from one advanced in years, our hero did 
 iiot conceive himself obliged to notice such 
 as were directed against him — though they 
 often made him sore. 
 
 *' So, young man, do n't you make one 
 amongst yonder fools of fashion ?" said he, 
 pointing to the Faro-table. '* Do n't you 
 mean to nibble, gudgeon-like, at the golden 
 bait?" 
 
 « I do n't intend to play," return'd Tra- 
 vers, coldly. 
 
 " Right," said the old man—'*' a burn'd 
 child dreads the fire !" 
 
 « My dear Mr. Travers!" cried Lady 
 Helen, running towards him, '' what are 
 you doing here? Taking lessons from old 
 Crab, the philosopher, I suppose."
 
 217 
 
 '^•' If he keeps your ladyship's company, 
 long, he'll stand in need of philosophy/* re- 
 turn'd Cynic, 
 
 " Always severe ! — But I have no time 
 to waste with yoii. — Do you know, Stanley, 
 my ma has had a brace of Chinese phea- 
 sants given to her ? the most beautiful crea- 
 turcs you ever saw. She has sent them to 
 her aviary, at the lodge ; and, there, Mr. 
 Travers, we shall soon see you, I hope/' 
 
 " Oh! yes, he'll see your mother's 
 knavery, very soon, if he is not short-sight^ 
 edy'' observed Cynic. 
 
 ^' Brute ! but what can one expect from 
 a bear, but a growl?'* retorted the lady, 
 and left them. 
 
 " Her ladyship's mother, you obsen^e, 
 keeps ?nost of her birds confined, in the 
 country. Her pigeons she reserves for her 
 toxcn amusement, letting them, according 
 to custom, go loose — which she may safelj- 
 do— ^for she has pluckW most of them so 
 close, there's little danger of their^^;?^, I 
 believe." 
 
 '' Damme! you are a high fellow, old 
 Cynic!*' said .Stanley — «* and I am sorry 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 to own, there's more truth than good na- 
 ture in what you have stated. But, how, 
 in the Devil's name ! do you account for her 
 ladyship's dove-honseheiug, so constantly, 
 wellstock'd?" 
 
 " The earth hath bubbles, as the water hath—'* 
 
 xvas the reply of Cynic. 
 
 *^ You 're too deep a hand for me — so I 
 sheJl cut you," rejoin'd Stanley. '' How- 
 ever, as I am o?w of the pigeons, I shall 
 see if I can't pick up a little of the golden 
 grain — and so I '11 join the host of Faro.'' 
 
 " Do so," cried Cynic, as the other left 
 hiiXi ; ^^ arid it won't be your own fault if 
 you're not one of the /c^^?i kine. But, how 
 is it" (turning to Travers) " that you are 
 not losing your money, with the avidity I 
 have before seen you?" 
 
 *^ A man may be guilty of an indiscre- 
 tion — but, when reflection points it out as 
 such, none, but a fool, will persist in it,** 
 aiiswer'd Travers. 
 
 *' Upon my soul ! you 're not half so bad 
 as I thought you — and I do verily believe, 
 1 shall begin to like you, if your practice
 
 219 
 
 tallies with your theory. But, I supposed 
 reflection never enter'd the breast of any 
 being, beneath this roof, except Lady 
 Louisa." 'f* 
 
 " AnA yourself r' observed Philip. 
 
 '^ I thank you for the observation !" said 
 Cynic ; " but I meant no such thing. I 
 
 am nobody — have no character Oh! 
 
 I'm wroncr there — I have a verv bad 
 one. — No one likes me — indeed, hardly 
 gives me a civil word, except Louisa — and 
 one approving smile from her more than 
 compensates the neglect of a herd of cox- 
 combs and jilts. By the bye, I have not 
 seen her, this evening." :.\ 
 
 " Her ladyship did not dine with us, be- 
 ing rather indisposed. But she, really, ap- 
 pears to be a wonderful favorite of your's," 
 quoth Travers. 
 
 ^'Virtue," return'd theokl man, '-should 
 find favor, everj- where; and, when cou- 
 pled with misfortune, commands our vene- 
 ration.'* 
 
 " You mean, then, to say. Lady Louisa 
 has been unfortunate ?" 
 L 2
 
 2^0 
 
 « Very !" rejoin- d Cynic, emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 " I conjecture you are not ignorant of 
 the particulars; and, did I not fear you 
 would not think me impertinent, I should 
 solicit to be made acquainted with them. 
 And, be convinced, I am not actuated by 
 an idle curiosity— but prompted by the in- 
 terest I feel for the lady." 
 
 " Nay, as to that matter, the story is no 
 secret," said Cynic; *' and, if you can lis- 
 ten with patience to my monotonous sounds, 
 you shall hear it. 
 
 " Lady Louisa was, when I first knew 
 her, (and that is not more than four years 
 since) about the age of sixteeru She was 
 diffident and unafiected; and, amongst the 
 rantipoles of fashion, appeared like a mo- 
 dest lily in a bed of gaudy tulips. — Poor 
 girl ! misery has bent her— and she has lost 
 iill relish for this world, at an age that few 
 hsiye learned to appreciate it*s worth ! 
 
 ^' Earl Mask well has an estate in Kent — 
 at which he, usually, spent the autumn j 
 and where he form'd an intimacy with a
 
 2^1 
 
 man of worth and probity. Sir Charles 
 Stedfast (so he was call'd) was, with the 
 earl, in the opposition. The famiHes were 
 seldom asunder ; j'onng Algernon Stedfust 
 and the son and daughters of Mask well were 
 reared together ; and a reciprocity of senti- 
 ment between the first and Louisa, soon ri- 
 pened their friendship into love — ^which their 
 parents regarded with peculiar satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 " How unstable is the friendship formed 
 on a political basis — how transient the hap- 
 piness dependent thereon ! In the vain 
 hope of soon getting into office, the Earl of 
 Maskwell offer'd Stedfast a lucrative place, 
 (in case of his own appointment), provided 
 he would join him, upon all questions ; — but 
 that worthy man was not to be bought. 
 
 " ' *Tis indifferent to me who is in, or 
 who is out,* the patriot would say, ^ so lon<^ 
 as justice is done the people. I have not 
 been carping for a place, nor will I, now, 
 sacrifice niy principles for hire. So long as 
 3 our measures meet the approval of my con- 
 science, you shall have my voice ; but it 
 has been, and shall be, my unalterable sys-
 
 torn to utter my real sentiments, unblass'd by 
 any party consideration. Such a man, you 
 must be well aware, would be no accession 
 to your cause, and I beg leave to decline 
 your olYer. The matrimonial connexion> 
 between our families, has my hearty con- 
 currcnce; and here, my lord, let the matter 
 drop.' 
 
 *' Conversation on the above topic was, 
 very frequently, and \ery artfully, intro- 
 duced by Maskwell, (w^ho was unwilling to 
 aljandon his attempts to convert his friend, 
 while there existed a shadow of success) but 
 each ended in his discomfiture; and, at 
 length, broke into an open rupture. Poor 
 Algernon was forbid the house, by the earl ^ 
 while Louisa was order'd, on pain of her fa* 
 ther's curse, to think no more of him. 
 
 *' Maskwell, now, bore a deadly enmity 
 towards his late intimate friend, whose sen- 
 timents would not allow him to ask a recon- 
 ciliation. In vain did Algernon practise 
 every innocent stratagem, to that effect — in 
 vain did he importune his beloved Louisa to 
 abscond with him — the dread of her father's 
 malediction withheld her: she solemnly
 
 253 
 
 protested she would never commit an ac- 
 tion hostile to her filial duty, and, m the- 
 sequel, declined all further correspondence 
 with him» 
 
 '' Disappointed in his youthful, and 
 dearest, hopes, and debarred the sight of 
 Louisa, England became hatefid to- him — 
 every object served to remind him of past 
 bliss, and he, fondly, look'd for consolatiort 
 in another land. 
 
 " Mistaken youth I it is not time, nor 
 distance, can heal a lacerated heart ! the 
 wound will smart, beneath the probe of re- 
 trospection, were we to reach the pole ! 
 
 *' In pursuance of this idea, he ex- 
 chansjed from the rc2:iment wherein he had 
 a company, for one destined to the West 
 Indies j nor could the prayers of his father, 
 or the tears of his doting mother, put hiai 
 from his purpose. 
 
 " He had been abroad twelve months, 
 when Sir Charles died, leaving a yery plen- 
 tiful estate to his absent son; and his de- 
 mise caused a sudden revolution in the sen- 
 timents of Lord Maskwell. He well knew 
 the affection Algernon bore his daughter.
 
 and he, already, speculated upon an in- 
 crease of interest, in the political scale, by 
 means of their union. lie, therefore, ad- 
 dressed a letter to the youth -, commencing 
 witli condolements on their mutual loss, 
 (than which no man better knows the mode 
 of so doing) and lamenting the political 
 misunderstanding which had, so long, re- 
 tarded a matrimonial connexion between 
 the families. That obstacle being now re- 
 moved, by the melancholy means he had 
 iStated, he was ready, he said, to give him 
 bis daughter's hand — and only required a 
 written, and solemn promise, from Alger- 
 non, not to oppose him in any political 
 measures. — He concluded with requesting a 
 brief answer; on the receipt of which, he 
 promised to transmit his unequivocal con- 
 sent to the match. 
 
 " The contents of this epistle were shown 
 to Lady Louisa; and she, already antici- 
 pated the pleasure of again beholding her 
 Algernon. 
 
 *' It was on a cold November night — the 
 wind roar'd equal to a discharge of artil- 
 lery—the clouds flew, in swift succession.
 
 225 
 
 over the moon, and the spray of the en- 
 raged sea beat violently agahist the win- 
 dows of Vulture Lodge — where, at the time, 
 I happcn'd to be an inmate, 
 
 *' The storm had lasted, sometime, when 
 a servant inform'd us, there was a ship, in 
 distress, off the coast : — though the noise of 
 the wind prevented their hearing the report, 
 they plainly discenVd the fire, of the guns ; 
 and, each time the moon clear' d, they could 
 even see the vesselsw hich, there was not a 
 doubt, must be lost. 
 
 " His Lordship and myself ran to the 
 chff; and never do I remember a mcwe ter- 
 rific spectacle : the ship seem'd, oik? mo- 
 ment, elevated to the sky — the next, buried 
 in the yawning gulf— while repeated flashes 
 from their guns announced the imminent 
 danger of the crew. The moon was, now, 
 perfectly unclouded ; and we observed tliat 
 all their efforts to stand out to sea pi'oved 
 abortive; the tremendous gale blew full 
 upon the land — w;hich the vessel kept ap- 
 proaching. We kept our station, with much 
 anxiety — the cliff being lined with lanterns, 
 as beacons to those on board. At lensrth 
 L5
 
 226 
 
 tile vessel struck upon a rock whore she 
 continued on her side, awhile, and then 
 went down ! when loud shrieks were heard, 
 and, then, succeeded a fearful silence ! 
 
 *' Every one flew to the beach, to render 
 such assistance as they could; but the sea 
 ran too high to admit our launching a boat, 
 in their behalf. 
 
 " Two bodies were wash'd on shore, w^ith 
 which the servants proceeded to the lodge ; 
 at the door of which Lady Louisa (who, 
 shivering with cold, had remained there, an 
 anxious spectator) met them. But, on en- 
 tering the hall, judge of her horror, when, 
 in the features of one of tlie corpse, she be- 
 held those of Algernon ! — All power of 
 speech, all utterance of feeling, was denied 
 iier — no tear relieved her full heart — but she 
 gazed, in speechless agony, almost as inani- 
 mate as the object before her — from which 
 we contrived to remove her. 
 
 '* But, here, another scene of distress en- 
 sued. Some of the peasantry, who had 
 heard the name of Algernon, hurried to the 
 house of Lady Stedfast, and, abruptly, im- 
 parted to her the fate of her darling son.
 
 2^7 
 
 Siie rush'd to the lodge, enter'd the hall,. 
 uiiusher'd, and threw herself upon the 
 body. She call'd on her Algernon— de- 
 manded ^\hy he did not, after so long an 
 absence, speak to her — w hy he did not ut- 
 ter a sint^le word of comfort to her ? — She 
 talk'd in an incoherent manner, till nature 
 became exliaiisted;. when she press'd her 
 lips to those of the deceased, and breathed, 
 her last sigh upon the body 1 
 
 '^ One grave contains them, and a sim- 
 ple inscription records the manner of their 
 deaths. — They are happy ! they are re- 
 leased from a weary pilgrimage ! — but the 
 ill-fated Louisa carries a canker-worm with- 
 in her heart, which is sapping her fragile 
 form, and will soon conduct her to a better 
 world, where she will be united to her Al- 
 gernon. 
 
 '' To add to the girFs afflictions, her 
 cruel father commands her to give her hand 
 to another — to a wTetch, who looks as if a 
 pastry-cook had made him, and w^hose de- 
 ficiency of head his lordship thinks is re- 
 compensed by the superabundance of his
 
 purse. To this thing is the beautiful, the 
 amiable, Louisa destined — but her suffer- 
 ings are almost at an end. — Poor girl 1 the 
 fairest flowers fade the soonest; and so 
 'twill be with thee ! 
 
 " How?'* continued Cynic, turning to- 
 wards Philip. — '' Tears ? I thought suscep- 
 tibility a treason against the modern rules 
 of fashion. Young man, young man, you 
 are unfit for this town ; where example will 
 soon deaden your feelings, and choke the 
 springs of benevolence. Play no more — 
 but shun the gaming-table as you would a 
 pestilence. How man}^ widows and or- 
 phans mourn their husband's and their fa- 
 ther's loss, through that destructive vice 1 
 Good night! — But, pimj no more: for a 
 gamester is so contemptible a character, 
 (whether we view him as the sharper, or the 
 dupe) that it would be for the benefit of so- 
 ciety, if he w^ere hunted thence.'* 
 
 The old man's words sunk deep into the 
 heart of our hero ; and he left Brook-Street, 
 more firmly fix'd to refrain from gaming, in 
 future.
 
 29g 
 
 The watchman^ who announced the hour 
 of twelve, as he entei 'd Knightsbridgc, 
 brought to his remembrance the caution his 
 servant had given him, with regard to the 
 lady at the white house. He tapp'd, gent* 
 ly, at the door ; which was open'd by an 
 elderly female, who usher'd him, with mucli 
 caution, into the drawing-room — where 
 was the lady of the mansion. The do- 
 mestic withdrew ; and Travers began to 
 apologise for his intrusion — but was inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 *' A truce with yojir apologies,'' she 
 cried — '' my own conduct demands one, 
 much more ^ — but it is evident, you took 
 the purport of my message, although your 
 servant threatened to have me tried for omy- 
 side, if any ill befel you. — It was, certainly^ 
 an uncommon mode of conveying an assig- 
 nation — but what could I do ? — I have no 
 one to whom I could have intrusted a let- 
 ter—nor any other means of intimating my 
 sentiments. I judged your servant, from 
 his appearance, to be the child of simpli- 
 city • consequently, that he would not dive
 
 23a 
 
 mto the drift of my message, while to you 
 I attributed more penetration; and I can- 
 not help declaring my satisfaction at the 
 success of ray little artifice. I am, un- 
 fortunately, married to a man old enough 
 to be my father; and, I candidly own, I 
 (Jo not feel that warmth of affection for. 
 him, which I might have done, had I 
 become the partner of a man like your- 
 self. The absence of my husband has 
 given me the opportunity I now enjoy,. 
 Put a hberal construction on my cour- 
 duct ; and, if it does not meet the ap- 
 probation of your judgment, make soma 
 allowance for that lapse from propriety 
 of which yourself have been the cause." 
 . This speech, utter'd in a voice which 
 
 « Might have charm'd stern murder," 
 
 and accompanied with the most languish- 
 ing air, by a beautiful woman, was too 
 much for our hero's fortitude. He for- 
 got his vows to Rachel; — he> for the in-
 
 231 
 
 stant, forgot each object in the world — save 
 that whereon he gazed. 
 
 " Further this deponent saith not." 
 
 We never were given to prys and, trust- 
 ing our readers are equally incurious, we 
 shall beg leave to draw the curtain.
 
 £32 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more! 
 
 Alen were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot on sea, and one on shore, 
 
 To one thing constant never ! 
 
 Shakspeare^ 
 
 While Philip was paying adoration to the 
 shrine of Venus abroad, his servant was far 
 from being idle, on tiie same score, at 
 home. The goddess of his idolatry was no 
 other than a plump wench, who was ser-^ 
 vant of all work in the house where his mas- 
 ter lodc:ed. Whether the tender heart of 
 Hawbuck was enamour'd of the charms na- 
 ture had given her, viz. a pair of sparkling 
 eyes, rosy cheeks, and a well-turn'd ancle^ 
 clothed in black worsted ; or whetlier it vva§ 
 the grace with which she moved in pattens^ 
 and turn'd her mop, we are unable to say.
 
 233 
 
 To suppose her intellectual accomplish- 
 ments had any share in the triumph, would 
 be to libel his judgment, as she was not 
 many removes fix>m an idiot. 
 
 Be that as it may, long had he nourished 
 his flame in secret ; until, on the above 
 night, returning from an adjacent public- 
 house — 
 
 " Hot with MALT and hops, and high in hhody* 
 
 he summoned resolution to make it known j 
 which was done in the subsequent manner : 
 He sat on one side of the kitchen-fire, 
 and the queen of his wishes on the other; 
 when, all on a sudden, he cried (sung, I 
 should have said), with his usual melody of 
 voice, 
 
 *« Dear.' dear! xvhaf can the matter ho? 
 I'm bother d from head to the tailf 
 
 ** La! what has bother'd thee?" in- 
 quired the girl. 
 
 *^ Kitty,** said he, after several hems and 
 ha's, '' what be thy opinion of things in 
 general?'*
 
 -■^"'I am sure, Mr. Humphry, I never 
 think at all, like," replied the simpleton. 
 
 '' Don't /"/^a^ though? Dang it ! that he 
 strange ! Wiiaty' didst never think of inlist- 
 ing under Cupid, the god of sleep ?" 
 
 ^^ Not I; I never listed under nobody, 
 sleeping nor waking. V* . 
 
 '' Oh! Kitty," cried the bumpkm, in a 
 tragic tone, and dropping upon his knee, 
 •* thee hast made a greater hole in my poor 
 heart, than a battering ram would have 
 done.'' 
 
 ** Lovely imp, assuage my anguish — ^ 
 At your feet a tinder sivainf 
 
 ^' A battering rami" repeated the girt, 
 ''■ What be that ?" 
 
 " What, don't thee know what a batter- 
 ing ram be ? — A battering ram, Kitty, be 
 what your antick soldiers, once, used in/^7v 
 nication^ to make breeches." 
 
 *' La ! Mr. Humphry, I wonder you 
 ben't ashamed of yourself to talk so!" cried 
 she; '^ and to try to come over a poor 
 
 " Don't tlu-e l:)e angry," said he; " I
 
 Q35 
 
 bad rather be spiggctted than see thee look 
 so mortal black — 
 
 «* Hard-hearted Barbara Allen /'* ' 
 
 " How should I look but black, when- 
 you have been affronting me with your 2/;z- 
 purence^ as you have done, ^Ir. Humph- 
 
 ry?'' 
 
 «' What, I ! dang it ! how this world be 
 given to lying ! I would not affront thee to 
 be made ?i feudal man 3 aiul I '11 take good 
 care nobody shan't affront thee, if I do know 
 it. All I do ask," added Hawbuck, " is, 
 whether you have any dejection to matri- 
 mony — to the oily state oiwedgelock T* 
 
 *« What, did you mean as how to ask me 
 about that? — Oh! la! that's quite ano- 
 ther thing, like, Mr. Humphry." 
 
 *' Could thee (ducy I.^'' said the clown, 
 endeavouring to look interesting. 
 
 *' La ! you ask a body all of a sudden, 
 like. People, where I do come from, keep 
 company a long while before they put such 
 things to one." 
 
 ♦' They heyourpheasa?itSy raw piimpkinsi^
 
 236 
 
 and naught else : but thee be^st in Lunmm 
 now ; anclj as tlie saying is, * When zve be 
 in a ROOM, zve must do as the ROOM does/ 
 Courtships, here, be like forced marches — 
 right foot first, and step out. No shilly- 
 shally with the wenches ; or, ecod ! they '1! 
 slip through your fingers like heels.'* 
 
 ** Oh/ thou wert horn to tease me, 
 My life, my only love/'* 
 
 '' I say, Kitty, wilt thee have I ? I ha' 
 good wagers, besides ivhales. Say but the 
 word, and General Highman^s halter shall 
 do our business in a crack/' 
 
 " General Highman! who Is that?'* said 
 she. 
 
 ** Why, he be a desperate great man^ 
 now, as I have heard say," quoth Haw- 
 buck ; *^ for no couples cant be married 
 without him. He were not of very good 
 distraction^ for all that, I believe ; for I ha' 
 seen a picture of him before he were 
 breeched, wi' a link in his hand, and he 
 look'd for all the world like one of the little 
 ragged boys that did light I over a crossing
 
 237 
 
 in Parliament- Street t'other night. — But 
 -vvilt thee, Kitty, have 1?" 
 
 " La! Mr. Humphry, you men be such 
 deceivers, there *s no knowing how to trust 
 any of you, Hke." 
 
 *' There be no rule without a deception, 
 and I be a great one," quoth he. '' Upon 
 my honor ! I '11 be as true as the relief 
 guard; and, \^ ani) man in the world doubts 
 my vivacity, dang I ! if I don't take him by 
 the nose ! — Oh i Lord ! there be my vieas- 
 ter! and, if I do keep him at door, he'll 
 kjck / to the devil. — Good bye, Kitty ! 
 
 «* A Jew, dear Kitty ! 
 Lovely Kitty^ Kitty Feli/ '* 
 
 mid do n't thee forget poor Humphry Haw- 
 buck, or I shall go mad, like * To?n of 
 Bcdlamr 
 
 ** How sweet's the love that meets return .'" 
 
 concluded he, leaving the kitchen in he- 
 roics, and hurrying to the street-door ; and, 
 on seeing his master, he exclaim'd — " Lord,
 
 ^3S 
 
 sir! thee be*st ail over mud. Have thee 
 tumbled into a morcass f 
 
 " What Ao^w and what fears 
 
 We endure for our beautiful maids 1'* 
 
 This piece of poetry was very ill relish'd 
 by Travers; who order'd his servant to bring 
 him some soap and water/* 
 
 '^ I will, sir,'* said the others '" but, by 
 Gosh ! 3'ou look like 
 
 ** The turhaii'd l\(rk with his whiskers curVd!^^ 
 
 In order to account for the sable appear- 
 ance our hero has just made, it maj^ be ne- 
 cessary to inform our readers that his tHe-ci- 
 tite with Mrs. Smith was suddenly inter- 
 rupted by a knocking at the street-door. 
 The servants being a-bed, the lady, from 
 the balcony, demanded who it wasj and, 
 upon receiving an answer, she turn'd to 
 Philip in a fright, exclaiming, '^ Good 
 God ! it is my husband ! What will become 
 ofme?" 
 
 To this, Philip (who had no fears upon 
 his own account, but was as tenacious of the
 
 239 
 
 lady's reputation as she could be) ask'd if 
 there were no place where she could secrete 
 him; adding, he would conceal himself in 
 the chimney, rather than she should suffer. 
 She requested him to step into a room ad- 
 joining that in which they were sitting; 
 and assured him she would prevail on the 
 old man to retire early, when she would 
 release him. 
 
 Philip consented; and the lady left him 
 to admit her spouse, with whom she re- 
 turned to the apartment just quitted. 
 
 From their discourse, it appeared he had 
 had intimation of a piece of business, which 
 required his immediate presence; and which 
 had brought him, thus suddenly, to town. 
 The lady saluted him with such seeming 
 warmth of affection, as to give her gallant 
 a very indifferent opinion of her sincerity; 
 and protested she was indifferent as to the 
 cause that produced it, so long as she had 
 the felicity of seeinsr him as^ain, 
 
 '' Bless thee, my duck ! I beheve thee 
 from my soul," replied the old man. " I 
 have had a most fatiguing journey ; but 'tis 
 a consolation to look forward to the comforts
 
 240 
 
 of such a home, and such a wife, as I have. 
 There are few Uke you." 
 
 ^' So much the better,^* thought Travers. 
 
 *' But tell me, my duck 1 wiiat hast thou 
 been doing in my absence ?'* rejoined 
 Smith. 
 
 " Thinking of yon, my love, little else,** 
 said the wife: '^ this place is a desert when 
 you are not in it. Have you supped V* 
 
 Philip groan' d. " If he has not,** mut- 
 tered he, " I am likely to have a pleasant 
 time!" 
 
 " Thank thee, my duck, I have,** re- 
 turn'jd Smith. " I am very much tired, and 
 w ill go to-bed : but, first, I must get some 
 papers out of my desk in the next room.** 
 
 ** Not to-night,'* said she, quickly; " it 
 is late ; you had better look them out in the 
 xnorning.'* 
 
 *^ I shan't have time, for I must be out 
 early ; therefore, stand out of the way, my 
 <luck, and let me pass.** 
 
 What was [to be done ? Travers had no 
 leisure for reflexion. The window was open, 
 and he leap*d out* The ground being soft, 
 he s^&tain*d no hurt, but ran along the gar--
 
 ^1 
 
 den, threw himself over the wall, and fell 
 into a ditch ! 
 
 Dripping with wet and dirt, and inwardly- 
 protesting against intrigue, as he had here- 
 tofore against gaming, he reached his 
 lodgings; vowing to steer clear of both 
 in future. How far he persevered in 
 these laudable resolutions, will be very soon 
 seen. 
 
 In the last instance, he recommenced his 
 career at the faro-table, and lost almost 
 every guinea he had brought from the 
 country : in short, he was reduced to such 
 straits, as to be forced to sell one of his 
 horses. 
 
 On the score of his amour, suffice it to 
 say, he kept up his intercourse with Mrs, 
 Smith by the following manosuvre, till an 
 unlucky accident cut that, and nearly the 
 thread of his existence. That Philip might 
 not be liable to intrude when Mr. Smith 
 was in the way, it was agreed that he should 
 occasionally scale the garden-wall at mid- 
 night, the lady promising, if her husband 
 were out, to place a flower-pot at her bed* 
 chamber window. 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 
 
 One fatal night, Philip went to the spot ; 
 and, not seeing the flower-pot, ascended 
 to the window by means of a water-butt that 
 stood beneath, and tapp'd at the window ; 
 when, instead of the fondly-expecting mis- 
 tress flying to give him admission, he heard 
 a voice say, *^ What noise is that, my 
 duck?'' 
 
 *' What?*' ask'd the lady j '' I hear 
 nothing." 
 
 " Indeed ! then you are plaguy deaf, my 
 darling,'* return'd the other, whose voice 
 our gallant recognised to be that of her hus- 
 band. " I hear something, however; and, 
 (be it man or devil) he shall soon feel me, if 
 there is any virtue in lead." 
 
 The lady very politically raised her tone, to 
 give her lover notice of the danger that now 
 threatened him, exclaiming: '" For the love 
 of God 1 what are you going to do, Mr. 
 Smith? You would not use your blunder- 
 buss!'' 
 
 . *' Indeed I will, my duck. If I had not 
 been here, what would have become of 
 T/our 
 
 Philip tarried not to hear any more j but
 
 243 
 
 descended with velocity, and measured the 
 garden with all his speed ; but, before he 
 gain'd the wall, a bullet whistled in his ear, 
 and a rattle was sprung. Fear lent him 
 wings ^ and he was fortunate enough to 
 escape the danger that threatened him, and 
 which put a fnial stop to his nocturnal visits 
 at the White House, The cause of the 
 above was the removal of the signal (the 
 flower-pot) by means of a high wind ; and 
 Philip thought it a very /// wind, taking care 
 not to risk a similar chance. 
 
 He was introduced to all fashionable par> 
 ties, and initiated in all fashionable amuse- 
 ments, by his ho?io7^ able friends ; and, it must 
 be allowed, he play'd his part with a tolera- 
 ble good grace. 
 
 But, though it be acknowleged he was a 
 true hunter after pleasure, and that his con- 
 stitution, with his purse, had suffered much 
 in the pursuit, let it not be supposed that he 
 had no intervals of reflexion. 
 
 Often, on his return from the gay parties 
 
 in which he mix'd, he would take the 
 
 broach which contained Rachel's hair (that 
 
 sacred pledge of early attachment), and 
 
 M 2
 
 244 
 
 stamp a kiss upon it ; and as often would an 
 inward monitor compare his present state 
 with what it had been. 
 
 *^ Would I had never left you, beloved 
 Rachel !" he would say; " that I had never 
 wandered from you and virtue ! How would 
 you blush for your once loved and esteemed 
 Philip, were you acquainted with his vices! 
 My revered tutor, too, how ill have I ob- 
 served thy noble precepts ! — Damnation ! 
 I cannot think — I am ashamed of my 
 inveterate folly, yet cannot shake it off 
 — nor shall I, I much fear, until it is too 
 late." 
 
 Too true were his apprehensions ! He left 
 the earl's house one night, with only fifteen 
 pieces in his pocket. 
 
 *^ For Heaven's sake ! have pity on a 
 poor wretch, who is starving with cold and 
 hunger!" cried a voice; as, with a per- 
 turbed mind, he was hurrying along Park- 
 Street. He turned, and beheld one of those 
 unfortunate beings, who gain a precarious 
 subsistence by patroUing the streets of the 
 metropoHs at night. She was a young wo- 
 man, miserably attired, but, (as far as the
 
 245 
 
 quivering reflection of the lamps would allow 
 him to judge,) of exquisite beauty. 
 
 " There are others in the world more mi- 
 serable than myself!'* said he. 
 
 He enter'd into conversation with her, 
 from motives of philanthropy, and glean'd 
 from her the following account of her mis- 
 fortunes : — 
 
 *^ My father," she said, *^ was a trades- 
 man, in a small line of business. With him, 
 and a tender mother, I resided during the 
 first seventeen years of my life ; when I was 
 apprenticed to a celebrated milliner, and 
 mantua-maker, at the west end of the town. 
 I had always been much praised for my 
 beauty, (don't think me vain, I am repeating 
 facts) and, hitherto, I had listen'd to them 
 with indifference — but now, the spark of 
 vanity, which had long been latent in my 
 breast, burst into a flame. The continual 
 display of fashionable dress and equipage, 
 which resorted to the house of my employer, 
 dazzled my weak mind, and fiU'd it with 
 envy. I accused destiny of partiality, in 
 allotting such enviable marks of her favor 
 to beings inferior to myself in point of per- 
 sonal charms; while 1 was doom'd totrudgq
 
 ^46 
 
 about with my band-box, in mean apparel. 
 This may seem strange, sir, but it is too 
 true. And, I believe, there are few sta- 
 tions where female virtue is liable to more 
 temptation and danger than that of a milli- 
 ner's apprentice ! 
 
 " Vanity and ambition rendered my con- 
 dition intolerable, and my thoughts w^ere 
 incessantly employed in devising means to 
 better it, when, as I was returning from an 
 errand, a gentlemen accosted me, and would 
 accompany me to my mistress's door. From 
 that time, whenever I stirr'd out, I was 
 sure to meet him; and, at each interview, 
 his manner was more impassioned. At last, 
 he made me an offer of marriage, which I 
 (who had imagined him a man of rank, and 
 really loved him) readily accepted. We 
 ^veve married, and I believed myself at the 
 height of my vrishes. Alas ! of how short a 
 duration was my triumph ! 
 
 *' I soon discovered a visible alteration in 
 his behaviour, though, at times, he would 
 protest his love was unabated — and was again 
 luird into a fool's paradise. 
 
 *' He introduced me to a gentleman, 
 whom, he call'd his most particular friend ^
 
 247 
 
 aiid with whom he left me on his first visit, 
 under the pretence of business abroad. 
 
 " When he was gone, the stranger be- 
 gan ta take hberties with me, which I re- 
 sented with sincere indignation, upbraid- 
 ing him with the injury he was doing his 
 friend. 
 
 " He burst inta a loud laugh ^ and, re- 
 peating the word ^friend' with a sneer, 
 said : ' I hope you don't suppose it possible 
 for me to esteem such a scoundrel as Peter's 
 in that light — though I would be a friend 
 to you in every sense of the word/ 
 
 '^ * I shall never/ replied I, ' endure 
 the man who treats my husband with disre- 
 spect, and insults me with a licentiousness 
 not to be supported.' 
 
 ^^ Finding his persuasions were of no 
 avail, I succeeded in getting rid of him ; 
 but it is impossible to describe my emotions 
 till the return of my husband. I complain'd 
 to him of the treatment I had met with, 
 to which he said but little; and, I thought, 
 received the information with an indifference 
 bordering upon apathy. Afy discontent
 
 248 
 
 was increased, and I could not help adding, 
 I wonder'd he kept such company. 
 
 " He affected to turn my expostulations 
 into ridicule 3 but, seeing that I did not re- 
 lish the jest, he told me, seriously, that per- 
 sons of such rank, as the one I complained 
 of, were not to be censured for any little 
 freedoms, which the custom of society au- 
 thorised them to take. That I was too 
 particular — and that prudery was, of all 
 things, what he disliked in a woman. 
 
 " Fired by this reply, which too plainly 
 show'd what I was to expect, I rejoin'd, 
 * that I had, always, imagined there was a 
 material difference between, what he was 
 pleased to call, prudery, and real virtue ; 
 and that it was my design to be ever tena- 
 cious of the latter/ 
 
 *^ He did not deign to give me another 
 w^ord ; but quitted me, with a strong sneer 
 upon his face, that redoubled my distress. 
 — Soon after which, the woman, where I 
 lodged, came, and told me a lady was be- 
 low, who inquired if a person did not live in 
 her house, ^^'ho call' d herself Mrs. Peters.
 
 1249 
 
 <^ Are not voUi then, Mr. Peters's wife?" 
 concluded she. 
 
 " I started, and felt confused : however, 
 I recovered myself sufficiently to tell her, in 
 rather rai angry tone, that I thought her 
 question as unnecessary as impertinent. 
 
 '' ' It may seem so to you, perhaps,* she 
 answer'd pertly ; * but the person, who is 
 coming up, will tell you who has the best 
 right to that title.' 
 
 " I shudder'd at her reply ; and, before 
 I had time to collect my scatter'd thoughts, 
 a genteel woman enter'd the room, leading 
 one of the sweetest children I had ever 
 seen. The mother, after sitting for some 
 moments silent, as at a loss to deliver what 
 she had to say, ask'd, if I were the voung 
 lady, she heard, Air. Peters had lately taken 
 under his protection. 
 
 " I answered her, I was the person whom 
 Mr. Peters had lately married. 
 
 ** ' To marry, madam, is not in his power, 
 as he has been my husband these six years/ 
 she said, with a languid smile. ' On your 
 account, as well as my own, I should have 
 esteem'd myself culpable, had I not made an 
 M 5
 
 250 
 
 effort to prevent the ruin of one, who, I 
 fear, has been shamefully betray 'd.' 
 
 ''^Oh! Heaven !' I exclaim'd in an agony 
 of despair^ ' betray'd ! — my ruin is irre- 
 trievable! Yet, I stand self-condemn'd — 
 my vanity — my fatal passion for ambition — 
 united for my undoing ! — Bat for these, I 
 might have been happy V 
 
 " This worthy w^oman, after using every 
 means in her power to console me, departed 
 with her lovely child. You may imagine 
 how I received the wretch who had deluded 
 me. I upbraided him, m language which, 
 evinced how strongly 1 felt the infamy to 
 which he had reduced me. 
 
 " At first, he treated my agonies with an 
 insulting levity; but, perceiving I grew 
 almost frantic, he changed his tone — swore 
 the woman, who had dared to assume his 
 name, was an impostor; and concluded 
 with a solemn asseveration, of convincing 
 me how false her story was. 
 
 " I suffered myself to be persuaded by 
 his insidious protestations; and, on the 
 next night, accompanied him to a house, 
 the owner of which, he promised me>
 
 '2di 
 
 should remove every doubt from my mind. 
 An elderly woman did the lionors of the 
 bouse ; and I was recovering some sbare of 
 composure, when the entrance of the man, 
 who had lately given me so much uneasi- 
 ness, again banish'd my transitory com- 
 fort. 
 
 " Peters, with the woman of the house, 
 contrived to absent themselves ; and I was 
 left to the insults of the stranger, who again 
 persecuted me with his odious addresses. 
 
 *' I flung him from me, with disdain 3 
 and cried on Peters to protect me. 
 
 " ' It is very certain,' he said, with eyes 
 that express'd the danger of my situation, 
 'that Peters will not return; and it is 
 equally certain that I shall not let you go 
 home, alone, (if home you do go) after the 
 round sum I have laid down for you.' 
 
 *' Sum!' repeated I, starting with horror 
 and indignation. ^ And who has a right to 
 dispose of me, sir ?' 
 
 " ' The man who lately claim'd you,' an- 
 svver'd he ; ' the man who trick'd you into 
 a sham marriage, to make his market of
 
 you — the man who is become weary of those 
 charms, for which I die/ 
 
 " ' Heaven defend me ! what will become 
 of me? Where shall I find a protector?' 
 cried I. 
 
 " ^ Pretty child!' said the monster, 
 catching me in his arms, ' none of your he- 
 roics ! — Let us have none of your theatrical 
 airs — for they won't avail you/ 
 
 *^ I, luckily, disengaged my right hand, 
 and snatch'd a dessert knife from the table, 
 with which I made a pass at him, but 
 miss'd him. The suddenness, however, of 
 my attempt was favorable to my design : he 
 was surprised, intimidated, and quitted his 
 hold, gazing on me with astonishment — 
 when I rush'd out of the room, and out of 
 the house, as fast as my trembling limbs 
 would support me. 
 
 " I could not bear the thoughts of sub- 
 mitting to receive pecuniary support from 
 the villain who had deceived me -, I, there- 
 fore, hired an obscure lodging — where sick- 
 ness, and poverty, soon reduced me to the 
 state 1 had taken so much pains to avoid.
 
 '253 
 
 and which I am not depraved enough to 
 bear with indifference." 
 
 Travers gave her a guinea, and took her 
 place of abode ; and told her he would in- 
 quire the means by which she might procure 
 an honest livelihood. 
 
 She w^as profuse in her thanks — call'd 
 him her guardian-angel — and, praying God 
 to reward him, wish'd him a good night. 
 
 Reflections, on the above encounter, ab- 
 sorbed his mind, during the rest of his walk; 
 and the consciousness of having relieved a 
 being in distress, partly compensated for his 
 
 losses at the gaming-table Alas ! short 
 
 was his triumph ! on reaching home, he 
 found he had been robb'd of his pocket- 
 book -y (which, except a loose guinea, or two, 
 contain'd all he possess'd ;) and, as he was 
 positive he had it when he left Brook-Street, 
 he did not doubt but the woman, whilst 
 pleading her tale of distress, had purloined it. 
 
 " Surely,'* he said, '' I am doomed to 
 be a dupe ! — I have been fleeced at the 
 gaming-table — unfortunate in intrigue — and 
 now, to crown all, am robb'd of my last, 
 while administering charity ! How perni-
 
 cioiTS is the system of vice ! — The poor 
 wretcli, who robb'd me, once was innocent. 
 — Man deceived her, and the victim has 
 been taught to turn upon the sacrificer — to 
 fight the spoiler at his own weapons!" 
 
 The present state of his finances w^ould 
 have driven our hero to desperation, had not 
 Earl Mask well hitely intimated to him the wel- 
 come intelligence, that he would, shortly, 
 see himself gazetted for a company. Yet, 
 spite of this, a visible despondency laid hold 
 of him — the cause of which being de- 
 manded by his friend Vulture, he candidly^ 
 acknowleged his distress. 
 
 *' If that is all,'* said the other, ^' I can 
 afford you a temporary relief I can, con- 
 veniently, accommodate you with five hun- 
 dred pounds — for which, as I know your 
 high spirit, you may give me an acknow- 
 legement," 
 
 This matter being arranged, seemingly 
 to the satisfaction of both parties. Vulture 
 (with a preface by way of apology) ask'd 
 our hero, why he had never thought of 
 mending his fortunes in the beaten road of 
 matrimony.
 
 '255 
 
 »' I, my dear Vulture :"— said the other. 
 — '' What pretensions have I to a woman 
 of fortune ? — And to many any other, 
 ■svould only be to unite her to my own po- 
 verty. 
 
 " You have a devihsh good figure/' 
 quoth Vulture ; "and (though I'll do you 
 the justice to say, I believe, you are un- 
 conscious of it) you have an address calcu- 
 lated to insinuate yourself into the good 
 graces of the women." 
 
 '' Pshaw ! this is flattery !'' 
 
 " Upon my honor, it is not ! and, to 
 prove I am dealing candidly, I verily be- 
 lieve my mad-cap sister, Helen, is of my 
 opinion — take my w^ord for it, she regards 
 you with no unfavorable eye." 
 
 " To what end do you tell me tliis ? If 
 it were so, my distresses could never rob 
 me of honor, so far as to permit my taking 
 a base advantage of any partiahty Lady He- 
 len might entertain for me." 
 
 " Curse vour hi2:h- flown sentiments ! 
 come down to level speaking, or I have 
 done. I don't wnsh you to marry Helen, 
 on your own account ; for she is an extra-
 
 256 
 
 ragaiit young devil, with very little money. 
 — But, I again recommend matrimony to 
 you ' — the medicine is a rough one, but 
 your disease is desperate. To be plain, I 
 know a woman of family and fortune, who 
 is smitten with you ; and, to prove how 
 much I am in earnest, I w^ill introduce you, 
 whenever you please, exacting nothing, in 
 return, but a promise of profound secresy 
 to every one." 
 
 To this Philip made answer, that his 
 heart was already engaged, and his hand pro-»« 
 mised to another. 
 
 *' Ridiculous!" rejoin'd Vulture; "think,, 
 and act, like a man of the world. — Embrace 
 the good fortune that courts you. — By the 
 bve, Louisa is to be married on the tenth of 
 this month, at which ceremony you may 
 take a rehearsal of your ow^n." 
 
 This sophistry would, at one time, have 
 had little effect upon Travers ; but a short 
 intercourse with the fashionable world had 
 blunted that delicacy of sentiment w^hich 
 he formerly possess'd ; and, though poor, 
 Rachel was still remembered by him :— he 
 replied, he would think of the proposal ^
 
 257 
 
 and, eventually, forfeited his faith by allow- 
 ing himself to be conducted to the lady in 
 question. 
 
 Mrs. Bentinck was a woman form'd by 
 nature to please. Every feature beamed 
 sensibihty — every limb convey'd elegance 
 and symmetry. She was a proficient in the 
 French and Italian languages ; as well as in 
 all the captivating arts which females so 
 well can practice — and which seem peculiar 
 to those countries. 
 
 Can it, then, be wonder'd at, if Travers 
 acknowleged the force of her charms ? — 'Tis 
 true, he did not entertain for her that sen- 
 timent of attachment which Rachel had in- 
 spired. There are two sorts of love — (if such 
 they may be term'd) — one has the effect of a 
 person gliding on a smooth, unruffled stream, 
 margin'd with delicious landscapes, which, 
 at once, please the eye, and delight the 
 mind^ the other is like a foaming cataract — 
 which hurls you, headlong, down, depriving 
 you of sight and reflection. 
 
 Hardly a day elapsed without his calling 
 in Baker-Street; and each succeeding in- 
 terview appear'd to increase the lady's pas-
 
 258 
 
 slon. She would fix her full dark eyes upon? 
 him, for minutes together; when, as if 
 conscious of the impropriety, she would 
 withdraw them in confusion^ and sigh deep- 
 ly. In short, she play'd off all the little fe- 
 male arts, calculated to attack a young and 
 sanguine heart; and Phihp thought himself 
 the object of her tenderest care. 
 
 The day of Lady Louisa's marriage ar- 
 rived ; and Travers repair'd to the house of 
 Lord Mask well, where all was bustle and 
 festivity. 
 
 In the drawing-room, he was accosted 
 by a person, with vast familiarity, to the 
 following effect : — 
 
 " My dear Travers ! how have you done, 
 these hundred years ? Ton honor ! you look 
 very pale! lost your colour completely.'* 
 
 Philip look'd the speaker in the face, 
 and found him to be no other than Mr. 
 Brxiinless, the person upon whom, the 
 reader may remember, he practised some 
 harmless tricks, while in the country. 
 
 If he was surprised at this unlook'd-for 
 meeting, how was that surprise, as well as 
 his indignation, augmented, when Lord
 
 259 
 
 Maskwell introduced him as the intended 
 bridegroom. 
 
 " Is it possible !'* cried Travers, ^vhowas 
 thrown off his guard. — '' Is it you who are 
 to marr}^ L^dy Louisa ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am the happy man, pon ho- 
 nor !'* 
 
 *' That is too true, indeed !" observed 
 Cynic ; *^ and, hke other fools, you are in- 
 sensible of your happiness. But, had I a 
 girl to dispose of, curse me ! if I would not 
 as soon select her a hu'^band from Pidcock's 
 menagerie ; as, I think, some of the mon- 
 keys, there, are more endureable/' 
 
 This sarcasm was follow'd by the ap- 
 pearance of Lady Louisa, led by her mo- 
 ther. But, alas ! how unlike a bride I — 
 The roseate bloom of health — the modest 
 pleasure, which sparkles in the eye of pure 
 love — were not to be discern'd. Pale me- 
 lancholy sat upon her cheek ; and she re- 
 turned the salutations of the visitants with a 
 listless air, and vacant eye. 
 
 The chaplain unfolded the sacred volume 
 — the solemn service was concluded — and
 
 g60 
 
 Lord Maskwell was advancing to salute his 
 daughter, and thank her for this act of her 
 obedience, when a livid paleness overspread 
 her countenance ; her eyes became fix'd — 
 she shudderM, and fell into the arms of Cy- 
 nic, who stood next her ! 
 
 All was now terror and confusion ; and 
 much time elapsed before the bride reco^- 
 ver'd the power of utterance — when she ad- 
 dressed her father, in a solemn manner, to 
 the following effect : — 
 
 " It is accomplished 1 I have done my 
 duty in obeying you, and averting your 
 curse. — I shall never offend more — even 
 now, the icy bolt of death freezes my blood I 
 — Oh ! God 1 forgive a poor unhappy crea- 
 ture, compeird by misery to shake off the 
 yoke of life! spare me the punishment de- 
 stined to self-destruction, and take me to 
 thyself!" 
 
 Then, turning her dying eyes upon a por- 
 trait of her loved Algernon, which was hang- 
 ing in the room, she rejoin'd — '' I come to 
 thee !'* and expired. 
 
 The claims of parent and of child aremu-
 
 261 
 
 tual — filial obedience is engender'd by af- 
 fection. — Parental authority was given to 
 be used with moderation ; and they who ex- 
 ercise it rigidly, abuse a trust reposed in 
 them by Providence ! 
 
 5:nd of vol. I. 
 
 Printed by C. Robinson, 
 Rolls- Buildings, fetter-Lane, London.
 
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