CHAP. I. A NEW AND BOLD PROJECT CONCEIVED AND EXE⯑CUTED BY WAKEFIELD. THE DIFFICULTY OF MAKING PRINCIPLES AGREE WITH PRACTICE DISCUSSED. FAIR PROMISES ON THE PART OF AN OLD OFFENDER, THE HOPES THEY EXCITE AND THE FEARS THAT ACCOMPANY THEM.

THE affair of the pamphlet being re⯑moved from my mind, I had leiſure to attend to the other difficulty that had lately croſſed me; by the poſſeſſion which Wakefield had illegally taken of effects which he aſſerted to be his, in the double right of being heir to his uncle and the huſband of my mother, but which, if my information were true, ap⯑pertained to me.

[2]It may well be ſuppoſed I communi⯑cated all my thoughts to friends like Evelyn, Wilmot, and Turl; and en⯑deavoured to profit by their advice.

Law had lately undergone a ſerious examination from us all; and it was then the general opinion among us that, though it was impoſſible to avoid ap⯑pealing to it on ſome occaſions, yet nothing but the moſt urgent caſes could juſtify ſuch appeals. Enquiries that were to be regulated, not by a ſpirit of juſtice but by the diſputatious temper of men whoſe trade it was to deceive, and by ſtatutes and precedents which they might or might not remember, and which, though they might equivocally and partially apply in ſome points, in others had no reſemblance, ſuch enqui⯑ries ought not lightly to be inſtituted. Nei⯑ther ought the habitual vices which they engender, both in lawyer and client, nor the miſeries they inflict, upon the latter [3] in particular, and by their conſequences upon all ſociety, to be promoted.

In the courſe of the converſation at the tavern, when I dined and ſpent the afternoon with the falſe Belmont, this ſub⯑ject among others had occurred. Having told him that I had quitted all thoughts of the law, he enquired into my motives; and, being full of the ſubject and zealous to detail its whole iniquity, I not only urged the reaſons that moſt militate againſt it both in principle and practice, but, in the warmth of argument, declared that I doubted whether any man could bring an action againſt another without being guilty of injuſtice. I conſidered crime and error as the ſame. The ſtruc⯑ture of law I argued was erroneous, therefore criminal; and I proteſted againſt the attempting to redreſs a wrong, already committed, by the commiſſion of more wrong.

The death of Thornby happened im⯑mediately [4] after this converſation took place; and it is not to be ſuppoſed that a man like my young but inventive father-in-law could forget, or fail in endeavour⯑ing to profit by, ſuch an incident.

One morning while at breakfaſt, I re⯑ceived a note from him, ſigned Belmont; in which he requeſted me again to dine and ſpend the afternoon with him: al⯑leging that an event had taken place in which he was deeply intereſted: adding that he had been lately led to reflect on many of the remarks I had made; and that he hoped the period was come when he ſhould be able to change the ſyſtem to which I was ſo inimical, for one that better agreed with my own ſentiments: but that my advice was particularly ne⯑ceſſary, on the preſent occaſion.

The note gave me pleaſure. That a man with ſuch powers of mind, and charms of converſation, ſhould have only a chance of changing, from what he was [5] to what I hoped, was delightful. And that he ſhould call upon me for advice, at ſuch a juncture, was flattering.

I anſwered that an engagement already formed prevented me from meeting him, on that day: but I appointed the next morning for an interview. Dining I de⯑clined; as a hint that I diſapproved the attempt he had made to entrap me.

The engagement I had was to accom⯑pany Lady Bray, to one of the families acquainted with the Mowbrays; and where it was expected we ſhould meet Olivia, and her aunt. This expectation, which kept my ſpirits in a flutter the whole day and increaſed to alarm and dread in the evening, was diſappointed. Whether from any real or a pretended accident on the part of the aunt, who ſent an apology, was more than I had an opportunity to know.

I kept my appointment, on the follow⯑ing morning; and was rather ſurpriſed, [6] when we met, at perceiving that the ſtill pretended Belmont, like myſelf, was in deep mourning. I began to make en⯑quiries, to which he gave ſhort anſwers; and, turning the interrogatories upon me, aſked which of my relations was dead?"

"My mother."

"Oh: I remember. Mrs. Wakefield. Are you ſtill as angry with her huſband as ever?"

"I really cannot tell. Though I have what moſt people would think much greater cauſe."

"Indeed! What has he done more?"

"Taken poſſeſſion of property which is mine."

"By what right is it yours?"

"It was bequeathed me by my grand⯑father; and ſince that by his executor."

"The uncle of this Wakefield, I think you told me?"

"Yes. A lawyer. One Thornby; who was induced by death-bed terrors to [7] reſtore what he had robbed me of while living."

"That is, he lived a knave, and died a fool and a fanatic."

"I ſuſpect that he died as he had lived. Knavery and fanaticiſm are frequently coupled."

"And how do you intend to proceed?"

"I do not know. I have not yet con⯑ſulted a lawyer."

"Conſulted a lawyer? You ſurpriſe me! When laſt I ſaw you, I was half convinced by you that a man cannot juſtly ſeek redreſs at law. Its ſources you proved to be corrupt, its powers inade⯑quate, and its deciſions never accurate; therefore never juſt. This was your lan⯑guage. You reprobated thoſe accom⯑modating rules by which I endeavoured to obtain happineſs; and urged argu⯑ments that made a deep impreſſion upon me. Now that ſelf-intereſt gives you an impulſe, are your principles become as [8] pliant as mine; which you ſo ſeriouſly reproved?"

I pauſed, and then replied—"I imagine you take ſome delight in having found an opportunity of retorting upon me; and of laughing at what you ſtill conſider as folly."

"Indeed you miſtake. I hope by re⯑minding you of your own doctrine to in⯑duce you to put it in practice. The virtue that conſiſts only in words is but a vapour."

"Surely you will allow this is an ex⯑treme if not a doubtful caſe. I do not mean to commence an action, till I have conſidered it very ſeriouſly: but I pre⯑ſume you do not require infallibility of me? Or, if you do, it is what I cannot expect from myſelf. I have frequently been led to doubt whether principles the moſt indubitable muſt not bend to the miſtakes and inſtitutions of ſociety. This doubt is to me the moſt painful that can [9] croſs the mind: but it is one from which I cannot wholly eſcape."

"Your tone I find is greatly altered. How ſtrenuous, how firm, how founded, were all your maxims; when laſt we met."

"And ſo, I am perſuaded, the maxims of truth will always remain."

"Then why depart from them? Ano⯑ther of them, which I likewiſe recollect to have heard from you, is that the laws which pretend to regulate property, whe⯑ther by will, entail, or any other deſcent, are all unjuſt: for that effects of all kinds ſhould be ſo appropriated as to produce the greateſt good."

"I do not ſee how that can be denied. But this is ſtrongly to the point in my favour, as I ſuppoſe: for the inſtitutes of ſociety render the application of the prin⯑ciple impracticable; and therefore I think the property may have a greater chance of being applied to a good purpoſe, if [10] allotted to me, than if retained by this Wakefield; whoſe vices are extraordi⯑nary."

"You believe him to be a man of ſome talent?"

"All that know him affirm his under⯑ſtanding would be of the firſt order, were it worthily employed."

"Then would it not be a good appli⯑cation of the property in conteſt, if it ſhould both enable and induce him ſo to employ his underſtanding?"

"Oh, of that there is no hope."

I liſtened to this diſcourſe, attentive to every ſentence, anxious for the next, and agitated by various contradictory emo⯑tions. I ſaw the difficulties of the ſup⯑poſed caſe; and knew not what to anſwer, or what to adviſe. That a man like this ſhould become what he ſeemed half to promiſe was a thought that conſoled and expanded the heart. But that it ſhould depend upon ſo improbable an event as that of another renouncing a claim, which the law gave him, to property in diſpute, was a moſt painful alternative. My ſen⯑ſations were of hope ſuddenly kindled, and as ſuddenly killed.

After waiting ſome time without any reply from me, he added "Let us ſup⯑poſe, Mr. Trevor, a whimſical, or if you pleaſe a ſtrange, coincidence between the man with whom you have been ſo angry [16] and myſelf. I mean Wakefield. What if he felt ſome of the ſober propenſities toward which I find a kind of a call in myſelf?"

"He is not to be truſted. In him it would be artifice: or at leaſt nobody would believe it could be any thing elſe."

"Mark now what chance there is, in a world like this, for a man whom it has once deemed criminal to reform. Op⯑preſſed, inſulted, and purſued by the good, what reſource has he but to aſſo⯑ciate with the wicked?"

"He that, with the faireſt ſeeming and the moſt ſpecious pretences, affirm⯑ing time after time that, though he had deceived before, he now was honeſt, he that ſhall yet again and again repeat his acts of infamy cannot complain, if no man ſhould be willing to truſt his happi⯑neſs to ſuch keeping."

"I find what I am to expect from you. The very ſame will be ſaid of me."

[17]"No: you have not been equally un⯑principled, and vile."

"Theſe are coarſe or at leaſt harſh terms. However, I take them to myſelf; and affirm that I have."

"How can you make ſuch an affirma⯑tion? How do you know?"

"A man may calculate on probabi⯑lities; and this is a moment in which I do not wiſh to conceal the full eſtimate which I make of my own conduct from you. Being therefore, ſeriouſly and ſpeaking to the beſt of my judgment, as culpable as Wakefield, let my courſe of life hereafter be what it will, I find I am to expect no credit for ſincerity from you?"

"You do not know Wakefield."

"Neither it ſeems do you."

"There is ſomething in your coun⯑tenance, in your converſation, and in the free and undiſguiſed honeſty even of your vices, that a man like Wakefield cannot poſſeſs."

[18]"Have you forgotten that, though I can be open and honeſt, I can be artful? Do you not remember billiards, hazard, and Bath?"

"Yes: but Wakefield would be in⯑capable of the qualities of mind which you are now diſplaying. With you I feel myſelf in the company of a man of a perverted but a magnanimous ſpirit. With all your faults, I could hug you to my heart. But Wakefield! who made women and men alike his prey; to whoſe deviliſh arts the virtue and happineſs of an amiable, I may ſay a charming, woman were ſacrificed; and the life of one of the firſt of mankind was endangered; that he ſhould reſemble you, and eſpecially that he ſhould reſemble you with your preſent inclinations, oh! would that were poſſible!"

"There is generoſity in the wiſh. It denotes a power in you of allaying one of the moſt active fiends that torment mankind: the ſpirit of revenge."

[19]"It is a ſpirit I own to which I have been too ſubject; and which I could wiſh to exorciſe for ever."

"Put it to the teſt. Let us ſuppoſe you ſhould diſcover as much of promiſe in Wakefield as you imagine you do in me."

"I ſhould then put him to the teſt. I ſhould demand of him to repair the wrongs he has done Miſs Wilmot!"

"What if you ſhould find him already ſo diſpoſed?"

"Impoſſible. Or if he were, it would be with ſome deſign!"

"Ay: perhaps a propoſition that you ſhould leave him quietly poſſeſſed of the diſputed property."

"And, having obtained that, he would deſert his ſecond wife as he had done his firſt."

"There is ſome difference between a young woman and an old one. Beſide, if your account be true, Mrs. Wakefield, [20] though ſhe was your mother, was very in⯑ferior to Miſs Wilmot."

"You forget that he ſeduced this lady, and deſerted her."

"I have heard or read of a man who, after being divorced even from a wife, became more paſſionately in love with her than ever."

"Wakefield is incapable of love."

"You frame to yourſelf a moſt black and deformed being of this Wakefield."

"And you ſuppoſe a degree of ſym⯑pathy, between yourſelf and him, which cannot exiſt."

"Why not? His wit, perſon, and manners, I have heard you deſcribe as winning."

"I only gave the picture which I had from an affectionate though a moſt in⯑jured woman."

"I recollect the ſtory perfectly. When you repeated it, notwithſtanding my rail⯑lery, I was more moved than you had [21] reaſon to imagine. I am perſuaded that Wakefield himſelf, had he liſtened to it, would have felt a few uneaſy ſenſa⯑tions."

"I fear, not."

"Why ſo? Is he made of materials totally different from other men? Diſſect him, and I imagine you will find he has a heart."

"But of what quality?"

"Better than you at preſent ſeem to give him credit for."

"What grounds have you for thinking ſo favourably of him?"

"Very excellent. Don't be ſurpriſed. I know the man."

"Is it poſſible?"

"Where is the wonder? Knaves of other claſſes aſſociate, and why ſhould not gamblers?"

"It may be, then, you are deputed to ſpeak in his behalf?"

"I wrote to you and introduced this [22] converſation, for that very purpoſe. I know him as intimately as I can know any man. I would ſpeak of him as of myſelf, of his defects as of my own, and I declare it as my opinion that, if he might be permitted to enjoy his uncle's property in peace, he would change his ſyſtem. To this property he ſuppoſes he has the beſt claim. He is Thornby's heir at law; and, as to the manner in which the wealth he left was acquired, if a general inquiſition were made into the original right to every ſpecies of property, he is perſuaded that ninety-nine rich men in a hundred would be turned into the ſtreets to beg."

"Which might be very pitiful; or very ſublime: juſt as you pleaſe: but which would be very abſurd."

"Granted: but this is the fever of my mind; the diſeaſe to which, ſhould my hopes be diſappointed, I feel myſelf dangerouſly impelled."

"The interpretation of all which is, that, though you have discovered prin⯑ciples, which if purſued would ſecure to yourſelf and mankind in general certain happineſs, and that though you can deal forth their dogmas and point out the path which others indubitably ought to take, yet, when your own paſſions are concerned, you act like the reſt of the [25] world. And you do this, not blindly, as they do, but, with your eyes open; at the moment that you are reminded of your maxims, and acknowledge their truth."

"Your accuſation is premature. I have hitherto done nothing more than expreſs my feelings and my doubts."

"But theſe doubts, ſpurred on by theſe feelings, aſſure me that you will proceed againſt Wakefield."

"You may think yourſelf aſſured: I conceive myſelf to be uncertain. I would willingly condemn myſelf to great pu⯑niſhment, were it to promote any plan of the goodneſs of which there ſhould be a conviction, I can even ſuppoſe caſes in which I would not only devote my life, for that in compariſon appears to be a trifle, but would reſign the woman whom my ſoul adores. Sacrifices like theſe however cannot be expected on light oc⯑caſions. The good to be obtained ought [26] to be evidently greater than the evil to be endured."

He pauſed a moment to collect his ideas, and then replied.

"If, Mr. Trevor, you are the man of that eminent virtue which I have ſome⯑times thought you, and to which by your diſcourſe to me you have certainly made very lofty pretenſions, I would adviſe you to reflect on what I ſhall once more ſtate. I know that this Wakefield, of whom you think ſo ill, and who has been quite as guilty as you have ſuppoſed, is now inclined to be a different man. I would have you conſider, firſt, to whom does the property in juſtice belong? I think you will find that to be doubtful. Next, ſuppoſing it to be legally yours, may you not nevertheleſs be defrauded of it by law? And, laſtly, appeal to your own principles, and aſk yourſelf whether it be not better that you ſhould have a chance of doing the good which you conceive [27] would be done, by recovering ſuch a man as Wakefield to that reſpect in ſociety by which his talents might be well em⯑ployed; or whether it can be conſiſtent with your own ſenſe of right to take methods which you acknowledge to be precarious, and unjuſt, in order to diſ⯑poſſeſs him and to appropriate that to yourſelf to which, if you are impartial, you will perhaps find it difficult to prove, even to your own ſatisfaction, that you have a clear and undoubted claim?"

Through this whole ſcene, inſtead of diverting my attention from the argument by gay raillery, witty alluſions, or a re⯑currence to the depravity of man, and the practice of the world, he kept cloſely to the queſtion, preſerved the tone of earneſt diſcuſſion, and, having uttered what I have laſt repeated, took his leave with that ſerious air which he had thus unexpectedly aſſumed, and maintained.

CHAP. II. THE PLAN OF WAKEFIELD PURSUED, AND THE HOPES AND FEARS OF AN AFFECTIONATE WO⯑MAN. NEWS OF PHILIP. AN ARTLESS EXCUL⯑PATORY TALE.

QUITTING the place, meditating on the ſcene that had paſſed, ſurpriſed at every part of it, at the intereſted manner of the man, at the intimate knowledge which he profeſſed to have of Wakefield, at the promiſes and the threats which he appeared to make in his name, at the coincidence not only of their characters, if his account were true, but at their ſimilar incidents of fortune and corre⯑ſponding inclinations to reform, aſto⯑niſhed while I recollected theſe various particulars, inſtead of returning immedi⯑ately to my lodgings I called on Miſs Wilmot.

When I came to the door, I had [29] ſcarcely decided with myſelf whether it were adviſable to relate what had paſſed to her, which as ſhe was perſonally in queſtion I thought myſelf bound to do whenever it could be done with ſafety; or whether, if related at preſent, it might not excite hopes that would be diſap⯑pointed, and anxieties prejudicial to her peace.

She no ſooner ſaw me than ſhe ex⯑claimed—"I am very glad you are come, Mr. Trevor! I have two unexpected af⯑fairs, on which I wiſh to conſult you. One of them relates to myſelf; and I will begin with that becauſe you are not only concerned in it but are appealed to in a very remarkable manner. I have received two extraordinary letters; by both of which I have been not a little affected. Pray read this firſt. It is from Mr. Wakefield. The promiſes it contains, the ſtyle it aſſumes, and the [30] appeal it makes, are ſo ſtrange as to ap⯑pear either like miracle or romance."

She then gave me a letter, and I read as follows.

While I read, the eyes of Miſs Wil⯑mot were fixed upon my countenance. Whenever I looked toward her, I could perceive the ſtrong emotions, of hope and fear, by which ſhe was agitated.

[37]When I had ended, I ſaid—"Mr. Wakefield is indeed an extraordinary man! Be his intentions honeſt or baſe, the ſtrength and clearneſs of his mind and his knowledge of the human heart, when we recollect how theſe faculties have been employed, are truly aſtoniſh⯑ing. If this be a plan of artifice, it is little leſs than miraculous. Yet who can believe it to be any thing elſe?"

Miſs Wilmot heaved a deep ſigh, and attempted to ſpeak: but ſhe only ſtam⯑mered. Her utterance failed; and her eyes were caſt on the floor. Hope and deſpair were combating; and the latter was the ſtrongeſt. She wiſhed to con⯑fide, ſhe wiſhed to plead for the poſſibility of his being ſincere: but the miſchief he had inflicted, the deceit he had practiſed, and a rememberance of the picture ſhe had formerly given me of him, ruſhed upon her mind; and her ſpirits ſunk.

"Look up, lovely Lydia," ſaid I, tak⯑ing [38] her hand, "and revive. There is there muſt be hope. The man who could write this letter cannot be all villain."

The ſtruggle of the paſſions was violent. A momentary wildneſs, ſuch as I had formerly witneſſed, flaſhed in her eyes; ſhe ſtarted from her ſeat, griped my hand, then burſting into tears exclaimed— "Oh Mr. Trevor!" and dropped down again upon the chair.

Eager to relieve a heart ſo overcharged; I again addreſſed her. "If," ſaid I, "the property left by Mr. Wakefield's uncle can really be employed to ſo noble a purpoſe as that of reclaiming him and making you happy, let me periſh rather than endeavour to counteract ſuch bleſ⯑ſings. Let me be the thing he ſo much dreads, a beggar: but let me obey the pureſt paſſions of the heart, when they are ſanctioned by the beſt principles of the underſtanding."

'Till this inſtant ſhe had forgotten that, [39] if I conſented to enrich him, I muſt rob myſelf. But the thought no ſooner oc⯑curred than ſhe cried, "No! It muſt not be! It cannot be! To require it of you is infamous. It debaſes him, and would make me hate myſelf; were I to participate in ſuch an action."

"You judge too ſeverely," I replied. "I am not ſo unfortunately circumſtanced as he is. My character is not loſt. I am not ſhut out of ſociety. I have friends, plans, and proſpects; and, granting him to be ſincere, his arguments, as far as they relate to him and me, are I ſuſpect unanſwerable. Of that ſincerity I would fain not doubt: but it is our mutual duty to be wary. Here therefore at preſent the matter ſhall reſt. I am determined to bring no action, till time and future events ſhall teach me the courſe I ought to purſue."

Overwhelmed by a ſenſe of obligation, and by the thronging emotions of every [40] kind that aſſailed her, ſhe was again half ſuffocated with paſſion. As ſhe re⯑covered her eyes ſufficiently ſpoke her feelings.

When ſhe grew calm, ſhe was led to aſk what converſation I had had, and with whom, relative to Mr. Wakefield? I gave her the hiſtory of my acquaintance with the ſuppoſed Belmont, and of the ſcene that had paſſed that very day: which ſhe thought altogether ſurpriſing, and ſeemed to ſhrink with the fear that it was an artful plan, contrived by artful men. She was in ſome ſort appeaſed, however, when I once more reminded her of my determination to wait and hope for the beſt.

I then enquired concerning the ſecond letter ſhe had mentioned? To which ſhe anſwered—"It is addreſſed to me, as a mediator: but relates entirely to you, and the perſon who wrote it; your poor penitent ſervant, Philip."

[41]She gave it me; and theſe were its contents.

Poor fellow! Forgive thee? What is thy crime? An inaccuracy. A miſtake of judgment. A deſire to do thyſelf right, without intentional wrong to me or any one. Yet for this miſtake, dif⯑ferently circumſtanced, thou mighteſt have loſt thy life, and have been hanged like a dog!

I too accuſed thee of robbery, of tak⯑ing more than thy due, when thou tookeſt leſs. Hadſt thou offered thy old waiſt-coats and ſtockings to a ſtreet hawker, he would not have given thee half the ſurplus that was thy due.

Such were the reflections that broke [45] from me, after peruſing his ſimple but affecting defence.

Mary was called up, and queſtioned. She knew where he lived: for the poor, little inclined to ſuſpicion, confide in each other. It is the rich only that tempt them to be treacherous.

After conſulting with Miſs Wilmot, it was determined that ſhe ſhould write to Olivia; encloſing Philip's letter, and re⯑queſting her to give him a character. I knew ſhe would take care to ſee him paid the wages that were his due; and, as I had been the cauſe of his want of em⯑ployment ſince the fright he took at Cranford-bridge, I left money to reim⯑burſe him for the loſs of his time from that period.

The people I mixed with, and the prejudices of the world, required that I ſhould keep a ſervant: but, though the man that was with me was by no means ſo great a favourite as Philip had been, I [46] did not think I had ſufficient cauſe to diſcharge him for another. There was an additional motive for not wiſhing Phi⯑lip to be my ſervant again; at leaſt not under my preſent circumſtances. Olivia's aunt had imagined we were in league, at Cranford-bridge; and, ſhould ſhe ſee him once more in my ſervice, that ſuſpicion might either be revived or ſtrengthened.

CHAP. III. THE PERIOD OF CONTENTION APPROACHES, AND THE UNABATED PATRIOTISM OF THE BARONET. HECTOR AND THE EARL BECOME ENEMIES, AND I AM MADE THE SUBJECT OF NEWSPAPER CA⯑LUMNY. THREATENING APPEARANCES. A JOUR⯑NEY PROJECTED. A TRAGICAL EVENT, GIVING OCCASION TO THE PRACTICE OF SOME SMALL PORTION OF HUMANITY.

THE diſſolution of parliament was hourly expected. Flying reports fixed it to happen on different days; but none [47] of them very diſtant. The zeal of Sir Barnard, in behalf of his country and its conſtitution, was unabated. The mea⯑ſures of miniſtry were wicked beyond example; and the ſervility of parliament was unequalled, ſince the time of the Tudors. Such was the Baronet's con⯑tinual theme.

From him, and the political circles I frequented, I heard news in which I might be ſaid to be perſonally concerned. In conſequence of the firm refuſal of Olivia, a rupture had taken place between Lord Idford and the family: much at firſt to the regret of the Mowbrays; till the turn that the quarrel took en⯑flamed the latter.

Hector Mowbray had great property, and influence, in the county of which he and I were both natives. Of this county the Earl was the Lord Lieutenant; and here he likewiſe had his dependents, and partiſans. The Mowbrays were wealthy; [48] and Hector was ambitious of being elect⯑ed knight of the ſhire. When it was firſt propoſed, the aunt forwarded the project: for there was no probability that any other candidate ſo powerful ſhould ſtart. The joint intereſt of the Earl and the Mowbrays would defy oppoſition.

The Earl however underſtood traffic; and, finding himſelf ſo poſitively refuſed by Olivia, he thought proper to inform the family that ſhe muſt either be induced to conſent, or, inſtead of aiding to bring Hector into parliament, he ſhould him⯑ſelf propoſe and ſupport another candi⯑date with the whole weight of his in⯑tereſt.

The threat was galling. It was in⯑ſinuated firſt to the aunt; and, when Hector was informed of it, he affected to vapour and treat it with defiance: but, on better conſideration, he and the aunt thought proper to importune Olivia, hoping they ſhould oblige her to comply. [49] Threats and intreaties alike were vain. Her reſolution was not to be ſhaken; and the Earl more openly declared that, if ſhe ſhould think proper to perſiſt, he would beggar himſelf rather than Hector ſhould carry his election.

Hector had been canvaſſing the county, had ſubſcribed to races, been preſent at the aſſizes, given public dinners, and taken various means to increaſe his popu⯑larity; of which he had become inordi⯑nately vain. Inflated therefore with a certainty of victory, he threw down the gauntlet, and dared the Earl to the field.

In the mean time, paragraphs appeared in a morning and an evening paper, both of them ſold to Government, and the echoes of each other, that were evidently aimed at me, and my connections. At firſt I could not have conceived how I ſhould have attracted the attention of thoſe worthy gentlemen, who earn their bread by the daily manufactory of lam⯑poons: [50] but I was ſoon informed that this is become a regular branch of buſineſs; and that the motives to carry it on are many. Theſe motives originate in pay-maſters, of various deſcriptions: of whom the treaſury is ſuppoſed to be the chief.

The libels, of which I was the ſubject, aimed to be ſatirical; but were too dull of wing to hit their mark: they were on⯑ly malignant. They could neither tickle the fancy nor gall the heart; but they proved that I had lurking enemies, who wiſhed to wound, did they but know when and where to ſtrike.

It was well known that my profeſſedly dear friend, Glibly, was principally con⯑cerned in the morning paper where theſe libels generally appeared. When I firſt became acquainted with him, he affected indifference to parties; and was ready to praiſe or laugh at either, as circum⯑ſtances ſhould happen to direct him: but, when the temper of the times became [51] intolerant and acrimonious, he thought it prudent to take a decided part. That ſuch a man ſhould declare in favour of the weakeſt was not to be expected; and he now aſſociated with the known hire⯑lings of miniſtry, of whom I was a ſtill more open and undiſguiſed opponent.

By theſe attacks on me, Glibly there⯑fore, for they were undoubtedly a part of his handy-work, Glibly, I ſay, had a three⯑fold motive. He indulged a propenſity, which ſtrange to ſay he had acquired, of wounding in the dark, that he might ſmile and ſhake hands with the inſulted perſon in broad day; he anſwered the end for which miniſtry retained him, that of decrying all its antagoniſts; and he particularly forwarded the views of ano⯑ther of his dear friends, the Earl.

The general complexion of paragraphs like theſe is falſehood; which is ſome⯑times direct, though it is more common⯑ly a perverſion of exiſting facts. The [52] pamphlet I had written, which had been partially made known to the public by the advertiſement that had appeared, the patronage of Sir Barnard, my ambitious views on the Mowbray family, with ſuch other particulars as the indefatigable Glibly could collect, ſometimes delivered in obſcure alluſions and at others more openly, were the topics of calumny. How many of theſe ingenious devices to irritate and injure were framed I never knew: for I ſeldom read them myſelf, though I heard of them ſufficiently often to be aſſured that they were numerous.

There were various means by which they might have been ſtopped; and of which, in ordinary caſes bribing is chiefly practiſed: but in this inſtance fighting, or the law, would have been more effectual. Of theſe however I totally diſapproved. Defamation is an evil: but death is ge⯑nerally and perhaps always a greater; and to prevent enquiry is among the [53] worſt of evils. I was not yet ſufficiently acquainted, however, with the miſtakes to which men are ſubject, or rather im⯑pelled by the inſtitutions they admire, not to feel great ſurpriſe and ſome indig⯑nation at the obſtacles which I found were continually to impede my career. He who has never travelled into the country of Moſquitoes is not aware how ſlight a net-work covering will preſerve him from their ſting.

Theſe were trifles, and would have been unworthy of notice had they not reſem⯑bled the ſmall cloudy ſpeck, which, though ſcarcely viſible in the diſtant ho⯑rizon, approaches, and ſwells, and burſts over the head in a ſtorm. The begin⯑ning conteſt between the Earl and the Mowbray family, the intereſt which the worthy Mr. Glibly had thought proper to take in me and my affairs, the patri⯑otiſm of Sir Barnard, nay the friendſhip of Mr. Evelyn himſelf, that beſt of men, [54] were but ſo many links in the chain of that fate which was impending.

At preſent, however, with reſpect to the Baronet, I daily increaſed in favour. He frequently requeſted me to accom⯑pany him when he went down to the houſe; and paraded with me, arm in arm, through the avenues: catching eve⯑ry man he knew by the button, and in⯑troducing me; then deſcanting on the news of the day, the victories of the mi⯑niſter among his creatures and in the houſe, and the defeats of his projects every where elſe.

At length it was generally affirmed and believed that parliament would be diſ⯑ſolved in a fortnight; and, as Sir Bar⯑nard wiſhed to keep well with his bo⯑rough, he propoſed that we ſhould go down and viſit the worthy and independent electors: among whom he obſerved we might ſpend a few days in a pleaſant manner, and advantageouſly to his inte⯑reſt, [55] till the writ of election ſhould be iſſued. This was on the Wedneſday: but, as there was to be a debate and pro⯑bably a diviſion of the houſe on Friday, his ſenſe of public duty would not per⯑mit him to be abſent on ſuch an occa⯑ſion, and we agreed to defer our jour⯑ney till Saturday morning.

During this ſhort interval an incident occurred, which it is neceſſary I ſhould relate. It happened on the Thurſday that, after ſpending the day near Rich⯑mond, where I had been invited to dine, I was returning home on horſeback, fol⯑lowed by my ſervant: for I thought my⯑ſelf obliged to practiſe ſome part of that ariſtocracy which I nevertheleſs very ſin⯑cerely condemned.

The night was ſtarlight; and, as we were cantering down a lane at the en⯑trance of Barnes common, we heard diſ⯑tant cries and the report of a piſtol, in the direction as we believed in which we [56] were proceeding. I immediately ſtop⯑ped, and liſtened very attentively: but all was ſoon ſilent. Being convinced as well by the cries as the firing of the piſ⯑tol that a robbery, if not ſomething worſe, had been committed, and not certainly knowing from what point the ſound came, I rode gently forward and conti⯑nued to liſten with the utmoſt attention: deſiring my ſervant to do the ſame.

We rode on, ſtill walking our horſes and looking cautiouſly round for ſome time, without any ſight or ſound of man approaching us, till we came to a gate at the edge of the common. Here I ſaw a horſe ſtanding patiently, without his rider; and ſtopping once more to look and liſten, I preſently perceived an in⯑diſtinct object: which I diſcovered to be a man; wounded and weltering in his blood.

I ſpoke to him: but no anſwer was re⯑turned, nor any ſound. I then raiſed the [57] body in my arms, and it appeared to be lifeleſs.

What was to be done? A human being, who might be dead or might not, in either caſe, muſt not be left in ſuch a ſituation.

The neighbourhood is populous, and I could diſtinguiſh lights at no very great diſtance. Fearing left, if I ſent my ſer⯑vant he ſhould blunder, or that the per⯑ſons he might addreſs himſelf to would be leſs likely to pay attention to him than to me, I bade him remain by the dead or wounded man; and, mounting my horſe, I rode away immediately to procure aid.

My direction was acroſs the common; and fortunately I met with a carriage, which proved to be a hackney coach re⯑turning to town with two paſſengers. I ordered the coachman to ſtop, and he im⯑mediately ſuppoſed I was a highwayman: but, being undeceived, he refuſed to go out of his way for the purpoſe I required.

[58]The perſons within, hearing a kind of ſquabble, and underſtanding when they liſtened the nature of it, ſpoke to me; and enquired into the particulars. By good luck, they happened to feel properly, and joined me againſt the coachman; who, though unwillingly, was obliged to ſub⯑mit; and, when he came to the point where the roads join, to turn back and receive the wounded man into the carriage. The paſſengers alighted, I ordered my man to take the horſe of the ſtranger in charge, and we proceeded ſlowly to the firſt inn.

Here I immediately enquired for ſur⯑gical and medical aſſiſtance; and, as the people of theſe villages are many of them opulent, good practitioners were preſent⯑ly procured.

While the meſſengers were diſpatched, I had leiſure to examine the ſtranger; whoſe appearance, figure, and counte⯑nance, were altogether extremely inte⯑reſting. His hair was abundant, but [59] milk white, his features were ſerene, and his form in deſpite of age was ſtill manly. The benevolence of his countenance was heightened by the blood with which his locks were in part clotted, and that had ſtreamed over his face upon his clothes and linen.

The medical gentlemen arrived nearly at the ſame time, the ſtranger was exa⯑mined, the pulſation of the heart was perceptible, and, though the contuſions on the head and the temple were vio⯑lent, and he had been ſhot in the ſhoul⯑der, ſo that the ball had paſſed through behind, they were of opinion, as there was no fracture of the ſkull, that the wounds were not mortal. The appear⯑ance of the ſtranger, and the condition in which I found him, had made a lively impreſſion upon me. I was fearful of leaving him, in an unknown place, amidſt the caſualties and hurry of an inn, to the care of waiters, and the neglect of perſons [60] who had ſcarcely leiſure to be humane. I therefore determined to ſend my ſer⯑vant to town, and ſtay with him that night. I had an appointment and other buſineſs in the morning; but I could be at London in leſs than an hour: that was therefore no obſtacle.

Hoping to have diſcovered his place of abode, I deſired his pockets to be ſearch⯑ed before the people preſent: but they were entirely emptied; and contained no paper, or memorandum, that could afford information.

After ſome time, by the aid which was procured, his pulſe began to quicken, and his lungs to do their office; and, that nothing might be omitted, I prevailed on the phyſician to remain with me at his bed-ſide, and attend to every ſymptom, above half the night. With this he the more willingly complied becauſe he was apprehenſive of fever, when the circula⯑tion ſhould recover all its elaſticity.

[61]In the morning, though very unwil⯑lingly, I was obliged to forſake my charge: but not till I had leſt money with the phyſician, who made himſelf accountable to the innkeeper for all ex⯑pences. Being a humane perſon, I believe he would have done this without my in⯑terference. But in addition to that every mark about the ſtranger, his look, his dreſs and the horſe on which he was mounted, denoted him to be a gentle⯑man; and when I left him, though the phyſician thought it was probable he might not recover the uſe of his under⯑ſtanding and the power of ſpeech for a day or two, he yet was perſuaded that he would not die.

CHAP. IV. AN INCIDENT IN THE PARK, OR THE DANGER OF UNRULY DOGS AND HORSES. THE FORTITUDE AND AFFECTION OF OLIVIA. A VISIT TO THE WOUNDED STRANGER.

KNOWING the habits of Sir Barnard to be preciſe, and pettiſh, ſo that if I counteracted the arrangement he had made it would put him into a diſagree⯑able temper, I reſolved, as we were to depart early the next morning, to return as ſoon as poſſible to the ſtranger. About two in the afternoon, I was riding through the park for this purpoſe: and here another incident occurred; which, though it excited extreme terror, it after⯑ward afforded uncommon delight.

A few days before, I had witneſſed a lady on a run-away horſe, who was ſeized with fright, dropped from the faddle, and bruiſed herſelf exceedingly. She would [63] have been in no danger, if ſhe had be⯑haved but with the ordinary reſolution of a man; and the accident led me to reflect on the ill education to which women are ſubjected. They ſeem to be eſteemed by men in proportion as they are helpleſs, timid, and dependent. It is ſuppoſed they cannot be affectionate unleſs their leading feature be imbecility.

Juſt as I had croſſed the bridge over the Serpentine river, two ladies and a gentleman with their grooms, all on horſeback, were turning round; and went off in a hand gallop toward Kenſington gardens. I was riding faſt, at no great diſtance; and perceived it to be Olivia, her aunt, and ſome perſon whom I did not know. Olivia was mounted on a fine blood horſe; and a large dog ruſhed by him in purſuit of me, being tempted by my faſt galloping.

The horſe of Olivia had previouſly been put upon his mettle. I ſaw the dan⯑ger, [64] and inſtantly pulled up: but he be⯑gan to plunge, and kick, in a manner that would have unhorſed moſt men. The dog then turned from me, and at⯑tacked the animal that was higheſt in motion; and the horſe immediately ſet off full ſpeed. The fooliſh ſervant, being frightened, began to gallop after her. I was obliged to do the ſame, and ſtop him: for the clattering of feet behind did but increaſe the fury of the runaway horſe.

Terrified however as I was, when I firſt noticed the vicious propenſities of the horſe, the courage of Olivia was ſuch, her ſeat was ſo firm, and ſhe kept ſo ſteady a hold of the ſtrong curb rein, that I felt a confidence ſhe would over⯑power the horſe; if the fear and folly of ſome other perſon ſhould do no miſchief. I therefore followed at a proper diſtance; and, when I ſaw ſeveral horſemen who attempted to croſs her, I ſhouted and waved my hat for them to keep off.

[65]My hopes were juſtified. She avoided every danger, by her management and preſence of mind; and, by her uſe of the curb and the aid of the wall at the end of the ride, arreſted the courſe of the in⯑temperate animal.

Having kept the grooms back, I was the firſt that came up with her; and, leaping from my ſaddle, I ſeized the reins and held them till the ſervant ar⯑rived. I then enjoyed one more rap⯑turous moment, ſuch as I had indeed but little foreſeen: I received her in my arms.

Not a minute before, how firm and collected had her mind and actions been: but no ſooner did ſhe feel my embrace than her frame was ſuffuſed. A thouſand ideas, that had no relation to the danger which her own fortitude had eſcaped, immediately ruſhed upon her; ſhe ſunk upon my ſhoulder, and burſt into a flood of tears. They were the heart eaſings [66] of ten thouſand of the foregone anxieties of love.

How could I have hated the broad day, and the prying eyes that were upon us! How welcome would the fogs and darkneſs of Cranford-bridge have been! My adventurous ſpirit would then have ſurely imprinted the firſt kiſs of love! as chaſte as it would have been ecſtatic.

This bliſs, alas, was not to be. The crowd approached. I preſſed her hand, and, as an aſſurance of fidelity, ſhe gently returned the token of kindneſs. Such mute ſigns being all that were per⯑mitted.

Perceiving I muſt leave her, I again requeſted ſhe would not mount the un⯑ruly horſe; and ſhe replied, with a hea⯑venly ſmile, "Have no fear for me. I will be careful of myſelf;" to which ſhe ad⯑ded in a low whiſper: "for my pre⯑ſerver's ſake!"

Oh moments of unutterable bliſs! [67] Who can eſtimate your worth? One of you will outweigh a life, ſuch as the dull round of common place nothings can yield.

Did not my eyes thank her? Did not the ſtrong workings of my colour and countenance inform her of what was paſſing within? Oh yes! And in the ſame language ſhe involuntarily replied. He who ſhall ſuppoſe there was one emo⯑tion which celeſtial purity might not ap⯑prove cannot comprehend Olivia. They were emanations ſuch as thoſe only who have ſouls, as well as bodies, are ac⯑quainted with.

The tide of ecſtacy muſt turn. The aunt came up, I bowed, ſhe returned my ſalute in a manner that ſhewed her mind was affected by contradictory emotions, and I mounted my horſe and guided his head toward the Park gate; through which I paſſed; feeling, at the moment, that I was paſſing the gate of paradiſe.

[68]I had not however left all my heaven behind me. No: I bore with me ample ſtores for delicious revery. The fortitude of Olivia, the firm and eaſy grace with which ſhe kept her ſeat, her admirable management and quick preſence of mind, her unabating courage at one moment, and her melting tenderneſs at the next, were not the food but the feaſt of love.

In this revelry of the imagination I indulged, till I arrived at the inn; where I found the phyſician, agreeable to ap⯑pointment; and was informed by him that the ſtranger ſtill continued inſen⯑ſible: but that the ſymptoms appeared to be rather more than leſs favourable.

I remained with the patient during ſome hours, till the neceſſary preparation for my journey obliged me to depart. I then left a ſufficient ſum with the phy⯑ſician; and, after moſt earneſtly recom⯑mending the ſtranger to his care, re⯑luctantly returned to town.

[69]Though I had obtained a promiſe, from the phyſician, that the patient ſhould be removed to his own home, as ſoon as it ſhould be diſcovered, or to the houſe of the phyſician, whenever it might be done without danger, I yet could not help queſtioning whether to leave him to the mercy of perſons, with whom I was unacquainted, that I might take a journey to viſit the free and in⯑dependent electors of an Engliſh borough, were faithfully to fulfill the duties of hu⯑manity. Add to which the venerable and benevolent appearance of the ſtran⯑ger was ſo uncommonly intereſting that it made a ſtrong impreſſion upon my imagination.

But it was neceſſary to decide, and I acted as mortals are obliged to do on ſuch occaſions: not knowing what was beſt, I adopted that which appeared to be the moſt urgent.

CHAP. V. THE JOURNEY TO THE BOROUGH OF THE BARO⯑NET. INDEPENDENT ELECTORS, AND THEIR MOTIVES SATISFACTORILY EXPLAINED. EVIL COMMUNICATION CORRUPTS GOOD MANNERS. ELECTORS EAGER TO MAKE HAY WHILE THE SUN SHINES, AND BEING ONCE BOUGHT WISH AGAIN TO BE BRIBED.

THE following morning at the hour appointed, Sir Barnard and I ſet off for the borough of * * * *: at which we arrived without delay or accident.

The number of voters was little more than thirty; and the firſt buſineſs, after our arrival, was to invite them to a dinner.

It has long been remarked that men in a body will be guilty of actions of which individually they would each be aſhamed. In an aſſembly, however, the purpoſe of which is conſcious iniquity, few, who have not witneſſed ſuch ſcenes, [71] will be aware of the efforts that each man will make to argue himſelf into a belief of his own upright intentions: or of the eager aſſent with which his en⯑deavours will be ſeconded by his aſſo⯑ciates.

In the preſent inſtance, for example, what were the motives of the worthy electors? Sir Barnard explained them, to the perfect ſatisfaction of all parties.

But what were they? The love of the conſtitution: the honeſt ſtruggles that honeſt men were making to diſplace a corrupt miniſter: their very eager and laudable attempts to free an oppreſſed and ruined country, relieve it of its taxes, recover its trade, and revive the glory of old England: to effect theſe great and good purpoſes was the whole and ſole end at which they aimed. Were all the electors through all the boroughs, cities, and counties of Great Britain but as vir⯑tuous [72] as thoſe of the borough of * * * *, it would indeed be a happy land.

Yet, ſtrange to ſay, what different maſks does ſelf-aſſuming virtue wear! State the per contra. Imagine only how many free and independent electors were at this period exulting, in a ſimilar man⯑ner, at the purity of their own conduct; while giving their votes for the ſupport of government, the maintenance of order, and to preſerve the immaculate ſtateſ⯑man, the ſaviour of the nation, the great financier, the firſt of orators, the admi⯑ration of Europe, and the wonder of the world, in power!

Who will deny that a general election is the ſeaſon when all the diſintereſted virtues, all the pure patriotiſm, all the moſt generous and beſt qualities of the ſoul are called into action? How are the morals of the people improved! To what a height of grandeur does human [73] nature riſe; and how captivating is the point of view in which it is ſeen! Aera of incomprehenſible excellence!

Can it be ſuppoſed that I, who was to be the repreſentative of ſuch free and noble ſouls, through whoſe lips their pa⯑triotic ſpirits were to breathe, I, in whom one five hundredth part of the virtue of the whole iſland was to be compreſſed, and bottled up ready for uſe, being as I was in company with ſages whoſe office it was to chooſe one ſtill more ſage than themſelves, thus circumſtanced, was it poſſible that I ſhould not imbibe ſome portion of their ſublime wiſdom? Had I no ſympathy? Were all my affections and paſſions and patriotiſm extinct?

Oh no! Mocking, ſays the proverb, is catching: and, however in my ſober moments, among ſober people, reaſoning on objects at a diſtance, I might ſyſte⯑matiſe and legiſlate for the conduct of myſelf and others, being an actor in the [74] ſcene, whether its atmoſphere were healthy or contagious, I never yet found that I could wholly eſcape imbibing a part of the effluvia. I gave toaſts, made ſpeeches, ſung ſongs, ay and wrote them too, and became ſo incorporated with my conſtituents, lovers as they were of li⯑berty, that, the cut of our cloaths and countenances excepted, I might in this moment of overflowing ſapience have been taken for one of themſelves.

I was little aware, however, when I conſented to make this journey, of its conſequences. Diſintereſted as theſe worthy voters were, and purchaſed by wholeſale as they had been when the family of the Brays bought the borough, they yet had wives and daughters; who wore watches, and rings, and gowns; and who would each of them think themſelves ſo flattered, by a genteel preſent from me, that there was no de⯑ſcribing the pleaſure it would give them! [75] Every particular about me told them I was very much of a gentleman.

Beſide which, one lady had a great af⯑fection for a few pounds of the beſt green tea, bought in London. Another diſco⯑vered that the loaf ſugar in the country was abominable. A third could not but think that a few jars of India pickles, and preſerved ginger, would be a very pretty preſent. It would always remind her of the giver. A fourth could not but ſay ſhe did long for a complete ſuit of lace; cap, handkerchief, and ruffles: and ſo on through the whole liſt.

The men too were troubled with their longings. With one it was London por⯑ter: with another it was Cheſhire cheeſe and bottled beer. They would both drink to the donor. Their neighbour longed very vehemently indeed for the horſe I rode: and, finding that the animal was too great a favourite to be parted with, [76] he compounded for twelve dozen of old port.

When theſe hints, which looked very like demands, were firſt given me, I ap⯑plied to Sir Barnard; doubting much whether any of them ought to be com⯑plied with: but he let me underſtand that ſuch things were politic, and cuſ⯑tomary; and that a ſeat in parliament, even when beſtowed, was not to be had free of expence.

What could be done? To have re⯑quired him to pay theſe diſburſements would have had ſo much the appearance of meanneſs, that it was what I could not propoſe. To requeſt a loan in advance of Mr. Evelyn was ſufficiently grating to the feelings: but he had a liberal ſpirit, it was the leaſt painful of the two, and I had no other reſource. Fortune was whetting the darts ſhe ſoon intended to hurl.

CHAP. VI. NEWS FROM MOWBRAY PETITIONING FOR AID. THE PERIOD OF UNIVERSAL UPROAR ARRIVES, AND THE BARONET PURSUES HIS PATRIOTIC PURPOSES. A FEW SKETCHES OF A COUNTY CONTEST AT A GENERAL ELECTION. HECTOR LOVING IN HIS LIQUOR. QUALMS OF CONSCIENCE, WHICH ARE THOUGHT VERY UNSEASONABLE AND VERY RIDICULOUS. THE INCOMPREHEN⯑SIBLE DEFECTION OF SIR BARNARD, AND THE SUSPICION THAT LIGHTS ON ME.

WHILE we were ſpending our time in this "pleaſant manner, and advantage⯑ouſly to the Baronet's intereſt," we re⯑ceived intelligence of our quondam friends, the Earl and young Mowbray; who were canvaſſing the county, in which they had vowed oppoſition to each other, with indefatigable zeal: ſo that a ruinous conteſt, probably to both parties, was pre⯑dicted.

In this county Sir Barnard himſelf had ſome intereſt: for he had ſome lands [78] there: and Hector prevailed on a com⯑mon friend to write in a very urgent ſtyle to the Baronet, requeſting his aid. How could ſo great a lover of his country as Sir Barnard, indignant too as he felt himſelf at the apoſtacy of the Earl, refuſe a requeſt by which his own patriotic pur⯑poſes might be forwarded?

At length parliament was diſſolved; and the whole kingdom was immedi⯑ately in a tumult. Driving, rioting and uproar began. God help the poor poſt-horſes, hoſtlers, and chambermaids!

The writ for the Baronet's borough was made out, his agents were ready, and, as there could be no oppoſition, our buſineſs was ſoon over. It was high time: for my pocket was tolerably drained. And as the worthy electors very induſtriouſly compared notes, when any one of them diſcovered that the preſent made to his neighbour was of greater value than the compliment which he had received, I had [79] immediate intimation of my own injuſ⯑tice: which it was expected I ſhould correct.

This ſerious buſineſs ſettled, and theſe accounts cloſed, the Baronet now had leiſure to think of his friends; and he turned his thoughts to the annoying of Lord Idford. He had purchaſed me as well as his borough: for he had made me his own member, and meant to profit by me in all poſſible ways. He had diſco⯑vered my electioneering talents. I was very engaging among the women: a mat⯑ter of no ſmall moment in ſuch affairs: and, "though I was rather ſhy of my glaſs, yet I could ſing an excellent ſong, which I could likewiſe make, quite ſuita⯑ble to the occaſion." He therefore pro⯑poſed that we ſhould both journey into my native county, and there exerciſe all our wit and ingenuity, to aid in bringing in my old ſchool-fellow, Hector.

It cannot be ſuppoſed that, in an affair [80] where the family and the brother of Oli⯑via were ſo ſeriouſly implicated, I could be totally unconcerned. With reſpect to the queſtion of who was the moſt vir⯑tuous, or the moſt wife, who the greateſt orator, the beſt patriot, or the propereſt perſon to take a ſeat among the grand na⯑tional council of ſages, the Earl or the 'Squire, that was not eaſily determined. It was a point therefore that did not diſ⯑quiet my conſcience. My compliance was conſequently given with a hearty good will; and we both prepared for the holy work.

How it happened that the vice which inevitably attaches itſelf to ſuch conduct, ſelf-evident groſs and glaring as it is, fa⯑tal to private morals and public virtue, odious in its practice and helliſh in its conſequences, how the baneful com⯑plexion of this monſter vice ſhould at firſt ſo totally eſcape me is more than I can declare. Hurry of thought, confuſion [81] of intellect, and eagerneſs of paſſion are the only probable conjectures I can make. My mind was ſo intent on the manner in which I could beſt prove my reſpect for Olivia, and all that related to her, that this appears to have been a gulph vaſt enough for all recollection, ſenſe, and idea!

A poſt-chaiſe and four ſoon brought us to the field of battle; and then I own my blood began to circulate, and my feelings to awaken. Still it was but gra⯑dually that my ſpirits mounted to the pro⯑per tone.

Before we entered the place where the election was to be held, we heard the jangling of bells and the ſhouts of men. The poſtillions ſpared neither whip nor ſpur; and, as we galloped furi⯑ouſly along the ſtreets, the people came ſwarming out: the women and children ſaluting us with their ſhrill trebles; and, it being dark, the men crowding to fol⯑low [82] with torches and more ſonorous hub⯑bub. Every inn was a ſcene of confu⯑ſion. When we drove up to that which was the head-quarters of Hector, his par⯑tiſans immediately flocked round us, and, a courier having previouſly announced our arrival, ſaluted Sir Barnard with all the force of lungs they could heave: elated in proportion to the uproar they made.

The 'Squire and his friends, vociferous though they were, and heated with anti⯑cipated triumphs wine and waſſail, heard the glorious din, learned its cauſe, and came reeling forth to embrace their puiſ⯑ſant ally. Quitting as they did the fumes of buttocks and ſirloins, gammons and hams, turkies and geeſe, wines, brandies, beers and tobacco, they all came reeking; each involved in his own atmoſphere.

Their joy was boiſterous, and not to be repulſed. Hector was as drunk as the animal that brought the royal David his [83] ſucking pigs; and as loving as the mon⯑ſter in the Tempeſt. He could not in⯑deed curſe ſo poetically: but what he wanted in variety he ſupplied by repeti⯑tion; and his oaths and his raptures were countleſs.

He beſtowed a part of them upon me: for, not only did feaſting make him fond, but, he had juſt memory enough left to recollect that I was now become an M. P. and he was not quite ſure whether, till he had gained his election, I might not at preſent be almoſt as great a man as himſelf. I was moreover his election⯑eering friend: which virtue would, for a fortnight to come, be ineſtimable.

I had been diſguſted with the eating and drinking required at the ready-bought borough of ****: but that was abſti⯑nence itſelf, compared to the ſcene in which I had conſented to become an actor. Away the Baronet and I were dragged, [84] by the moſt jovial crew: Hector our lead⯑er, and ſeating himſelf in ſtate at our head.

"Clean glaſſes!" bellowed the hero; and, ſeizing his own, ſmaſhed it againſt the wall: commanding us to follow his noble example. Midway drunkenneſs diſdains to think: all arms were raiſed, and deſtruction was impending. Fortu⯑nately, there were two ſober men in company; and, ſeeing what had happen⯑ed, we both loudly called—"Forbear!" "You have cut one of the waiters," added I; addreſſing myſelf to Hector, and pointing to a man whoſe face was ſmear⯑ed with blood. "Damn him!" retorted the brave Hector. "Put him down in the bill." The mighty man was pleaſed at his own ſecond-hand wit; and, as an old joke is the ſooneſt underſtood, they all joined in the laugh.

Eager to make the new comers wel⯑come, that is as drunk as himſelf, Hector [85] inſiſted that the Baronet and I ſhould drink three bumpers each; and, as the fatigue of travelling had rendered this no difficult taſk, we complied.

He then ſwore we would ſet to for the night; but I perceived that his night would not be a long one. Toaſts were called for, however, and liquor was ſwal⯑lowed, till its vapours half deprived the redoubted Hector of the faculty of ſpeech. At this period, he began to mutter nonſenſe, on a ſubject on which I ſhould have been better pleaſed with his ſilence than his praiſe. He made the lovely Olivia his theme; and in the ful⯑neſs, not of his heart, but, of his ſtomach, told me how dearly ſhe loved me—"Yes, my boy, ſhe does, by G—! And ſhe's right! Damn me, ſhe's right! I ſay it; by G—, my boy, ſhe's right! You are my friend!—You are my friend, and ſhe's right. And as for Lord kiſs—damn me, he's a ſneaking ſcoundrel! I ſay it, [86] a ſneaking—! So ſhe's right! Damn me, ſhe's right!"

He continued to repeat his oaths, and "She's right," till, entirely overpowered, be ſunk; and would have dropped from his chair, if the waiter whom he had cut with the glaſs had not caught him. Some of the gueſts had withdrawn, ſome were ſleeping, and ſome were ſenſeleſs: but the few who could open their eyes, and ſee to ſuch a diſtance, triumphed in the defeat of their leader: which they conſidered as victory to themſelves.

Riot now pauſed per force. The Ba⯑ronet pleaded fatigue, and retired. I followed his example, and once more found myſelf alone; left to ruminate on the methods which men take to make each other happy; on their different modes of happineſs, in their different ſtations: and on waiters who, being maimed or killed, are to be charged in the bill.

[87]Though theſe thoughts were not of the moſt delightful kind, they did not prevent me from ſleeping. The new day brought new cares; and preſented projects, in which I was required to take my part, that led me to very ſerious me⯑ditations indeed. The poll was to begin that day week; and Hector and his friends, rouſed from the torpor of over⯑loaded revelry by the importance of the buſineſs, aſſembled to conſider how they ſhould beſt collect and marſhal the voters of whom they ſuppoſed themſelves to be certain, and cajole and bring over ſuch as they imagined might be gained.

Of this labour each man was to take his allotted ſhare; and direct bribery was openly propoſed as the general me⯑dium by which the great end in queſtion was to be promoted.

This was what I had not foreſeen. I was not only young but, as I have before remarked, I had thought but little on the [88] affair: except as it continually preſented the image of Olivia to my mind. I now found myſelf moſt painfully ſituated. I had diſcovered principles of human con⯑duct in which I had gloried. I had aſ⯑ſerted them unſparingly; and had promiſed myſelf that from them I would never de⯑part. In doubtful caſes, I might decide and act erroneouſly: but, when the way was clear, my conduct ſhould be the ſame.

Theſe principles I was required to abandon; and the ſhock was ſevere. The tranſactions which had lately paſſed in the Baronet's borough increaſed the difficulty. In what light could the pre⯑ſents that I had made be conſidered? In what were they different from and how much better than bribes? To theſe I had ſubmitted when my own intereſt was in queſtion. Again: for what pur⯑poſe had I conſented to accompany Sir Barnard, if not to exert myſelf in favour [89] of his friend? And not only his friend but the brother of Olivia; though this was a ſilent grief, known only to myſelf. However I ſtated my ſcruples: which, as ſoon as they were heard, were the ſubject of laughter. I repeated them in a ſtill more ſerious tone, and was re⯑minded of the facts, and motives which I have juſt been mentioning.

The ſtruggle was violent. The ar⯑guments I had to urge were ſomething like inſults, on every body preſent that heard me; and I was anſwered ſome⯑times with ridicule, at others with anger, and not unfrequently with ſomething very like contempt.

The Baronet in particular augured very unfavourably, concerning the ſub⯑ſerviency which he expected from me; and once or twice ſpoke in a very dicta⯑torial tone: but, finding himſelf anſwer⯑ed with no little indignation, he had no remedy but to chew the cud in ſilence.

[90]Aſſailed on all ſides, as it happened I had the good ſenſe, in deſpite of every mockery and inſinuation, to remain firm; and the only part I could be prevailed upon to take determinately was that of aiding in a fair and open canvas, leaving thoſe who were leſs conſcientious to diſ⯑tribute bribes. As it was imagined however that I poſſeſſed ſome abilities, my ſervices were accepted on my own conditions.

Meanwhile the waſte that was com⯑mitted, the bribes that were paid, and the money that was ſquandered in every way, as well in London, where voters were eagerly purchaſed and ſent down by coach loads, as in diſtant parts of the county and kingdom, convinced me that the ſums which this election would coſt muſt be enormous. I even thought it my duty to take an opportunity, in one of Hector's half ſober moments, to re⯑monſtrate with all the arguments and [91] energy I could collect; and endeavoured to perſuade him to decline the poll. But my efforts were uſeleſs. He was equally vain of his wealth and his influence. His purſe perhaps was as deep as that of the proud peer; his friends as nume⯑rous; and he would carry his election though he were to mortgage every foot of land he poſſeſſed.

Finding him reſolved, I became an⯑xious in his behalf, ſtrained every nerve, rode in all directions night and day, and ſo effectually exerted myſelf in enquir⯑ing who were the independent men likely to be influenced by honeſt mo⯑tives, that I procured him above fifty votes.

With reſpect to himſelf, the continual drinking, vociferating, and riot of the ſcene had made him ſo hoarſe that, pre⯑vious to the day of election, his huſky whiſpers were not audible.

The evening before the poll opened, an incident occurred for which, at that [92] time, I knew not how to account. It was no leſs amazing than incomprehen⯑ſible. I had returned very much fa⯑tigued, after hard riding, and found a meſſage had been left for me by Sir Barnard; who deſired to ſpeak with me immediately.

I obeyed the ſummons, and found him alone. He opened the converſation in a ſtrange bluſtering tone: complaining of having been neglected, or inſulted; he did not ſeem to know which; and, to my aſtoniſhment, declared his ſatisfac⯑tion at the ſcruples which I had profeſſed. He knew not what to ſay to ſuch cor⯑rupt proceedings. Perhaps an honeſt man ought to have no concern in them; and, for his own part, he certainly ſhould trouble himſelf no farther on the preſent occaſion. He had met with but little thanks for what he had already done; and he had come to a reſolution not to bring up his voters.

[93]Acquainted with the corrupt arts by which the promiſes of theſe voters, ge⯑nerally ſpeaking, had been gained, I knew not what to reply: though I felt no little chagrin. With the aid of Sir Barnard, it was ſuppoſed that Mowbray's election would certainly have been car⯑ried: but without that aid I was per⯑ſuaded it would as certainly be loſt.

This opinion I forcibly repeated: ad⯑ding that, though elections like theſe were deſtructive beyond deſcription to the general happineſs, and though I could not defend having taken any part whatever in one of them, yet the miſ⯑chief in the preſent inſtance had already been done. If Sir Barnard had re⯑ceived any inſult, or even ſuffered any neglect, I intreated that he would permit me to be the mediator, and ſtate his griefs: being perſuaded, from all I had ſeen, that nothing injurious to his perſon or his intereſt had been intended.

[94]His anſwers were evaſive. He acted as men frequently do, who have ſome ſe⯑cret purpoſe which they dare not avow: he affected that waſpiſh irritation of tem⯑per to which he was ſubject ſo many oc⯑caſions; but on none ſo frequently as when he ſuſpected himſelf to be wrong.

While we were in the heat of this diſ⯑courſe, a chaiſe and four drove up to the door. It was for the Baronet. His trunk and mine were both prepared, by his orders. The men were buckling the former behind the carriage; and he re⯑queſted me to accompany him to town.

I was thunderſtruck! I could neither account for ſuch ſullen intemperance nor the ſecrecy of this haſte. I again urgent⯑ly intreated I might acquaint Mr. Mow⯑bray, and his committee: but he per⯑emptorily refuſed, and repeated his de⯑ſire that I would accompany him imme⯑diately. No arguments, no prayers, could move him: ſo that, at laſt, I haſtily left [95] the room, in ſearch of Hector and his friends.

He gueſſed my intention, and as ſoon as I was gone ſtepped into the chaiſe and ordered the boys to drive away full ſpeed: leaving me behind to act as I ſhould think proper; but with a meſſage that, if I wiſhed to oblige him, I muſt mount my horſe and ride after him with all ex⯑pedition. I might overtake him at the next inn; and our ſervants and horſes would then follow at leiſure.

It was ſome time before I could find Mowbray, or any of his party. They were at another inn, promoting the good cauſe; and, when I informed them of the intentions of Sir Barnard, they ſcarce⯑ly could believe me: but, when they heard the chaiſe was at the door, they hurried with me; full of anxiety and diſ⯑may. We were too late. Sir Barnard was gone: long out of hearing, and out of ſight.

[96]The conſternation was extreme. Stu⯑pefied as his faculties were, for a moment Hector was rouſed. Conjectures were formed, but none preſented themſelves that could account for ſuch extraordina⯑ry conduct. No one knew of any of⯑fence that had been given the Baronet. It was remarked indeed, on recollection, that the laſt day or two he had not teſti⯑fied the ſame alacrity and zeal: but no man could gueſs his motive.

At length the indignation of Hector took vent in a volley of curſes, which were plentifully and emphatically be⯑ſtowed. And ſo keenly was the ſtroke felt, that he put a very unuſual quantity, ſmall though it was, of variety in his oaths. Not only the body and blood of Sir Barnard, but his liver, eyes, and heart, were conſigned over to Satan.

Even I, though I had procured votes diſtinct from the intereſt of the Baronet, and had refuſed to follow him to town, [97] in which refuſal I perſiſted, ſtill I did not eſcape ſuſpicion. No direct allegation was made: but the queſtions that were put to me were ſufficiently expreſſive of doubt.

The irritated mind is apt at error; and I diſdained to make a perſonal applica⯑tion of the guilt by which I knew myſelf uncontaminated.

CHAP. VII. THE OPENING OF THE POLL. MY FIRST ESSAY AT PUBLIC ORATORY. THE GENERAL FEELINGS OF MEN IN FAVOUR OF VIRTUE, THOUGH CON⯑TRADICTED BY THEIR PRACTICE. THE HATE⯑FUL SPECTACLE OF A CORRUPT ELECTION, AND MORE CAUSE OF COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BARONET. A FALSE ACCUSATION RESENTED.

PASSION diſpels paſſion, and care com⯑bats care. Sir Barnard was gone, dili⯑gence was the more neceſſary, and pre⯑parations [98] for the approaching day would not admit of neglect. It may well be ſaid that circumſtances and ſituation make the man. Hector, who had no habitual capacity for buſineſs or intellect for order, was inſpired by the occaſion with a degree of talent of which at other times he was incapable. The fatigue he underwent was exceſſive; and, impoſſi⯑ble as it was that he ſhould create any ſtrong ſympathy, I ſtill felt ſome intereſt in his behalf; and ſome alarm at the fixed hoarſeneſs by which his lungs were threatened, and the alteration which in⯑ceſſant drinking and unuſual efforts had produced in his appearance.

The night was paſſed with more than ordinary tumult. It was late before the riotous gueſts departed; and our reſt was ſhort. The day of beginning conteſt ſoon broke upon us, the word of com⯑mand was given to muſter and all was in action. The friends of the oppoſing [99] parties collected, each round their reſpec⯑tive leaders: favours for the hat and boſom were laviſhly diſtributed: the flags were flying: a band of muſic pre⯑ceded each of the proceſſions: and, when the parties approached the huſt⯑ings, each band continued to play its own favourite air with increaſing vio⯑lence: as if war were to be declared by the moſt jarring diſcord, and harmony driven from the haunts of men.

The grating ſounds were increaſed by ballad ſingers, marrowbones and cleavers, and the vociferous throats of men who ſeemed to imagine that, if they were but ſufficiently noiſy, they could not fail of being victorious.

The ſcaffolding was mounted, the can⯑didates appeared, and mouths, ears, and eyes were open; for the reception of all the wiſdom and patriotiſm, with all the comicality and fun, which the orators were expected to beſtow. A mob delights in [100] being harangued; and is thrown into raptures by every kind of mountebank.

Jealous perhaps of his own honor, the god of eloquence decreed that neither the wit nor the wiſdom of Hector ſhould that day be heard. He was too hoarſe for any effort to make him audible: but, as ſtir⯑ring and ambitious ſpirits on ſuch occa⯑ſions are always abroad, tongues were not wanting to trumpet forth his high de⯑ſerts.

The candidates for oratorical fame were ſeveral. I was of the number: and, as the gloſs of my newly acquired digni⯑ty dazzled other eyes as well as my own, I was permitted to take the lead. It was my firſt eſſay; and I felt a momentary alarm: but, full of youthful ſpirits and high in blood, I daſhed forward; and uttered what firſt occurred.

My voice was powerful, my nonſenſe was applauded, my fears vaniſhed, and I became more collected. The real griev⯑ances [101] of mankind, under the beſt govern⯑ment that ever yet exiſted, have at all times been ſo numerous that an orator, who makes them his theme, is never in want of facts and arguments.

Could I then feel this deficiency at an epocha like the one in queſtion: when means ſo deſpotic were daily adopted to curb the growing ſpirit of enquiry that deſpot miniſters might purſue meaſures ſo tragical; ſo ſubverſive of the order which they pretended to maintain, and ſo deſtructive to the happineſs they were appointed to guard? Alas! the topics were ſo numerous, ſo melancholy, ſo al⯑moſt maddening, that the man who would paint them truly muſt temper and rein-in his feelings with an iron arm: otherwiſe, imagination will ſo hurry him away that, while deſcribing evils paſt, evils preſent, and evils impending, there is danger of his being deemed an incendiary.

I ſpoke ill. When I remembered what [102] I had ſaid, and what I might and ought to have ſaid, I was indignant at my own want of recollection. The applauſe that I re⯑ceived nevertheleſs was prodigious: the acclamations of the mob were even aw⯑ful. They diſplayed a feeling of juſtice ſo acute, ſo prompt, and ſo powerful, that I was borne out of myſelf; and ima⯑gined for a moment, not merely that the day of reform was at hand, but that it was come.

Men are rendered ſelfiſh, and corrupt, by the baneful influence of the ſyſtems under which they live: but it is well worthy the attention of thoſe who believe mankind to be generally capable of great happineſs, and who are deſirous to pro⯑mote it, that, however the wants of the wretched may tempt them to accept the immediate relief that is within their reach, they never collectively fail to beſtow the moſt unbounded applauſe, on thoſe prin⯑ciples by which their own proceedings [103] are condemned. They are not in love with baſeneſs: it is forced upon them.

The reader is doubtleſs aware that Hector and his friends aſſumed to them⯑ſelves the merit of what is called the in⯑dependent intereſt; and that his oppo⯑nent was ſupported by the whole in⯑fluence of the court party. The nume⯑rous groans and hiſſes, and the few plau⯑dits, beſtowed upon the orators of this party, were additional proofs of what is the general ſenſe of mankind; and that on the ſubject of corrupt influence at leaſt they judge rightly. In this gene⯑ral ſenſe I own that my ſoul triumphed: and the pangs which I felt, after the poll began, to perceive that, whatever men might think, they could forget their du⯑ty and vote only as their intereſt directed, were undeſcribable.

However, the party of Hector was ſtrong. The ſtruggle was violent. Every ſcandalous art of election was reſorted to, [104] by both ſides. A ſpirit of rancour daily and hourly increaſed. The opponents came to frequent blows. Beaſtly drunk⯑enneſs, bloated inſolence, and profligacy of principle, met the eye on every ſide; and I almoſt hated myſelf, not only for being preſent at and participating in it, but, to find that I belonged to a race of animals capable of ſuch foul and deteſta⯑ble vice.

From this diſtreſs I was relieved by an event which in itſelf was very far from ſatisfactory. The poll had proceeded for ſome days with tolerable equality; and Hector had rather the advantage: though the voters in the intereſt of Sir Barnard had not given him their aſſiſtance; to which they had frequently been urged. At length, they appeared. And how great was the ſurpriſe and indignation of our whole party, to ſee them marſhalled on the oppoſite ſide, with the favours of the Idford candidate in their hats, [105] and uniformly come up and poll againſt us!

On the ſame day, twelve of the votes which had been promiſed to me were likewiſe brought over to the oppoſite in⯑tereſt; and ten more of them refuſed to poll for either party.

The coincidence of this deſertion re⯑vived the ſuſpicions of Hector and his party, concerning me. This ſudden turn of the poll againſt him rendered his temper ungovernable; and, in the fren⯑zy of paſſion, he made no ſcruple of openly affirming that I was no leſs guilty than the Baronet.

It was not merely the conſciouſneſs of innocence that I felt. I had been ſo in⯑defatigable in every poſſible way, I had ridden and walked and talked, I had been his defender, his eulogiſt, his ora⯑tor, his ſlave, and had as it were ſo fouled my conſcience in his cauſe that indigna⯑tion cloſed my lips. I diſdained reply, [106] or ſelf vindication; and, caſting a glance ſuch as irreſiſtible feeling dictated, left the committee room in which the accuſa⯑tion was made without anſwering a word.

CHAP. VIII. THE RETURN TO TOWN. A VISIT TO SIR BER⯑NARD. ADMISSION DENIED. ENQUIRIES AF⯑TER THE WOUNDED STRANGER, WHO HAD DIS⯑APPEARED. AN ENDEAVOUR TO GUARD AGAINST MISREPRESENTATION. THE FEARS AND FEEL⯑INGS OF FRIENDS.

MY determination was taken, my ſer⯑vant was called, my horſes ordered, and I immediately departed for London. My thoughts were far from being clear, or of a pleaſant kind. The ſcene I had left was the moſt odious that I had ever be⯑held. Hector I was convinced would loſe his election; and, what was more valuable, his health. I ſaw prognoſtics [107] which I thought could not be miſtaken; and which afterward proved as baleful as I then imagined them to be. Whether the conteſt might not ruin the family was more than I knew; and what the effect might be on Olivia, and even on our hoped for union, I could not foreſee.

The enigmatical conduct of Sir Bar⯑nard was no leſs perplexing. His ſudden deſertion of Hector, and of the cauſe which he had ſo loudly defended, were alarming. For what other interpreta⯑tion could be put upon the voters in the Baronet's intereſt, who not only refuſed to poll according to their promiſe, but were all of them brought up in ſupport of the Idford candidate? Yet I was loth to conclude that an event ſo fatal to all my hopes, as well to my private affec⯑tions as to my public duties, had taken place.

My horſes were excellent, and carried us ſeventy miles in leſs time than it would [108] have taken to go poſt. I intended to have ordered a chaiſe for the remainder of the way: but a mail coach was to paſs in half an hour, and I waited. There hap⯑pened to be a vacancy in which I ſeated myſelf; and by theſe means I arrived in town early in the morning.

As ſoon as the day was far enough ad⯑vanced, my firſt care was to viſit Sir Bar⯑nard; and I own I approached the ſtreet and the houſe with a foreboding heart. What had happened could not be unin⯑tentional. It was too decided, too ab⯑rupt, and had too many marks of un⯑principled treachery. I knocked, made my enquiries, and was informed the Ba⯑ronet was not at home. I aſked for Lady Bray; and not at home was again the an⯑ſwer.

As this was what I apprehended, it ex⯑cited but little ſurpriſe, though much vexation. However I left my card; and departed more full of meditation even [109] than I came. Not at home I had no doubt ſignified that my viſits were no longer welcome.

Still it was neceſſary I ſhould know the truth; and, as I had been too inti⯑mate with the family to be ignorant of the haunts of Sir Barnard, I went to the Cocoa tree, a place to which he daily re⯑ſorted, and there lounged away between two and three hours over the papers; hoping he would come.

I was again diſappointed. The Baro⯑net did not make his appearance; and I began to conjecture that perhaps the ſervant had told me truly: he might be out early; on buſineſs, or I knew not what.

As it was paſt his hour at the Cocoa tree, perhaps I ſhould now find him at home. I therefore went back; and again made my enquiries, and again received the ſame dry laconic anſwer. It had an ill face: but I had no immediate remedy.

[110]My next moſt preſſing object of atten⯑tion was the wounded ſtranger; whom I had left under the care of the phyſician, and whom I immediately determined to enquire after: not without ſome ſilent reproaches to myſelf, for having ſo long been abſent on ſchemes ſuch as thoſe in which I had been concerned, to the ne⯑glect of perhaps a more ſerious duty. For duty ſeemed to require that men ſhould rather abſtain from elections, ſuch as they are at preſent, than become aiders and abettors of them.

My horſes not being arrived, and diſ⯑liking the vehicle of a hackney coach, I walked forward to the inn at which the ſtranger had been left; muſing much on the proſpect before me, which was once more beginning to be heavily overcaſt.

Being come to my journey's end, I found the ſtranger had been removed two days after I left him to London: but the people of the inn could give me [111] no farther intelligence, concerning him or the place of his reſidence.

I then aſked them to direct me to the houſe of the phyſician: which they did, but told me that he had left the king⯑dom.

Determined however to make every poſſible enquiry, I went to the houſe; where I found only a perſon who was left in charge of the premiſes, and who knew nothing more than that the phy⯑ſician was gone with a patient to Liſbon.

Theſe little incidents, trifling as they appeared, afforded me an excellent proof of the abſurdity of falſe modeſty: which induces men, from the egoiſtical fear of being thought vain, to conceal or diſ⯑guiſe the truth. The phyſician had be⯑ſtowed high eulogiums on my humanity: after which, he had hinted a deſire, but with well-bred reſerve, to know who I was; and I, catching the apparent de⯑licacy of his feelings and thinking but [112] very little on the ſubject, imagined there would be oſtentation in perſonally taking to myſelf his praiſes, by giving him my name and place of abode. I therefore told him I would anſwer that queſtion when we became better acquainted; if he ſhould then find he had no reaſon to alter his good opinion of me.

Thus do men by affecting not to be vain, indulge a kind of double refined vanity; and lead themſelves and others into error.

Being diſappointed in all my enquiries of this day, my next care was to ſee Miſs Wilmot. Surrounded as I was by per⯑ſons who thought me inimical to them, and therefore were probably my inveterate enemies, I knew not what falſe reports might be ſpread; nor how to guard againſt them in the public opinion. But I had one conſolation. Olivia had declared ſhe was reſolved to enquire, before ſhe again gave the leaſt credit to calumny. [113] It was therefore eſſentially neceſſary that I ſhould acquaint Miſs Wilmot with all that had paſſed.

It was now evening; and, when I came to her lodgings, I found her brother and Turl both there. Though my ab⯑ſence had been ſhort, the meeting gave me no little pleaſure. It would likewiſe ſave me the trouble of a thrice told tale: for to friends like theſe my heart was always open; and I had ſomething like an abhorrence of concealment, and ſecret tranſactions. I wiſhed them to ſhare in all my joys; and, as to my griefs, they not only excited their ſympathy but pro⯑duced remarks and counſel, by which they had often been cured.

I told my ſtory; and it may well be imagined my hearers were neither in⯑attentive nor unmoved. The ſelfiſhneſs and depravity into which men are driven, and the vices of which being thus im⯑pelled they are capable, exemplified as [114] theſe vices were in my narration, drew heavy ſighs from the gentle and kind hearted Lydia, made her much oppreſſed brother groan in ſpirit, and excited in Turl thoſe comprehenſive powers that trace the hiſtory of facts through a long ſucceſſion, and teach, by miſeries that are paſt, how miſeries in future are to be avoided.

The general feeling however was that danger was hovering over me. The in⯑dignation of Wilmot, at the treatment of men who moſt endeavoured to de⯑ſerve well of their age and country, was very ſtrong.

Neither was Turl leſs moved. His manner was placid, yet his feelings were acute. But, though they might vibrate for a moment toward diſcord, they touch⯑ed the true harmony at laſt. He who has fixed principles of action is ſoon call⯑ed to a recollection of his duties, and the manner in which he ought to act.

[115]Rouſed by his friendſhip for me, I ſhould rather ſay by his affection, he collected his faculties; and preſented to the imagination ſo ſublime a picture of fortitude, and of the virtue of enduring injuries and oppreſſion with dignity, that he prepared my mind moſt admirably for the trials that were to ſucceed.

CHAP. IX. A SECOND AND MORE SUCCESSFUL ATTEMPT TO OBTAIN AN INTERVIEW WITH THE BARONET. AN ENIGMATICAL DIALOGUE: THE MEANING OF WHICH HOWEVER MAY BE GUESSED.

IT was not only the wiſh of my heart but it was quite neceſſary for me to ſee Mr. Evelyn. However, it was exceed⯑ingly deſirable that I ſhould previouſly meet the Baronet: left, in what I ſhould ſay, my ſurmiſes might be falſe; and I might produce a family diſagreement be⯑tween [116] perſons who would both have con⯑ferred eſſential benefits on me, if the ſup⯑poſed defection of Sir Barnard ſhould not be true. I determined therefore once more to go to the Cocoa tree and wait.

As it happened, waiting was not ne⯑ceſſary. The Baronet was there; and, though there was ſomething of coldneſs in his manner, it was by no means what my fears had taught me to expect. Salu⯑tation having paſſed, I requeſted to ſpeak with him. We retired into a private room; and he began by telling me he was glad to ſee me again in town; and no longer continuing to ſupport a per⯑ſon whom he no longer eſteemed his friend.

At hearing this remark, and the ſigni⯑ficance with which it was delivered, my evil augury returned upon me in full force. I anſwered that I had quitted Mr. Mowbray not becauſe I had deſerted his [117] intereſt, but becauſe I had been unjuſtly accuſed.

"Accuſed of what, Mr. Trevor?"

"Of having been influenced by you to betray a party which I had pretended to eſpouſe."

"And were you not influenced by me, Mr. Trevor?"

"I never can be influenced by any man, Sir Barnard, to commit an action which my heart condemns."

"Do you mean, Mr. Trevor, that your heart condemns me?"

"The queſtion is very direct; and I am not deſirous of wounding your feel⯑ings, Sir Barnard: but I muſt not be guilty of falſehood. I certainly wiſh you had acted otherwiſe."

"Then you pretend to ſet up for yourſelf, Mr. Trevor; and to have no deference whatever for me, and my opi⯑nions."

"Perſonally, as a gentleman who [118] meant to do me ſervice, I wiſh to pre⯑ſerve every reſpect for you, Sir Barnard. But I hope you do not expect of me any deference that ſhould, on any occaſion whatever, induce me to abandon either my public or my private duties."

"Very well, Mr. Trevor. Very well. I dare ſay you are ſo perfectly acquainted with your duties that no man on earth, not even he who had been your greateſt friend, could induce you to alter any of your notions."

"I ſhould hope, Sir Barnard, that either friend or enemy might ſo induce me: provided he had truth and reaſon on his ſide."

"Very well, Mr. Trevor. All that is very fine. I dare ſay you underſtand your own intereſt, and will take your own road: even though you might if you pleaſed travel more at your caſe, and in better company, by going another way."

[119]"Will you be kind enough to explain yourſelf, Sir Barnard?"

"No, Mr. Trevor. I ſhall give no explanations, till I am ſure I am talking to my friend: my faſt friend, Mr. Tre⯑vor: that will think and act with me. If you will give me your word and honor as a gentleman to that, why then we will talk together."

"If by thinking and acting together, Sir Barnard, you mean that you expect I ſhould blindly and implicitly conform to any tergiverſation—I mean to any change—"

"You need explain yourſelf no farther, Mr. Trevor. I very well underſtand your meaning. My friend is my friend, Mr. Trevor; and he is no other man's friend, Mr. Trevor. I could not but ſuppoſe you underſtood all that perfectly at firſt; and I am very ſorry to be ſo much deceived. But it is my misfortune [120] to be always deceived, and entrapped; and—"

"Entrapped, Sir Barnard! I hope you do not apply that word to me?"

"Nay, nay, Mr. Trevor, I want no quarrelling."

"Nor do I, Sir Barnard. But, if you ſuppoſe me capable of taking any advan⯑tage of what you may now think an ill-placed confidence in me, you egregiouſly miſtake both my intentions and my cha⯑racter."

"I hope I do, Mr. Trevor. You have a great fluency: but I hope I do."

I ſaw him preparing to go; and, being exceedingly anxious to have a determinate anſwer, I added—"Let me intreat you, Sir Barnard, to give me an explicit decla⯑ration of what you expect from me?"

"You muſt excuſe me, Mr. Trevor. I ſhall ſay no more, at preſent. You ſay I miſtake your intentions. I hope I do. [121] Time will tell. When you are my friend, I ſhall be very glad to ſee you; and ſo will Lady Bray. Good morning to you, Mr. Trevor."

CHAP. X. REFLECTIONS ON THE MUTABILITY OF FORTUNE, ON MONEY EXPENDED, AND ON THE DUTIES OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. A STRANGE INCIDENT, SHEWING THE PROPENSITY OF MAN TO SUPER⯑STITIOUS TERRORS. A LAMENTABLE AND UN⯑EXPECTED EVENT.

WELL might I forebode the approach of evil: and, except that complaint is of no avail, is waſte of time, is unhappineſs and therefore is immoral, well might I complain of thoſe ſudden ſtrokes of fate by which, whenever my proſpects began to be flattering, they were ſuddenly ob⯑ſcured in darkneſs and deſpair. But, if I had not ſuppoſed myſelf marked in an [122] extraordinary manner as the child of for⯑tune, to whoſe ſmiles and frowns I ſeemed to be capriciouſly ſubjected, I know not what ſhould have induced me to have written my hiſtory; or rather the hiſtory of my youth; for of what is yet reſerved for me I am ſtill ignorant.

Not that I pretend to conſider the hypocriſy, ſelfiſhneſs and profligacy of titled folly, and church pride, as things in themſelves extraordinary. It was the coincidence and the number and man⯑ner of them, by which in the criſis of my fate I ſeemed to be ſo repeatedly and ſo peculiarly affected, that occaſioned ſurpriſe and pain.

Yet what was all that I had hitherto felt from perſons like theſe, when I re⯑member that which I was now immedi⯑ately doomed to feel? The perverted and the vicious it is true can excite emo⯑tion, and excite it ſtrongly. But how comparatively feeble does their utmoſt [123] malice ſeem, as far as it affects only our⯑ſelves, when brought in competition with the thunder-bolt that ſtrikes the virtuous; that ſhuts the gate of hope; and that robs us of thoſe unſpeakable pleaſures which imagination has fondly ſtored, as a grand reſource againſt evil, fall when and how it may?

Parting from the Baronet, expecting what was almoſt certain ſome change of political ſentiment, no matter how brought about, by which my flattering expectations were at once to be rooted up, my thoughts inevitably flowed into that train which was bitterneſs little ſhort of anguiſh. Mr. Evelyn was a man of ſuch peculiar virtue and diſintereſted be⯑nevolence, of a heart ſo generous and ſo little capable of accuſing me in conſe⯑quence of the baſeneſs of others, that to have ſuſpected him of ſuch a miſtake would have been the height of injuſtice. But I could not forget the ſums that he [124] had advanced, in all four hundred pounds, the more than probable failure of all the plans for which they had been advanced, and the incapacity I had and ſhould have to repay theſe ſums.

Neither could I forbear to take a re⯑ſtroſpective view of the manner in which they had been expended. Could I ap⯑prove of that manner? Could I forget how ſhort a time it was, though I had ſquandered my own money, ſince I had forfeited no atom of my independence by accepting the earnings of others? Suppoſe this parliamentary plan to fail, and fail it muſt, for there were no hopes that I could honeſtly retain my ſeat, to what other means could I reſort? While I continued to indulge in wild and extra⯑vagant ſchemes of enriching myſelf, by which I did but impoveriſh others, ought I to require of Olivia to partake of my folly, and its conſequences? Had I no⯑thing but the cup of wretchedneſs to [125] offer, and muſt I ſtill urge her to drink? Was it not my duty rather to tear my⯑ſelf at once away from her; and place ſome inſurmountable barrier between us, that ſhould relieve her from ſuch an ill-fated predilection?

Full of theſe thoughts, I proceeded toward the reſidence of Mr. Evelyn. It was neceſſary that I ſhould ſee him im⯑mediately: for ſilence would have been the meaneſt deceit. I went with an af⯑flicted heart. But how did I return? Why do I ſay afflicted? No! Anguiſh, real anguiſh, ſince I had known him, had not yet reached me. But it was coming. It was ruſhing forward, like a torrent; to bear away inferior cares and ſorrows, and engulph them wholly.

Unexpected events are ſometimes pe⯑culiarly marked, by certain uncommon incidental circumſtances. As I was walk⯑ing haſtily forward, anxious to meet Mr. Evelyn at home, I ſaw a coffin borne [126] before me by four men at ſome diſtance. Their pace was briſk. I had ſeveral ſtreets to paſs, before I arrived at the houſe where Mr. Evelyn had apartments; and ſtill the coffin turned the way that I was to go.

I overtook and went before it: but the gloomy object had excited my atten⯑tion, and I preſently looked behind me. Still it took the ſame route. I looked again, and again; and it was continually at my heels.

It is ſtrange how imagination will work, and how ideas will ſuggeſt themſelves. I wiſhed is any where elſe; but it ſeemed to purſue me.

At length I came to my journey's end; and, having knocked at the door, looked round with a kind of infatuated fear. The coffin was following, and I ſtood with an abſurd and fanciful trepidation, waiting that I might once ſee it fairly paſt the door. Yet I was no bigot, no believer [127] in omens, and was almoſt aſhamed of an idea which the coffin itſelf and the gloomy ſtate of my mind had ſuggeſted: but which was in reality ſuperſtitious. The ſervant came, and the door was opened: but the coffin approached, and I would not ſtir till it ſhould paſs me.

Paſs it did. But where? Into the paſ⯑ſage.

I ſtood ſpeechleſs. The men aſked where it was to go? "Into the firſt floor," was the anſwer.

It was the apartment of Mr. Evelyn.

Heavens! What was the pang that ſhot acroſs my brain? I gaſped for utter⯑ance: but ſtill was dumb. A dread ſo terrible had ſeized me that there I ſtood; motionleſs and ſtupefied.

The woman who opened the door and directed the men belonged to the houſe; and, juſt as the bearers were proceeding with the coffin up ſtairs, Matthew, the country ſervant, who had attended Mr. [128] Evelyn in the diſſecting room the firſt night of our meeting, came in.

The moment he ſaw me, the poor fel⯑low burſt into tears; and exclaimed— "Oh ſir!"

His look and the tone of his voice were ſufficient. There was but one event that could have produced them, in ſuch an extraordinary and unfeigned degree of grief. My horrible fears were ful⯑filled.

He pauſed a moment, ſobbed, and again cried in a moſt piercing and la⯑mentable tone, "My poor maſter!"

I muſt draw the curtain over feelings that I cannot pretend to paint. How long I ſtood, what I firſt ſaid, or what my looks were, are things of which I know nothing. I only recollect that my eyes were ſtone, and had not a tear to ſhed.

CHAP. XI. A PROOF OF THE DANGER OF NOT ATTENDING TO TRIFLES. A FEEBLE ATTEMPT TO CHARACTER⯑ISE A MAN OF UNCOMMON VIRTUE. THE DYING ANXIETIES OF MR. EVELYN.

THE melancholy particulars of this ſtrange tragedy were that, three days be⯑fore, Mr. Evelyn, being then in perfect health, had been diſſecting a limb in a high ſtate of putreſcene. During the operation, the inſtrument had ſlipped, and made what he conſidered only as a ſcratch of the ſkin; and ſo ſlight that he did not immediately deem it worthy of notice: though, when he had ended, he felt a tingling; and then thought it pru⯑dent to waſh with vinegar, and bind it up to keep out the air.

He was ſo buſily engaged, during the day, that he paid no more attention to it; though he once or twice felt a throbbing [130] that was unuſual. Being fatigued, and finding his ſpirits rather agitated, he took a gentle opiate at going to reſt: but was waked in the middle of the night, by ſymptoms of a very alarming kind. The morbid humour that was introduced in⯑to the ſyſtem, ſmall as it probably was in quantity, was ſo active that Mr. Evelyn was ſeized with a violent inflammatory fever: ſo that he was delirious when he woke, and died in leſs than eight and forty hours after he received this ſlight wound.

Such is the uncertain fate of man, in this ſtate of ignorance. To ſuch ſudden accidents of ſickneſs and death are the good and the bad, the fooliſh and the wiſe, continually ſubject; and ſuch at preſent is the frail tenure of life that the man in whoſe hall we feaſted on Mon⯑day, or the blooming beauty with whom we ſung and danced, ere the week paſſes away, are deſcended to the grave.

[131]What tribute can friendſhip or affec⯑tion pay, to the memory of a man like this? There is only one that is worthy of his virtues; and that is to record them: that, he being gone, his exam⯑ple may inſpire the benevolence he prac⯑tiſed; and teach others to communicate the bleſſings he conferred.

Oh that I had the power to pourtray thoſe virtues in all their luſtre! Ages unborn would then rejoice, that ſuch a man had lived; and feel the benefits he would have beſtowed. But it is a taſk that cannot be accompliſhed in a few pages. His life was a vaſt volume of the beſt of actions, which originated in the beſt of principles. Peace, love, and reve⯑rence, be with his memory.

For my own part, if, in addition to that uncommon public worth which he poſſeſſed, and that noble ſcale of morality by which he regulated his life, the perſonal kindneſs which he heaped on me be re⯑membered, [132] I muſt have leſs of affection than ſavage brutality, did no portion of his ſpirit inſpire me while I ſpeak of theſe events.

Nor did his friendſhip end while un⯑derſtanding had the leaſt remaining power. His laſt act of benevolence was a ſtrenuous but incoherent effort to pre⯑vent the miſchief which, diſturbed as his functions were, he ſtill had recollection enough to apprehend would fall on me.

The reader is informed of the mort⯑gage I gave Mr. Evelyn, when I received not merely a qualification but the poſ⯑ſeſſion of an eſtate; and I imagine he will not think I was too ſcrupulouſly care⯑ful, to guard and prove the honeſty of my intentions, when I further tell him that, for the ſums of money which Mr. Evelyn advanced, I inſiſted on giving my promiſſory notes for repayment. I was pertinacious, and would accept ſuch favours on no other terms.

[133]This mortgage and theſe notes were lying in the poſſeſſion of Mr. Evelyn, at the time of his death. He had appre⯑hended no danger, till the fever and the delirium ſeized him: at the beginning of which he called his ſervant, Matthew (I tell the ſtory as the poor fellow told it to me), and, giving him a key, bade him go down to his bureau, and ſearch among his papers for a parchment and ſome notes, that were tied together with red tape.

Having uttered this, he began to talk in a wild and wandering manner; of fet⯑ters, and priſons; and aſked Matthew if he knew why ſuch places were built? "So make haſte, Matthew," ſaid he, "and burn the parchment, and burn the notes, and burn the bureau. After which, you know, all will be ſafe, Matthew; and they can never harm Mr. Trevor. You love Mr. Trevor, Matthew: do not you?"

[134]His recollection then ſeemed to re⯑turn; and he aſked, "Of what have I been talking? Go, Matthew; ſeek the parchment and the notes: tied with red tape. Obſerve: there is no other parch⯑ment tied with red tape. Bring them to me directly."

Matthew had taken the key; but juſt as he was going the Doctor, who had been ſent for, arrived.

Matthew went, however, as he was di⯑rected; and, applying the key to the lock, found it was a wrong one.

The Doctor, alarmed for the ſtate in which he ſaw Mr. Evelyn, immediately wrote a preſcription, and rang for the ſervant to run and have it prepared at the ſhop of the next apothecary. Mat⯑thew anſwered the bell; and Mr. Eve⯑lyn ſeeing him eagerly demanded— "Where is the parchment? Have you brought me the parchment? Why do not you bring me the parchment?" [135] "For," ſaid Matthew, "I held out the key; and he ſaw I had nothing elſe in my hands."

The Doctor aſked Matthew what parch⯑ment his maſter wanted? And Matthew replied, he could not tell: except that his maſter ſaid it was in the bureau, and tied with red tape. "Why do not you bring it?" ſaid Mr. Evelyn. Then turn⯑ing to the Doctor, added—"It is a bun⯑dle of miſery; and you know, ſir, we ought to drive all miſery from the face of the earth. I cannot tell how it came in my poſſeſſion. Why do you not go and bring it me, Matthew? And pray, ſir, do you ſee it deſtroyed. Promiſe me that; I beg you will!, Becauſe Mr. Trevor is in the country. I am afraid elections are but bad things. What, ſir, is your opinion? For I think I ſhall die; and he will then have no friend on earth to ſecure him the poll."

"Seeing my poor maſter was ſo dis⯑turbed [136] in his mind," ſaid Matthew, "the doctor bid me run as faſt as I could for the ſtuff he had ordered: which I did. But I was obliged to wait till it was made up; and when I come back my poor dear maſter was more diſtracting light-headed than ever. But ſtill he kept raving about the parchment; and his couſin, Sir Bar⯑nard; and you, Mr. Trevor: all which the Doctor ſaid we muſt not heed, be⯑cauſe he did not know what he ſaid. Though, for all that, I could not but mightily fear there was ſomething hung heavy on his mind: for, as long as ever he could be heard to ſpeak, he kept call⯑ing every now and then for the parch⯑ment. And after that, when he lay heav⯑ing for breath and rattling in the throat and nobody could tell a word that he ſaid, he kept moving his lips juſt in the ſame manner as when he could make himſelf heard. I do believe he was calling for it almoſt as the breath left [137] his body. And I cannot but ſay that I wiſh I had found it, and brought it to him; for the eaſe and quiet of his ſoul."

CHAP. XII. DOUBTS CONCERNING THE JUSTICE OF WILLS AND TESTAMENTS. THE PROVIDENT CARE OF THE BARONET. A DEMONSTRATION OF HIS ARDENT LOVE FOR HIS COUNTRY. HECTOR LOSES HIS ELECTION. MY DETERMINATION TO ACCEPT THE CHILTERN HUNDREDS.

WHEN a man diſcovers that the pa⯑thos of his ſtory, and the virtues which he has in contemplation, are entirely be⯑yond the power of language, what me⯑thod can he take but that of leaving off abruptly: that he may ſuffer the imagi⯑nation to perform an office to which any other effort is inadequate? As Mr. Evelyn lived ſo he died. To prevent evil and to do unbounded good was his [138] ruling paſſion. It never left him, till life departed.

It is a phenomenon which has fre⯑quently been remarked that, in a ſtate of delirium, the mind has its luminous moments: during which it ſeems to have a more clear and comprehenſive view of conſequences than in its more ſober pe⯑riods of health. The evil that excited ſo ſtrong and painful an alarm in the mind of my dying friend was no idle dream. The Baronet was his heir at law. Mr. Evelyn had made no will: for not only was his death premature but, knowing the miſchiefs that have ariſen from diſ⯑putes concerning teſtamentary bequeſts, he ſtrongly doubted of the morality of making any. It was never his intention to hoard; and, hoping or I might rather ſay expecting to have a clear proſpect of the approach of death, his plan was to diſtribute all the perſonal property in his poſſeſſion before he died, in the manner [139] that he ſhould ſuppoſe would be moſt uſeful.

However, whether it were a juſt ſenſe of rectitude or an improper pride of heart, I own that I felt pleaſed, as far as myſelf was concerned, that the intentions of Mr. Evelyn, when he called for the parchment, were not executed. I did not indeed foreſee all that was to hap⯑pen: but I felt an abhorrence of being liable to be ſuſpected of I know not what imputed arts, or crimes; by the aid of which malice or ſelfiſhneſs might aſ⯑ſert I had come into the poſſeſſion of ſo large a part of Mr. Evelyn's property.

Not that, if the deeds and notes had been deſtroyed, I ſhould have thought it juſt to have retained the eſtate that I held. But my virtue was not fated to be put to this trial. When I met Sir Barnard at the Cocoa tree, he not only knew of the deceaſe of Mr. Evelyn but had ordered ſeals to be placed on all the locks; under [140] which it was imagined that papers or effects might be ſecured. Having heard the ſtory of Matthew, I could have no doubt but that the mortgage deeds, and the notes for ſums received, would now fall into the Baronet's power.

It is true I might, if I pleaſed, bid him defiance. No: I ought not to have ſaid, if I pleaſed; but, if I could condeſcend to acknowledge myſelf a ſcoundrel. He had made me his own member, and had himſelf impowered me to avoid the pu⯑niſhment which is aſſigned by law to unfortunate debtors: for, under this beſt of governments, ſuch as a repreſentative of the people was now my privilege. This immaculate conſtitution, to which all the homage that man can pay is in⯑ſufficient worſhip, vaunted as it is and revered by all parties, or all parties are broad day liars, for all and each ſtrive to be moſt loud and extravagant in praiſe of it, this conſtitution in its very eſſence [141] decrees that things which are vile and unjuſt, in one man, are right and lawful, in another.

Well then: by the aid of this conſti⯑tution, which I too muſt praiſe if I would eſcape whipping, I might ſeat myſelf as Sir Barnard's member, and aid to coun⯑tenance and make laws, to which I and the other wiſe law-makers my coadjutors ſhould not be ſubject. I might, how⯑ever offenſive the term may be to certain delicate ears, I might become a privi⯑leged ſwindler; and rob every man who ſhould do me the injuſtice to think me honeſt.

It cannot be ſuppoſed that ſo dear a lover and ſo ardent an admirer of the conſtitution, as Sir Barnard was, ſhould once ſuſpect that I would not benefit myſelf by all its bleſſings: that is, that I would not cheat him to the very beſt of my ability. This ſuppoſition had in⯑duced him, during our converſation at [142] the Cocoa tree, to ſtruggle with and keep down thoſe indignant riſings with which, notwithſtanding the modulated tone of his voice, I could ſee he was more than half choaked.

After what I had heard and ſituated as I was at preſent, I had very little doubt either of the purity of his patriotiſm or the manner in which it would affect me. Still however I had ſome. There might be a change in his politics; but it might neither be of the nature nor of the ex⯑tent that I feared.

But theſe doubts did not diſtreſs me long. They were entirely removed, by that moſt authentic ſource of intelli⯑gence the Gazette; in which, about a fortnight after the death of Mr. Evelyn, I read the following unequivocal proof of the Baronet's inordinate love of his country.

"The King has been pleaſed to grant the dignity of a Baron of the kingdom of [143] Great Britain to Sir Barnard Bray, Ba⯑ronet; by the name ſtile and title of Baron Bray, of Bray hall in the county of Somerſet; and to the heirs male of his body, lawfully begotten."

I was now no longer at a loſs for the reaſon of the Baronet's late ſudden de⯑parture, and the deſertion of his politi⯑cal friends at the election. What are friends? What are elections? What is our country, compared to the ſmiles of a prime miniſter; and the titles he can beſtow? Nothing now was want⯑ing to the honor of the houſe of Bray! It might in time I own pant after a Dukedom; and a Duke of Bray might as juſtly be ſtiled princely and moſt puiſſant as many another Duke. But at preſent it was full with ſatisfaction.

This court document, brief though it was, ſpoke volumes. It was a flaſh of lightning, that gave me a diſtinct view of the black and dreadful abyſs that was [144] immediately before me; and into which I foreſaw I muſt be plunged.

On the ſame day, I read that the Idford candidate had been returned for the county of * * * *; and that conſe⯑quently Hector had loſt his election.

This was not all. Heated by the illi⯑beral practices which always attend ſuch contentions, knowing the bribery that he had uſed himſelf, and convinced that he could prove the ſame corrupt means to have been reſorted to by his oppo⯑nent, he was not ſatisfied with the devaſ⯑tation he had already committed upon his fortune; but was determined to de⯑mand a ſcrutiny: and if he ſhould be foiled in that effort, he was reſolved to try the merits of the election before a committee of the houſe of commons. Such was the report that was immedi⯑ately propagated; and which was after⯑ward verified by facts.

With reſpect to myſelf convinced as [145] I was of its danger, I had made my choice. My fixed purpoſe was to vacate my ſeat in parliament. It might per⯑haps be queſtioned, ſince the pretended voters had in reality no voice, and their imaginary repreſentative was no more than a perſon nominated by the new Lord Bray, whether I ought to reſign an office which, as I ſuppoſed, I ſhould fill for the good of mankind; and give place to ſome perſon who, obedient to his leader, would do the reverſe?

But one act of baſeneſs cannot autho⯑rize another. To bear about me a ſenſe of ſelf-degradation, a certainty that I was ſheltering myſelf from the power of my late patron by a privilege which I conſi⯑dered as highly vicious, a ſubterfuge ſuch as every man who deſerves the name ought to deſpiſe and ſpurn at, this was inſufferable. I had loſt much: for I had loſt hopes that had been extrava⯑gant and unbounded in promiſe: but [146] I had not loſt a conſcious rectitude of heart, without which exiſtence was not to be endured.

CHAP. XIII. THE COMEDY OF WILMOT SUCCESSFUL. THE WOUNDED STRANGER SEEN AT A DISTANCE. ORATORY ABANDONED WITH REGRET. THE DANGERS THAT ATTEND BEING HONEST. A NEW INVITATION FROM HECTOR. A JOURNEY DEFERRED BY AN ARREST, AND ANOTHER ACCI⯑DENTAL SIGHT OF THE STRANGER.

IT is happy for man that there is ſcarce⯑ly any ſtate of ſuffering, whether of mind or body, in which pain is unremitting; and wholly unmixed with pleaſure. If he be unhappy himſelf, it will be ſtrange ſhould there be no one more fortunate for whom he has an affection: no friend that is more proſperous, and in whoſe proſperity he takes delight.

[147]The ſeaſon of the year had arrived when the comedy of Wilmot had been put into rehearſal, and was to be per⯑formed. It was a trying occaſion; and thoſe who knew him loved him too well to be abſent: though the few intimate friends who had read the piece had no doubt of its ſucceſs. The partial failure of his tragedy had produced no jealouſy of rivalſhip: though, as its merits had been publicly acknowledged, it had in⯑curred no diſgrace. In private life, he was beloved; and, as a public man, his merits had not yet created him enemies. He has ſince, indeed, in that reſpect, not been ſo fortunate. But he has never thought it juſt to complain: being con⯑vinced that miſtake, though it ſhould be rectified, ſhould not be reſented.

The evening of repreſentation arrived, the houſe was crowded, the company brilliant, and the plaudits with which the author was honoured eſlabliſhed his re⯑putation, [148] and confirmed the judgment of his friends.

During the performance, I ſat in the boxes; and, among the ſpectors in the pit, I diſcovered a man whoſe hair was white, whoſe locks were venerable, and who I was well convinced was the ſtranger whom I had found wounded at the entrance of Barnes common. I was in a ſide-box, and he was near the op⯑poſite pit door; ſo that the diſtance made it rather doubtful: yet the more I looked the more I was convinced it was the ſame perſon. The comedy was nearly ended when I firſt ſaw him; and I de⯑termined, as ſoon as I had heard the epilogue, to go and ſatisfy myſelf how far my perſuaſion was true.

I went round to the door; but the pit was ſo crowded that it was with difficulty I could make my way to the ſeat. When I was there my labour was loſt: I could not find him; and, enquiring for him [149] by deſcription of the perſons near where he ſat, they told me that ſuch a gentle⯑man had been there; but that he com⯑plained of the heat, and had left the houſe immediately after the curtain dropped.

This incident gave me conſiderable chagrin. However, as his perſon was very remarkable, and being perſuaded he was actually the wounded ſtranger, I conceived hopes that I ſhould again meet him; in ſome place where the danger of loſing ſight of him would not be ſo great.

There being no expectation of his return, I went in ſearch of my friends: in company with whom, rejoicing in the ſucceſs of Wilmot and glorying in the ac⯑quiſition of poetry and the ſtage, I whol⯑ly forgot myſelf and my own affairs, and ſpent one more very delightful evening.

Theſe affairs however were not long to be forgotten. The returns of the elec⯑tions throughout Great Britain had all [150] been made, and the new parliament ſum⯑moned to aſſemble. It was with infinite and deep regret that I found myſelf excluded by my own ſenſe of rectitude. I would willingly have taken my ſeat, had it been only for one night: for I was ea⯑gerly deſirous of an opportunity to deli⯑ver my thoughts, and urge ſome of thoſe uſeful truths which may be uttered with more ſafety there than in leſs privileged places.

But I was too well acquainted with the cuſtoms and forms of the houſe to hope that this opportunity could now be found. I had no parliamentary friends; no ſupporters; and there was not the leaſt probability that a youth ſo wholly unknown ſhould catch the ſpeaker's eye, whoſe notice ſo many were ready to ſo⯑licit.

Theſe things having been duly weighed, I had already applied for the chiltern hun⯑dreds and my ſeat was declared vacated: [151] to the great joy of Lord Bray; and his now boſom friend, the Earl of Idford. This joy was the greater becauſe it was an event of which they had not the leaſt expectation. The due forms of law had been obſerved, the ſeals had been removed from the locks of my late ineſtimable friend, his couſin the new peer was in poſſeſſion of the mortgage and the notes for money received, and he had no con⯑ception of any motives that could induce me to an act which muſt leave me en⯑tirely at his mercy.

It cannot however be ſuppoſed, as I have already ſaid, that I had any inten⯑tion to retain the eſtate; which I had re⯑ceived from Mr. Evelyn as a qualifica⯑tion, and a ſupport. It was now the pro⯑perty of Lord Bray; and obligation to him was a thing that would not admit of a queſtion. I did not therefore wait for any notice from his lordſhip, or his at⯑torney, [152] but deſired Mr. Hilary to inform him that I was ready at any time to give up the deeds, and receive back the mort⯑gage.

This would have been a trifle. It was not a ſacrifice; but a riddance: by which, could it have ended here, I ſhould have regained ſomething of that elaſticity of heart which independence only can feel. Here, however, it could not end. I was obliged to inſtruct Mr. Hilary to add that I was willing to give my own per⯑ſonal ſecuriry, by bond or in any man⯑ner my creditor ſhould pleaſe, for money received and intereſt due: but to ac⯑knowledge that I had no immediate means of payment. In other words, that my perſon was entirely at the diſpoſal of himſelf and the law. I might have re⯑minded him that more than half of my debt was incurred by genteel preſents to his craving electors; and that he had in⯑formed [153] me that it was a neceſſary ex⯑pence: but to this I could not conde⯑ſcend.

The little buſineſs which, during his life, Mr. Evelyn had in law Mr. Hilary had always tranſacted. He had a ſincere regard for me, and a reverence for the memory of his late kinſman; whoſe ear⯑neſt recommendation of me he did not forget. Being well acquainted with the character of Lord Bray, he foreſaw and warned me of my danger. While a ba⯑ronet, to behold himſelf a peer had been his lordſhip's darling paſſion: but that was now gratified; and, as he was proud, he was likewiſe revengeful. In this caſe, however, to warn was uſeleſs. I had no alternative, except by means that were diſhonorable.

Nor was the reſentment of Lord Bray ſingle, or ſo much to be apprehended as that of the Earl, with whom he had en⯑tered into ſtrict alliance. My behaviour [154] to Lord Idford had uniformly been what he deemed ſo very inſolent that his an⯑tipathy may be ſaid to have taken birth at my firſt act of diſobedience: my refu⯑ſal to dine at the ſecond table. Since then, as he conceived, it had been pro⯑greſſive in aggravation. My ſcorn of his ſelfiſh politics, my attempt to conti⯑nue the Letters of Themiſtocles, and write him who was the ſuppoſed author of them into diſgrace, the pamphlet of which I was the author, the activity with which I had canvaſſed in favour of Mow⯑bray, and to ſum up all my daring to ri⯑val him with the woman on whom he would have conferred his perſon, his dig⯑nity, and his other great qualities, were all of them injuries that rankled at his heart. When theſe things are remem⯑bered, few will feel ſurpriſed that the Earl ſhould indulge a paſſion which is in itſelf ſo active: or that he ſhould induce Lord Bray to purſue that kind of conduct [155] to which he was already ſo much diſpoſed.

The danger however muſt be faced; and Mr. Hilary wrote, as my attorney, to ſtate the circumſtances above recited. A week elapſed before he received an anſwer: but at the end of that time his lordſhip's attorney replied, that perſonal ſecurity for ſo large a ſum could not be accepted: my bond would be no better than the notes I had given: and that I was required immediately to pay what was due, to the eſtate and heirs of the late Mr. Evelyn.

The ſpirit in which this note was written proved the temper of my credi⯑tor; and an incident ſoon occurred by which his propenſity to perſecute was called into action. The ſcrutiny which Hector had demanded was over, and de⯑cided againſt him: but; underſtanding that there was an abſolute breach be⯑tween me and Lord Bray, Mowbray [156] was convinced that he had accuſed me falſely. As he was almoſt certain that he could prove bribery and corruption to have been practiſed by his opponent, he perſiſted in determining to bring it be⯑fore the houſe of commons. This buſi⯑neſs kept him ſtill in the country, where he and his partiſans were buſily collect⯑ing information.

He had experienced my utility in the courſe of the election, he wiſhed to enjoy the ſame advantage at preſent, and he and his committee likewiſe diſcovered that my evidence was eſſentially neceſſa⯑ry. He therefore wrote me an apology, ſpoke in the handſomeſt terms he could recollect of the ſervices I had done him, requeſted me to come down once more to aid him in his preſent attempt, and ſtated the points on which my future teſ⯑timony would be uſeful. He further in⯑formed me that a gentleman of the law, whom he named, was to ſet off the morn⯑ing [157] after I ſhould receive the letter, at ten o'clock, and come poſt; and that he ſhould be much obliged to me if I would take a ſeat in the ſame chaiſe.

The letter was read in the committee room, as a matter of buſineſs; and in this committee room Lord Idford had a ſecret agent, from whom he gained in⯑telligence of all their proceedings that deſerved notice.

Deſirous as I was of obliging the bro⯑ther of Olivia, I made no heſitation to comply. The evening before I was to go down into * * * * *, I went to Mr. Hilary; to acquaint him with the place of my deſtination, and the manner in which he might direct to me, if any thing new ſhould occur. The agents of Lord Bray, or to ſpeak more truly of the Earl, had been exceedingly induſtrious; and a writ was already procured. It was intended to take me as I ſtepped into the chaiſe, or that evening if poſſible, and [156] [...] [157] [...] [158] accordingly the door where I lived was watched, and I was ſeen to come out. My uſual pace was briſk, but I happened now to be in haſte; and, as they told me themſelves, the ſetters loſt ſight of me for ſome time, were afterward cautious of coming up to me in any public ſtreet where a reſcue was probable, and fol⯑lowed me till I came almoſt to the door of Mr. Hilary.

Here there was a carriage ſtanding; and, to my great ſurprisfe and joy, I ſaw Mr. Hilary with a light, conducting out the very perſon whom I had ſome time before diſcovered in the pit, and whom I now knew to be the wounded ſtranger.

I heſitated whether I ought to ſpring forward, and intrude my enquiries im⯑mediately upon him, or make them of Mr. Hilary, with whom it appeared he was acquainted; and, at this inſtant, the bailiff and his two men came up with me, and told me I was their priſoner.

[159]While I ſtood aſtoniſhed at this ſud⯑den and at that preciſe time unexpected event, the carriage with the ſtranger in it drove away; and Mr. Hilary ſhut the door without ſeeing me.

There is a ſenſe of indignity, and diſ⯑grace in being arreſted, at which all thoſe who have not been frequently ſub⯑jected to it revolt. I was wholly igno⯑rant of the manners of the people who had laid their hands upon me. I had heard of giving bail: but I had like⯑wiſe heard that it was a thing of danger, to which men were generally averſe; and I had a bitter repugnance to aſk any thing which I thought it was likely ſhould be refuſed. Neither had I any probable perſon to aſk: for my little law reading had taught me that the ſureties of a debtor muſt be houſe-keepers.

Unwilling therefore to trouble Mr. Hilary, and finding myſelf without re⯑ſource, [160] I deſired the bailiff to take me wherever he pleaſed, or wherever the law directed. "I ſuppoſe, Sir, you do not mean we ſhould take you to jail?" ſaid the bailiff.

Ignorant as I was and ſurpriſed at the queſtion, I aſked where elſe they meant to take me? He replied "To my houſe, Sir: or to any other lock up houſe that you chooſe."

"A lock up houſe, Sir!" ſaid I. "Pray what is that ?"

The bailiff knew not how to give a di⯑rect anſwer; but replied "There is ſome lock up houſes at which a gentle⯑man may be treated like a gentleman: though I cannot ſay but there is others that is ſhabby enough. I ſee very well, Sir, you are a young gentleman, and do not know the trim of ſuch things: ſo, if you pleaſe to go to my houſe, you will find very civil uſage. I can tell by your [161] cut, Sir, that you are no ſcrub; ſo my wife will take care to furniſh you with every thing that is genteel and polite."

The man ſmelled exceſſively of bran⯑dy and tobacco; which, correſponding with his gait, looks, and language, ſeem⯑ed an introduction to the purgatory to which I was doomed. I thought proper however to accept his offer, and go to the houſe where I was to be treated with ſo much politeneſs and gentility.

CHAP. XIV. THE GOOD BREEDING OF A BAILIFF. A PERIOD OF DEJECTION. A VISIT FROM MR. HILARY. THE HOPES HE CONCEIVES.

THE bailiff and one of his followers walked beſide me, cautioulſy keeping in advance; and the other marched behind till we came to a ſtand of coaches, and I [162] was aſked whether one of them ſhould be called? I was thoroughly aſhamed of my company: but a deep ſenſe of indig⯑nity confuſes thought; and, till it was propoſed by the bailiff, I had forgotten that there was ſuch a thing as a coach. His propoſal was immediately accepted; and we were driven through Lincoln's-inn-fields into Carey-ſtreet, where we were obliged to alight and paſs through ſeveral narrow allies.

I had no great expectations of the gen⯑tility of the bailiff's abode: but, ſlender as they were, the few I had were diſap⯑pointed. I was wholly unuſed to ſuch places: this I ſuſpect was one of the meaneſt of them; and the approach to the houſe, as well as all that was in it, be⯑ſpoke wretchedneſs, and inſpired diſguſt.

As ſoon as we entered the doors, the bailiff called aloud for Charlotte (the name of his wife) and deſired her, to bring light into the drawing room. [163] "Why what do you talk of, George?" replied Charlotte. "Are you drunk? Don't you know the gentleman is there that you brought in this morning?"

"Do you think I don't know what I am about?" anſwered George. "I have brought another gentleman: ſo that there gentleman muſt come down, and hoik into the beſt parlour."

"I am ſure," retorted Charlotte with great vivacity and ſignificance, "he has behaved vaſtly proper, ſince he came in⯑to my houſe. He has had friends with him all afternoon; and dined, and call⯑ed for wine, and done every thing that was genteel."

Though half in a trance, I was ſuf⯑ficiently awake to underſtand her mean⯑ing. I therefore interrupted the bailiff, who had begun to reply with paſſion. "You are very right, Madam;" ſaid I, "The gentleman muſt not be diſturbed. [164] I have no friends that drink wine; and I drink none myſelf."

This hint was quite ſufficient. Nei⯑ther the drawing room nor the beſt par⯑lour were now to be had; and I was ſhewn into a dirty back place, which was little more than a cloſet, decorated with a wooden cut of Lord Lovat over the mantle piece, and correſponding pic⯑tures of the king and queen on each ſide.

Before ſhe ſhut the door, Charlotte de⯑manded "if I choſe to have ſome more coals on the fire? And whether I would have two candles or one? "Whatever you pleaſe madam," I replied. "Nay, ſir," ſaid ſhe pertly, "that is juſt as you pleaſe." I made no anſwer, and ſhe ſhut the door with a diſſatisfied air; which ſhe locked on the outſide.

At any other time, this George and Charlotte, with their drawing-room, would [165] have preſented many whimſical aſſocia⯑tions to my mind: but at preſent my at⯑tention was called to the iron bars of the one window of my priſon hole; and to the recolleclion that, in all probability, I was now ſhut up for life. The weight of evil was ſo oppreſſive that I ſat mo⯑tionleſs, in ſullen ſtupefaction, for a con⯑ſiderable time.

Hearing no ſound whatever, the bailiff I ſuppoſe was alarmed: for he unlocked the door, and coming in abruptly ex⯑claimed "Oh! I thought it could not be!" Meaning probably that I could not poſſibly have eſcaped through the win⯑dow. Recollecting himſelf, he aſked "if I did not think proper to ſend to ſome friends?" To which I laconically anſwered, "No."

"But I ſuppoſe you mean to give bail, ſir?"

"I have none to give."

"I perceive how it is, ſir. You are [166] not uſed to the buſineſs; and ſo you are caſt down. You muſt bethink your⯑ſelf: for I dare ſay a young gentleman like you will find bail faſt enough; becaſe why, the ſum is not quite four hundred and forty pounds. We have people enough which will go of any meſſage for you; ſo I would adviſe you to ſend, though it is late; becaſe, as you ſays you don't drink, there will be no good much in your ſtaying here. Not but what we have as good beds, and as good wines and all ſorts of liquors, and can get any thing elſe as good as a gentleman needs lick his lips to. There is never no com⯑plaints at our houſe. So you had better take my advice, and cheer up your ſpirits; and get a little ſomething good in your belly, in the way of eating and drinking; and ſend to let your friends know as how you are nabbed: becaſe nothing can come of it otherwiſe, neither to you no body elſe."

[167]His diſcourſe awakened me enough to remind me of the neceſſity of ſending to the gentleman, with whom I had in⯑tended to travel the next day, and inform him of the impoſſibility of my taking the journey. This led me to reflect further. The remark of the bailiff was juſt: delay was prejudicial. What had happened could not be kept ſecret, ſecrecy was in itſelf vicious, and to increaſe evil by pro⯑craſtination was cowardly. Thus far rouſed, I preſently conceived and de⯑termined on my plan. I ſaw no pro⯑bability of avoiding a priſon: but, being in this houſe, I was reſolved firſt to ſee my friends. I had already ſold my horſes, and diſcharged my ſervant. Clarke, I knew, would reproach me, if I did not accept his good offices in my diſtreſs; when ſuch good offices as he could per⯑form would be moſt neceſſary. I in⯑tended therefore to requeſt him the next morning to go round and inform ſuch of [168] my friends as I wiſhed to ſee: but, as the bailiff told me it would be proper to ſend for my attorney immediately, I thought proper to diſpatch a meſſenger; with one note to him, and another to the gentle⯑man with whom I was to have travelled.

Mr. Hilary was at home and came in⯑ſtantly on the receipt of my billet. When he ſaw me, he endeavoured to ſmile; and not appear in the leaſt ſurpriſed, or affected. But his feelings betrayed him; the tears ſtarted into his eyes, and he was obliged to turn away his face. He made an effort, however, and recovered himſelf: after which, he rather endea⯑voured to enter into eaſy converſation than to talk of buſineſs. By this I ſuſ⯑pected that he neither durſt truſt himſelf nor me; till a little time ſhould have re⯑conciled us to the ſcene.

This was a proper opportunity for en⯑quiries which my ſudden misfortune had not made me forget. I queſtioned him [169] concerning the ſtranger, whoſe perſon I deſcribed; and mentioned my having ſeen Mr. Hilary light him out of the houſe, the moment before I was arreſted.

"What do you know of him?" ſaid Mr. Hilary, with an eager air. "Have you ever ſeen him before?"

"Yes; if I am not very much miſ⯑taken."

"Nay but tell me, what do you know?"

"Firſt anſwer me concerning who and what he is?"

"A gentleman of large fortune, the laſt of his family, and a great traveller."

"Has he met with any accident late⯑ly?"

"Yes. But why do you aſk?"

"And why do you ſeem ſo much awakened by the queſtion?"

"Becauſe he is exceſſively deſirous of diſcovering ſome gentleman, who found him after he had been robbed, and left, [170] ſuppoſed to be dead; that he may if poſſible reward his preſerver. Now there are ſome circumſtances, as related by the people of an inn to which he was taken, that have ſuggeſted a thought to me which, ſhould it prove true, would give me inexpreſſible pleaſure."

"What are they?"

"That the good Samaritan, who per⯑formed this act of humanity, was a young gentleman with a ſervant out of livery; that he and his man rode two blood horſes, both bright bays; that the ſer⯑vant's name was Samuel; and that the maſter was in perſon very like you. All which correſpond; and I really believe, by your ſmiling, that it actually was you."

"Suppoſe it: what then?"

"Why then I am ſure you have gain⯑ed a friend, who will never ſuffer you to go to priſon."

The word friend conjured up a train of [171] ideas, which almoſt overcame me. "I have loſt a friend," ſaid I, "who would not have ſuffered me to go to priſon. But he is gone. I accepted even his favours with an aching and unwilling heart; and priſon itſelf will not, I ſuſ⯑pect, be ſo painful to me as more obli⯑gations of the ſame kind, and conferred by a perſon who, though I am ſtrongly prepoſſeſſed in his favour, I ſcarcely can hope ſhould equal Mr. Evelyn. And, if he even did, an extravagant ſuppoſition, I ſhould ſtill heſitate: I doubt if a priſon itſelf be ſo hateful as a knowledge that I am only out of one on ſufferance; and that, when any caprice ſhall ſeize my creditor, I may be hunted like a ferocious beaſt; and commanded to my den, like a crouching cur.

Mr. Hilary endeavoured to combat this train of thinking: but it was not to be conquered. The ſhort period of trial ſince the death of Mr. Evelyn had af⯑forded [172] me too many proofs of the pain⯑ful ſenſations which ſuch a knowledge can excite; and of the propenſity which I had to give them encouragement. To be as I have ſaid the ſlave of any man's temper, not as an effort of duty but from a ſenſe of fear, was inſufferable. A pri⯑ſon, locks, bolts, and bread and water, were to be preferred.

Mr. Hilary ſat with me till bed time; and, not only to put the bailiff in good humour, but to cheer my heart and his own, ordered ſupper, and drank more plentifully of wine than was his cuſtom: urging me to follow his example. I did not refuſe: for I had a contempt for any thing that had the appearance of an inca⯑pacity to endure whatever the tyranny of rancorous men and unjuſt laws could in⯑flict. The ſtranger, he told me, was gone down into the country; from whence he would return within a week: but he forbore to mention his name, as he [173] had been inſtructed; the ſtranger having enquiries to make, which induced him to keep it ſecret.

Before he left me, Mr. Hilary receiv⯑ed inſtructions from me to be given to Clarke: after which we quitted the beſt parlour, into which we had been intro⯑duced with great ceremony to ſup; and I retired to try how ſoundly I could ſleep, in one of the good beds of a lock-up houſe.

CHAP. XV. MORNING VISITORS. A GENEROUS PROPOSAL RE⯑JECTED. THE AFFECTIONATE FRIENDSHIP OF MISS WILMOT. A VERY UNEXPECTED VISITOR. HIS EXTRAORDINARY CONDUCT, AND A SCENE OF RECONCILIATION. A LETTER WHICH EXCITES DELIGHTFUL SENSATIONS.

THE morning came, the diligence of Mr. Hilary was that of a friend, and the beſt parlour was ſoon filled: the reader will eaſily gueſs by whom. There is an undeſcribable pleaſure, when we are per⯑ſecuted [174] by one ſet of human beings, to re⯑ceive marks of affection from another. It is a ſtrong conſolation to know that kindneſs and juſtice have not wholly for⯑ſaken the earth.

Wilmot, Clarke, and Turl were with me. I called for breakfaſt; and felt a gratification at enjoying another ſocial meal, before being immured in I knew not what kind of dungeon. Charlotte and her maid, Pol, were very alert; and I believe ſhe almoſt repented that I was not in the drawing-room, ſince ſhe found I had ſo many friends.

Clarke was aſked to partake; but an⯑ſwered with a "no thank you, Mr. Tre⯑vor." I ſuppoſed it was awkward baſh⯑fulneſs. I did him wrong. He had a more refined and feeling motive: for, when I preſſed him very earneſtly, he re⯑plied—" At another time, Mr. Trevor, ſuch a favour would make me happy; and you know I have not refuſed; but, juſt [175] now, why it would look as if, becauſe you are under misfortunes, I might take li⯑berties."

Honeſt-hearted generous fellow! He was ſtill the ſame. But he breakfaſted with us. Be aſſured, good reader, he breakfaſted with us.

And now I had a conteſt to undergo, which was maintained with ſo much ob⯑ſtinacy that it became truly painful. Wilmot, in conſequence of the ſucceſs of his comedy, had the power to diſ⯑charge my debt; and on this at firſt he peremptorily inſiſted. But it was what I could not accept. He was, I knew, an Evelyn in ſoul: but I too panted to be ſomething. I could not endure to rob him of the labour of a life, and walk at large oppreſſed by the conſciouſneſs of impotence: of a depreſſed and ſunken ſpirit; of which groveling meanneſs would be the chief feature. Such at leaſt [176] were my ſenſations: and they were too impetuous to be overcome.

In the ardour we mutually felt, Turl was appealed to by both. At firſt he ſtrongly inclined to the ſide of Wilmot: but, hearing my reaſons and perceiving the anguiſh which the propoſal gave, he at length ſaid—"Let us pauſe awhile. We are friends. Impriſonment is a de⯑teſtable thing; and there is no danger that, as friends, we ſhould ſuffer each other to endure it long, if there ſhould be any poſſible and honeſt means of im⯑parting freedom. We need make no profeſſions. In one part of his argument, Mr. Trevor is undoubtedly right. If he can relieve himſelf, by his abilities and in⯑duſtry, which he is perſuaded he can, it is his duty. For it will not only increaſe his immediate happineſs, but it will give confidence to his efforts, and ſtrength to his mind: qualities that are ineſtimable. [177] Impediments ſerve but to rouſe the man of genius. To reject aid from a ſenti⯑ment of haughtineſs is a vice: but to de⯑ſpair of our own reſources is the death of all true greatneſs of character. In any caſe, ſuſpend your conteſt; in which, though from the beſt of motives, you are both too warm. Examine your argu⯑ments at leiſure. If Mr. Trevor can be rendered moſt happy and uſeful by ac⯑cepting your offer, it will then be juſt in him to cede. but remember once more we are friends, that know each other's worth; and it will be juſt that I ſhould partake in his releaſe. To this I know you will both joyfully conſent. If good can be done, you will not deny me my ſhare!"

It was characteriſtic of Turl never to ſpeak on ſerious occaſions without leav⯑ing a deep impreſſion on his hearers. Wilmot heaved a profound ſigh, but was ſilent.

[178]Having thus far prevailed, I was de⯑ſirous of being immediately removed to priſon: but to this they both vehemently objected. It had an air of oſtentation: of affecting to love miſery for miſery's ſake. Time ought to be taken for con⯑ſideration; and evil ſhould not be ſport⯑ed with, though when unavoidable it ought to be endured with fortitude.

While theſe debates took place, it was no unintereſting ſpectacle to contemplate the changes in the countenance of Clarke. Before the adventure of Bath, he had riſen much above the level of his companions: but now, when he ſaw a man willing to part with all he poſſeſſed to reſcue another from priſon, and heard ſtrong reaſons why it was probable the offer ought not to be accepted, his feelings were all in arms. His paſſions, while Wilmot plead⯑ed, were ready to break their bounds; and, when he liſtened to the anſwers that were returned, his mind was filled and [179] expanded. He diſcovered that there is a diſintereſted grandeur in morality, of which he had no previous conception. He was in a new world; and a dark room, with barred windows, was heaven in all its ſplendor.

Having agreed to follow their advice, Wilmot and Turl left me; with a pro⯑miſe to return early in the evening: but poor Clarke ſaid "he had no heart for work that day; and he could not abide to leave me ſhut up by myſelf. He ſaw plainly enough I had true friends; ſuch as would never forſake me: and no more would he, though he could do me no good." When however I repreſented to him my wiſh to be alone, that I might con⯑ſider on my ſituation, and requeſted he would dine with his family, and bring ſome books from my lodgings in the evening, he complied.

The morning of the day was chiefly conſumed; and I was not ſuffered long [180] to remain alone. I had ſcarcely dined before a coach ſtopped at the door, and Charlotte came in with demure ſignifi⯑cance in her face. "There is a young lady, ſir," ſaid ſhe, "which ſays her name is Wilmot, which wants to ſee you."

At this moment, ſhe was the moſt agreeable viſitor, that could have arrived. Her heart was full, her eyes were ſwollen, and red with weeping, and, as ſoon as ſhe entered the room, ſhe again burſt into tears.

It has often been aſked why ſorrows like theſe ſhould excite ſo much gratifi⯑cation? The anſwer is evident. They are not only tokens of perſonal reſpect and affection, but they are proofs that injuſtice cannot be committed without being perceptibly and often deeply felt by others, as well as by thoſe on whom it is exerciſed.

When ſhe had appeaſed her feelings ſufficiently to be able to ſpeak, I found [181] that, like her brother, ſhe was come with a diſintereſted plan for my relief. She began by blaming herſelf for not having ſtrenuouſly enough oppoſed my forbear⯑ance with reſpect to Wakefield; and pleaded with great energy of feeling to perſuade me immediately to do myſelf right. I took the firſt favourable oppor⯑tunity to interrupt her; and enquired if ſhe had ſeen or heard any thing of Wake⯑field ſince the letter he wrote? She an⯑ſwered, he had been with her above an hour that very morning.

"In what temper of mind was he?"

"Extremely exaſperated."

"Not at you?"

"Oh no: at Lord Bray: at your per⯑ſecutors: at the world in general. He ſays you are not fit to live in it: you are no match for it. You have been per⯑ſuading him, contrary to all hiſtory and experience, that men are capable of vir⯑tue and happineſs. In ſhort, he owns [182] that he was more than half convinced: but that he believes he ſhall be obliged to relapſe into his former opinions."

"I have perſuaded him?"

"So he ſays."

"When? Where?"

"I cannot tell. I thought from his diſcourſe that he had met with you."

While we were engaged in this con⯑verſation, Charlotte again entered; and told me there was a gentleman of the name of Wakefield, who deſired to ſee me. "Is it poſſible?" exclaimed Miſs Wilmot.

The door opened, and he appeared. "Belmont!" cried I, with ſurpriſe. "Why did you announce yourſelf by the name of Wakefield?"

He ſtretched out his hand to me, and turned his face aſide: then recovering himſelf replied "The farce is over."

"What do you mean?"

"That I ſuppoſe you will deſpiſe me. [183] But do, if you pleaſe: for, though I love you, I too deſpiſe to fear you. I have done you various wrongs. My name is Wakefield. I have been one of the in⯑fernal inſtruments to bring you here: but I am come to make you all the atone⯑ment in my power, and take you out. Forgive me only ſo far as not to inſult me, by repeating your contempt of that villain Wakefield. It is a damned un⯑digeſtible term: but I deſerved it; and you applied it to me without intending an affront. I know you are as brave as you are generous. Till I met with you, I thought myſelf the firſt man in the world: but, notwithſtanding my evasive raillery, I felt your hand upon me. I ſunk under you. There was ſomething in you that excited my envy, at firſt; and afterward, perhaps, a better paſſion. What damned accidents they were that made me what I have been I cannot tell. I know not what I ſhall be: but I know [184] what I am. I diſdain penitential pro⯑miſes. If you will be my friend, here is my hand. Good fortune or bad, we will ſhare it together."

Thus invited, could I refrain? Oh no. I cannot deſcribe the ſcene that paſſed. We did not embrace, for we were no actors; and, as our paſſions for a time were too big for utterance, we were ſilent.

Miſs Wilmot at length looked up; and, while the tears were ſtreaming down her cheeks, her countenance aſſumed an expreſſion infinitely beyond ſmiling, though ſomething like it, while ſhe ex⯑claimed—"This is a happy day!"

Her eye firſt met mine, and then Wakefield's. He inſtantly hung his head, and ſaid—"Lydia! When we were alone, I could juſt endure to look at you: but now I cannot. Yet I am an aſs. What is done is done. The affections that I have are yours: but [185] I muſt not, no nor I will not be afraid, even of my own thoughts. I know I have nothing to fear from you. Man is a ſtrange animal; and may be many things in the courſe of a ſhort life."

Wakefield then rang the bell, and de⯑ſired the bailiff would ſend immediately to Lord Bray's attorney; that my debts might be ſettled, and I releaſed; and to call, as he knew they muſt for form's ſake, and ſee that there were no more detainders.

Hearing him give theſe directions, I could not but aſk his meaning? "What," replied he, with generous indignation, "do you ſuppoſe that I am come to cant about virtue? That, at leaſt, is a vice of which you have never yet found me guilty. I am here to pay your debts, with money in my poſſeſſion. Whether, in a court of law, it would be proved to be yours or mine I neither know nor care. But there is ſomething better that [186] I do know: which is that, if I were in your place and you in mine, you would not long let me remain in a houſe like this. With reſpect to the future, I am partly perſuaded we ſhall neither of us act the miſer."

Miſs Wilmot again exclaimed—"This is a happy day!"

Wakefield was impatient to ſee me releaſed; and was well acquainted with bailiffs. "If you are expeditious," ſaid he to George, "you will have a guinea for your induſtry. If you are dilatory, not a farthing more than your fees."

The promiſed guinea gave the meſ⯑ſenger wings; and in leſs than an hour the debt was diſcharged, and a receipt in full delivered.

Juſt as this account was cloſed, another meſſenger came from a different quarter. The anxiety of Miſs Wilmot had in⯑duced her to take a bold ſtep. In the firſt emotions of grief, ſhe wrote to Oli⯑via; [187] and informed her of every circum⯑ſtance, as well as of the place of my detention. This information produced the following letter, and the bills in⯑cloſed; as mentioned in its contents.

Who will tell me that virtue is not its own reward? Who will affirm that to conquer ſelfiſh deſires, to render the paſ⯑ſions ſubſervient to reaſon, and to make thoſe principles we commend in others rules for ourſelves, is not the way to be happy? The tide of joy was full to over⯑flowing! And yet, when I recollected that, though no longer a priſoner it was denied me to obey the yearnings of my heart and paſs the threſhold of Olivia, how ſuddenly did it ebb!

CHAP. XVI. A JOURNEY TO AID HECTOR ONCE MORE PRO⯑JECTED. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE WOUNDED STRANGER. A DISCOVERY OF GREAT IMPORT⯑ANCE.

I SHALL forbear to repeat the joy and congratulations of friends, with other leſs events; and haſten to one which gave a more ſurpriſing turn to my affairs than even any that I had yet experienced. The morning after my releaſe, it was my intention to go down into the county of * * * *: agreeable to the deſire of Hector. Of this I informed Mr. Hi⯑lary, the evening before: but, as I was become very cautious in money matters, I meant to go by the coach.

When he heard this, Mr. Hilary ſmiled: and told me, if I would go poſt, he believed he could find me a compa⯑nion, who would willingly bear half the expence.

[190]I enquired who? and found it was no other that the ſtranger. He had been down into Cambridgeſhire, to ſettle ſome affairs; and was now preparing for a journey into my native county, for pur⯑poſes which he will himſelf preſently ex⯑plain. A propoſal more agreeable than this could not have been made to me; and it was agreed that we ſhould meet and breakfaſt with Mr. Hilary. When I made the appointment, Mr. Hilary preſſed me with unuſual earneſtneſs not to be induced to break it, by any acci⯑dent whatever.

The morning came, I was punctual, and the ſtranger was there. He had ſlept at the houſe of Mr. Hilary. "This, ſir," ſaid the latter, preſenting me, "is the young gentleman of whoſe acquaint⯑ance you are ſo very deſirous."

The ſtranger regarded me earneſtly; and, with great emotion in his counte⯑nance, aſked—"Are you, ſir, the hu⯑mane [191] perſon, who found me almoſt ex⯑piring; and by whoſe care I am now among the living?"

"I hope, ſir, you do not think there was any thing extraordinary in what I did?"

"I wiſh I had not reaſon ſo to think. How many there are who, from mean and ſelfiſh motives, would have paſſed me I cannot ſay: but there are few in⯑deed that would have diſcharged the office you undertook with ſo much un⯑affected and generous benevolence. I am in your debt, ſir, not only for my recovery, for which I can never repay you, but literally for money expended. I ſhall forbear thanks, for I have none that are adequate; but ſuffer me to rid myſelf of petty obligations."

"I underſtand, ſir, that you are rich, and I am not. I therefore inform you, without heſitation, I left twenty pounds with the phyſician."

[192]"You may well ſuppoſe that I re⯑turned, after my recovery, to enquire for my preſerver. I was then informed of your whole proceedings; and of the anxiety with which, after your journey, you came to complete the charitable office you had begun. And I own, ſir, that I was ſo deſirous of ſeeing a perſon who, in the very fervour of youth, could act and feel as you have done that, one excepted, you are the man on earth I am moſt happy to meet."

"Mr. Hilary tells me that we are to be travelling companions."

"Moſt willingly. I have long been a wanderer, and am lately returned to end my days in my native land. During my abſence, the elder branches of my family are all deceaſed. I brought back with me more than ſufficient for my own wants: but their property has deſcended to me, and I now very unexpectedly find myſelf wealthy."

[193]"And have you no deſcendants, ſir?"

"None. I am at preſent in ſearch of a diſtant relation: whom if I ſhould find, and find him ſuch as my preſent hopes and paſt knowledge have pictured him, I ſhall be one of the happieſt of men. To make this and another enquiry is the purpoſe of the journey I now mean to take. When I left England, I had no intention ever to return: I therefore reſolved to hold no correſpondence with the perſons whom I had left; that I might not revive the memory of ſcenes and events which had been full of an⯑guiſh. By accident, about eighteen months ago, being then at Grand Cairo I was informed that a perſon of my fa⯑mily had long been dead. This deter⯑mined me to ſettle my concerns abroad, and reviſit my native country. As how⯑ever my informer ſpoke only from re⯑port, I am deſirous, before I make myſelf known, to verify this fact. I have my reaſons; which, from what I have ſaid, [194] you may ſuſpect to be thoſe of reſent⯑ment. But not ſo; they are only what I conceive to be neceſſary precautions. Acrimony and anger have long ſince died away; and I have but too much cauſe to condemn thoſe actions of my life in which they were indulged. The relation, whom I hope to find, I may unfortunately diſcover to be more likely to miſuſe the wealth, that has devolved to me by the death of the elder branches of my family, than to make it a bleſſing to himſelf and others. It is true he is not my heir at law. I have no heir: what I poſſeſs is at my own diſpoſal. But he was once my greateſt favourite: and I would avoid any action that ſhould excite hopes which it might be weakneſs and vice in me to gratify."

This ſhort narrative was not merely delivered with a ſerious air; but it was accompanied with ſomewhat of a plain⯑tive tone, that rendered the venerable ſtranger unuſually intereſting. It like⯑wiſe [195] excited various wild yet not impoſ⯑ſible conjectures in my mind, which made me very eager to purſue the diſcourſe. Mr. Hilary, whoſe mind had been full of con⯑jectures mingled with doubt, had not in⯑formed him of my name.

"Is the perſon," ſaid I, "in ſearch of whom you mean to take this journey young, or old?"

"About four and twenty. He was the ſon of my wife's ſiſter; therefore my relation only by marriage. He was cer⯑tainly the moſt extraordinary child I ever beheld. I cannot recollect him but with inconceivable emotions of affection. Of all the ſportive little creatures I ever met with, he was the moſt active, the moſt undaunted, and the moſt winning. Hea⯑ven bleſs the ſweet boy! He was my delight. My eyes overflow whenever I recall to mind the ſeats of his childhood, which can never be long forgotten by me. My wife and her ſiſter had been at va⯑riance, and the firſt time I ſaw him was at [196] a fair; when he was not five years old. I found him placed on a table, where he ſtood reading the newſpaper to country farmers; who were collected round him, and hearing him with aſtoniſhment. They ſeemed to doubt if he could poſ⯑ſibly be a child, born of a woman; and were more inclined to think him a ſu⯑pernatural being. His flaxen curly hair, his intelligent eyes, his roſy cheeks, his ſtrong and proportioned limbs, and his cheerful animated countenance, rendered him the moſt beautiful and moſt endear⯑ing of human creatures. The diſcrimi⯑nating ſenſibility which he diſplayed was enchanting. Oh ſhould he be living, ſhould I find him, and ſhould he be at preſent all that his infancy promiſed. God of heaven and earth! I ſhould expire. The pleaſure would be too mighty for my years. But, ſhould I ſurvive it, I ſhould once again before I die feel the animating fervor of youth.

[197]I liſtened in amazement. I was not then acquainted with all the incidents of my childhood ſo perfectly as, by hearing them repeated, I ſince have been: but I knew enough of them to be perſuaded the diſcourſe that I had heard could re⯑late only to me. I pauſed. I gazed. My eyes were riveted upon the narrator. At length I exclaimed—"What I have juſt heard, ſir, has excited very ſtrange ideas. They ſeem almoſt impoſſible: and yet I am perſuaded they are true. Pardon a queſtion which I cannot refrain to aſk. Surely I cannot be miſtaken! Your name is Elford?"

"Sir!"

"You are my—"

"Speak! Go on! What am I?"

"My uncle!"

"Heavens! Mr. Trevor! Is that your name?"

"It is."

"Oh! God! Oh! God! Oh! God! [198] —Hugh! Little Hugh! My boy! My ſweet boy!"

Mr. Elford was almoſt overcome. In a moment he again cried—"My ſaviour too! Still the ſame! Courageous, hu⯑mane, generous! All that my ſoul could deſire! Oh ſhield me, deliver me from this exceſs of joy!"

CHAP. XVII. THE CONCLUSION.

ONE event only excepted, little remains to be told of my ſtory; and that one is doubtleſs anticipated by the imagination of the reader. To deſcribe the enquiries that paſſed between me and my uncle, the various fortunes we had encountered, and the feelings they excited, would be to write his hiſtory and tediouſly repeat my own. My difficulties now diſappeared. I was the acknowledged heir of a man of great wealth: therefore, I myſelf am become a great man. Heaven preſerve [199] me from becoming indolent, proud, and oppreſſive! I have not yet forgotten that oppreſſion exiſts, that pride is its chief counſellor, that activity and uſefulneſs are the ſacred duties of both rich and poor, that the wealth entruſted to my diſtribution is the property of thoſe whom moſt it can benefit, that I am a creature of very few wants, but that thoſe few in others as well as in myſelf are imperious, and that I have felt them in all their ri⯑gour. Neither have I yet ſhut my doors on one of my former friends. But I am comparatively young in proſperity. How long I ſhall be able to perſevere in this eccentric conduct time muſt tell. At preſent I muſt proceed, and mention the few remaining circumſtances with which the reader may wiſh to be acquainted.

After my uncle had heard me deſcribe Olivia, and mention the motives which induced me to wiſh to aid her brother, he immediately determined on taking the journey we had before propoſed. We [200] neither of us wiſhed to ſeparate. Robuſt in "a green old age," he had no fear of fatigue from travelling this diſtance; and it would be a pleaſure to reviſit, in my company, ſcenes which would bring my former ſports and pranks to his recollec⯑tion. He heard from me a confirmation of the death of Mrs. Elford; and heard it with the ſame tokens of melancholy in his face which he had betrayed, when he ſpoke of her himſelf.

That I ſhould have wiſhed before I took this journey, ſhort as it was, to have ſeen Olivia, related all my good fortune and partaken in the pleaſure it would ex⯑cite in her, may well be imagined: but forms, and delicacies, and I know not what habitual feelings, forbad me the en⯑joyment of this premature bliſs. I wrote however, and not only to her but to thoſe tried and invaluable friends who were not to be neglected.

We found Hector in a lamentable ſtate. Inſtead of the bluff robuſt form, [201] which but ſhortly before he had worn, his limbs were ſhrunk, his cheeks for⯑merly of a high red were wan and hol⯑low, his voice was gone, his lungs were affected, and his cough was inceſſant. He had himſelf at laſt begun to think his life in danger; and was preparing to return to town for advice: conſequently our ſtay was ſhort. His reception of me however was friendly. The increaſing debility which he felt ſoftened his man⯑ners; and, when he underſtood the good fortune that had befallen me, he ſeemed ſincerely to rejoice.

And now let me requeſt the reader to call to mind, not only my firſt emotions of love for Olivia, and the violence of the paſſion that preyed upon me while ſtruggling between hope and deſpair, but thoſe late teſtimonies of affection, ſuch as a mind ſo dignified as hers could beſtow; and then let him imagine what our meeting muſt be. Should he ex⯑pect me to deſcribe her, ſuch as the was [202] and is, in all her attractions, all her beauties, and all her various excellence, he expects an impoſſible taſk. To be beloved by her, to be found worthy of her, and to call her mine, are bleſſings that infinitely exceed momentary rap⯑ture: they are laſting and indubitable happineſs.

I know not if it will give him pleaſure to be told that, could I have delighted in revenge, I might have ſatiated myſelf with that unworthy and deſtructive paſ⯑ſion. The committee, appointed to de⯑cide on the election, voted the Idford candidate guilty of bribery and corrup⯑tion. The fortune of the Earl, like that of Hector, has ſuffered depredations which half a century will probably not repair. The new made peer and his party daily became ſo obnoxious to the nation, by the deſtructive tendency of their mea⯑ſures, that they were and continue to be haunted by terrors that deprive them of the faculties common to man. My heart [203] bears witneſs for me that I do not ſpeak this in triumph. I ſhould be no leſs vici⯑ous than unworthy, could I triumph in the misfortunes of any human being: but I were a wretch indeed, were I to make miſtakes that are the ſcourge of mankind a ſubject of exultation.

Muſt I repeat more names? Is it neceſſary to ſay the virtues of Turl and Wilmot are too ſplendid to need my praiſe: or that my ſocial hours are moſt beneficially and delightfully ſpent in their ſociety? That I have amply provided for the generous minded Clarke? That Phi⯑lip is once more the good and faithful ſervant of a kind miſtreſs? That Mary and her ſon are equally objects of my at⯑tention? And that I do not mean to boaſt of theſe things as acts of munificence: but as the performance of duties?

This were unneceſſary. Neither ſhall I be required to particularize the preſent happineſs of Lydia, now Mrs. Wakefield; and of that man of brilliant and aſtoniſh⯑ing [204] faculties who is her affectionate com⯑panion and friend, and from whoſe exer⯑tions, if I am not ſtrangely miſtaken, the world has ſo much to profit and ſo much to expect. Like me, he is in the enjoy⯑ment of affluence; and he enjoys it with a liberal and munificent ſpirit. Are there any who hate him, becauſe he once was guilty of hateful crimes? I hope not. It is a ſpirit that would ſweep away half the inhabitants of the "peopled earth." For my own part, I delight in his converſation, am enlivened by his wit, and prompt⯑ed to enquiry by the acuteneſs of his remarks. He is a man whom I am proud to ſay I love.

I have told my tale. If it ſhould af⯑ford inſtruction, if it ſhould inſpire a love of virtue, briefly, if it ſhould contribute to the happineſs of mankind, I ſhall have gained my purpoſe. My labours will be moſt richly rewarded.