CHAPTER I.

As I intimated at the end of the firſt volume, that the pranks of the mad muſician, extraneous as at firſt ſight they muſt appear, had relation, and very ſtrongly too, to the main and moſt material part of my deſign, ſo I ſhall now proceed to ſhew in what way.

The reader will allow me that, according to the letter of my deſcription, which really did not outgo the fact, the buſtle at the inn muſt, to ſtrangers, and particularly ladies, have been alarming to a [6] great degree; and when it is conſidered that Lady Hazard was ſeven months gone with child, it will not appear very extraordinary that, terrified in ſo unexpected and particular a manner, it ſhould have ſuch an effect upon her tender and delicate frame, as to throw her into labour, which it actually did.

Mr. Standfaſt, upon this news, undertook to produce a gentleman of the faculty from London, whither he went as faſt as a chaiſe and four horſes could convey him, accompanied by Charles, whoſe anxiety for his mother was ſtrongly manifeſted in his heartening and encouraging the poſtillions. My Lord however was not idle. There were ſeveral towns near at hand, and each of them boaſted its man-midwife; ſo faſhionable was it even then, to adopt a cuſtom which the landlord ſwore—as he ſtirred the kitchen fire to prepare for the neceſ⯑ſary potations upon this occaſion—was a diſgrace to the Engliſh nation; a cuſtom to which our anceſ⯑tors, who had nerves that, like their bows, twanged with ſtrength, were utter ſtrangers. He ſaid it was a cuſtom originating from ſloth and effiminacy; that it was one of thoſe bleſſed improvements to⯑wards the annihilation of manlineſs and becoming decency that our natural enemies did us the favour to introduce every day; that it was unmanly and [7] ſcandalous as well as ignorant and ridiculous, for that the moſt experienced practitioner could not poſſibly, from the nature of the circumſtance, ar⯑rive to any thing comparable to the knowledge of a woman upon ſuch an occaſion, to whom every poſſible ſymptom muſt be practically known, and who—which with our landlord was nine-tenths of his argument—could alone conduct ſuch a particu⯑lar buſineſs with proper decorum.

In this temper he ſent for a good old lady, who, he ſaid, had been obſtetric gentlewoman uſher to half the town, and never had met with an accident, unleſs from ſuch a combination of natural cauſes as would have baffled the utmoſt perfection of art.

The old lady, who reſided in the neighbourhood, arrived firſt, and Lord Hazard, extremely anxious to procure aſſiſtance, made no ſcruple of introducing her to his wife.

‘'Ay, ay,' cried the landlord, as he poured her out a glaſs of uſquebaugh, 'this is as it ſhould be; here, my lord, is an operator, and pleaſe you, worth a thouſand of your men-midwives; fellows that I believe would rather have the reputation of getting children than of bringing them into the world. I once aſked a chap of this ſtamp what [8] made all the children he produced ſo curſed rickety?—and he anſwered me, with great arch⯑neſs, that a man had a right to mar what he made.'’

Notwithſtanding the landlord's rhetoric, he was obliged to pull in his horns when he underſtood that Lady Hazard's caſe was of ſo particular a kind that the good old gentlewoman, his friend, could not venture to proceed in it upon her ſingle judg⯑ment. Being aſked what he ſaid to this, he replied he was ſtill right:—it happened to be one of thoſe difficult caſes which required aſſiſtance; but yet the gentleman, whoever he was, would reap great be⯑nefit from the old woman, who would be able to explain to him all he had to do, and from a convic⯑tion, being a woman, that he could not have the ſmalleſt conception of.

Before morning, arrived three gentlemen, who had been ſent for from different towns, and preſently afterwards Standfaſt, Charles, and an eminent man-midwife from London, who, upon all ſuch occaſions, attended her ladyſhip. A number of corks were heard to report their liberty, and hot wine, poſſets, and other comfortable drinks ſmoked all over the houſe; yet, though the landlord was greatly pleaſed at what went forward, when he caſt his eyes upon the medical tribe, he could not help remarking that [9] he did not believe there was half ſo much fuſs when king ARTHUR was born.

To the laſt gentleman who arrived, the reſt of courſe gave way. He immediately viſited Lady Hazard, and ſhortly afterwards found it neceſſary to have a private converſation with his lordſhip:—nor will the reader be greatly aſtoniſhed, though very much ſhocked, to hear that, in the courſe of this conference, it came out that the peculiarity of Lady Hazard's caſe originated with Miſs Snaffle!

Lord Hazard's feeling on this occaſion was not ſimply wretchedneſs, it was horror. Standfaſt was called in, that the whole might be explained to him; in doing which, my lord uſed ſuch forcible lan⯑guage, ſo execrated himſelf, and ſo extolled the high, the tranſcendent friendſhip of the tutor, that the ſurgeon, who was both a ſenſible man and a valuable member of ſociety, declared he was charm⯑ed at the circumſtance, and ſhould be very happy to cultivate Mr. Standfaſt's friendſhip.

The ſurgeon being now particularly informed of the caſe, declared that a very diſagreeable operation muſt be performed; but he hoped the life of Lady Hazard was not in danger. He ſaid he could eaſily give the matter a turn to the other phyſical gentle⯑men, [10] who, he could plainly ſee, were ignorant pre⯑tenders to a profeſſion in which they had neither right nor ability to practice; and this, he ſaid, he conceived materially neceſſary for the ſake of Lady Hazard's peace of mind, which it would be impoſ⯑ſible to preſerve if the matter were known to any but himſelf:—it being a practice with theſe gentry, at which indeed they are very expert, to injure the domeſtic, as well as the corporeal, conſtitution.

Lord Hazard, finding that every thing might be managed without confiding to his lady the real cauſe of her preſent danger, declared he would wait the event with patience and reſignation, which turned out as the ſurgeon had predicted, the child was deſtroyed, but the lady ſurvived the operation. As to the old woman, ſhe was ſent home as ſoon as poſſible, for the ſurgeon agreed ſo far with the land⯑lord, that he feared much more a diſcovery through her, than through his brother profeſſors.

It was nearly ſix weeks before Lady Hazard could be with ſafety removed; during which time, her kind friend Lady Roebuck ſcarcely ſtirred from her. Nor was the baronet leſs attentive to my lord. He had ſet his heart upon ſtimulating that nobleman to an emulation of his own conduct, when they ſhould arrive in Warwickſhire, and doubted not, as [11] he knew Lady Hazard longed for the accompliſh⯑ment of ſo deſirable an end, when he ſhould ex⯑plain to his friend how practicable ſuch a taſk was, and how ſure and immenſe the reward, he would readily join him in ſo meritorious an exerciſe of that liberality which Lord Hazard, whatever were his foibles, certainly poſſeſſed.

Pleaſed with theſe ideas, the time rolled inſen⯑ſibly on; for as ſoon as Lady Hazard could be re⯑moved, ſhe was, for the preſent, conveyed to a houſe in the neighbourhood, which her lord had hired for that purpoſe; and as the company Sir Sidney ex⯑pected for the ſummer called, of neceſſity, at the John of Gaunt's Head, in a few days the poet, painter, and muſician made their appearance, as well as Sir Sidney's attorney, and a clergyman, all of whom, by invitation, were to paſs the ſummer at Roebuck hall.

The aſſembly having now ſo largely increaſed, parties of pleaſure were planned; and as Lady Ha⯑zard's health ſeemed every day to be more confirm⯑ed, the general tranquillity was reſtored.

As to my lord, his reſolution was made, and cer⯑tainly irrevocably. Therefore, as no worſe conſe⯑quences had happened from his former conduct, he [12] rejoiced at the preſent moment in the ſame degree as a patient who, by a trifling and immaterial mu⯑tilation, is reſtored to health and vigour from the morbid effects of a gangrene.

The great difficulty with Sir Sidney and Lady Roebuck was how to proceed as to Standfaſt. It was impoſſible to begin their attack on Lady Ha⯑zard, as it would ruffle her mind in her preſent weak condition; and as to my lord, he was ſo wrapped up in his amiable friend, that it would be impracticable, as well as highly abſurd, to attempt at undeceiving him.

In this ſtate were matters ſituated when the cler⯑gyman lately mentioned arrived at the inn. This gentleman, whoſe name was Friend, had been known to Sir Sidney for many years, and was not the leſs eſteemed by him for having incurred the diſpleaſure of a biſhop, becauſe he would not vote againſt his conſcience. He was a very learned, and, what is a great deal better, a very ſenſible man; for though he had little of that underſtanding by which men riſe in the world, and which, according to nine-tenths of mankind, is the only mental coin that ought to paſs current, yet he had a number of old faſhioned virtues, of no great uſe but to the owner; but to him valuable indeed:—ſuch as piety, [13] an unſullied conſcience, a benevolent heart, with the addition of a clear judgment, an inventive ge⯑nius, and a critical and accurate knowledge of an⯑cient and modern literature.

As Sir Sidney's was a kind of houſe of call to good characters out of employ, no wonder this gen⯑tleman was ſometimes with him. His viſit at pre⯑ſent, however, was on another account; for the baronet, to tell the reader the truth, was not with⯑out hopes of ſeeing him rector of Little Hockley. He had been ſome time nominated curate; and, at the death of the preſent incumbent, the living would be in the gift of Lord Hazard. That this circum⯑ſtance, which has not been mentioned before, may not appear extraordinary, I ſhall now explain how it came about.

When Sir Sidney wrote to Lord Hazard, as we have ſeen, relative to Little Hockley, he little dreamt that his application would have produced all the cordiality that now ſubſiſted between them.—On the contrary, there was more of delicacy than hopes of ſucceſs in conſulting him at all.

To Mr. Standfaſt, however, he did not conceive he owed any ſuch delicacy; and therefore, as the right of nominating a curate reverted to the rector, [14] at the death of Major Malplaquet, diſliking the bargain and ſale manner in which it had been tranſ⯑acted before, he applied, in the ſtrongeſt poſſible way, to the good paſtor, for the appointment of Mr. Friend to that ſituation: namely, by making an offer to commute with him for the entire pro⯑fits of the living, at a very handſome price, and to pay the curate's ſalary out of his own pocket.

The rector, who could calculate much better than he could preach, entered into the whole ſpirit of the argument, and Mr. Friend became to Sir Sid⯑ney, what Mr. Standfaſt had been formerly to Ma⯑jor Malplaquet. This was the reaſon why Mr. Figgins removed to his vicarage, who, officiating for ſome ſhort time at Little Hockley, while the negociation was pending between Sir Sidney and the rector, became known to the baronet and Mr. Friend, both of whom believed him to be a very valuable young man, and Sir Sidney, in particular, aſſured him that if he could in future be of any ſer⯑vice to him, it would give him pleaſure.

In a few days after the arrival of Mr. Friend, Standfaſt had ſo ingratiated himſelf into his good opinion, that the worthy man was charmed with him. Indeed Standfaſt ſaw plainly that this was a good medium of recommendation to Sir Sidney, [15] whoſe friendſhip, for ſome reaſon or other, he was ſtrenuouſly deſirous to cultivate. Perhaps, as pro⯑vidence appeared to have reſcued Lord Hazard from his immediate gripe, he had ſome ſimilar favour in contemplation for the baronet.

Certain it is that the damning proof which Sir Sidney and his lady imagined they had againſt Mr. Standfaſt, which was only preſumptive, began to ſink before thoſe poſitive proofs which ſeemed every day to announce his reformation from a number of crimes which he made no ſcruple to ſay he had formerly committed; and this, added to the tranſport he ap⯑parently felt at the reſtoration of that happineſs which now began to gild the moments of Lord and Lady Hazard, gave this fortunate gentleman ſuch a favourable place in the hearts of all about him, that really an accuſation to his prejudice, though ever ſo plauſibly urged, would probably have gained but little faith, unleſs backed by very weighty, and indeed undeniable proof againſt him.

Theſe Sir Sidney really had not. The utmoſt he could alledge was that diſſipation and thoſe irre⯑gularities which Standfaſt confeſſed and diſclaimed, except indeed a ſtrong ſuſpicion of his being con⯑cerned in all the buſineſs of Miſs Snaffle, which, if this recent behaviour was not hypocriſy, amounted [14] [...] [15] [...] [16] to nothing, and which was corroborated only by an intercepted letter, and even that—the reſt not proved—would alſo fall to the ground.

The proof alluded to was the very letter which Standfaſt fancied had not been ſent, but, upon fur⯑ther enquiry he found himſelf miſtaken; yet, as it had made no alteration in Lady Hazard, he was convinced it had not been properly delivered, and was afterwards confirmed in that opinion, when he found it had been given to Lady Roebuck's foot⯑man.

In fact, Lady Roebuck's ſervant, on that very fatal afternoon, delivered her a letter at Lady Ha⯑zard's, where ſhe happened to be waiting for Sir Sidney, who promiſed to meet her there at tea time. Lady Hazard was luckily writing letters in her own room, and her friend had juſt taken up a favourite author, from which employ being interrupted by ‘'a letter for your ladyſhip,'’ ſhe, without further ceremony, opened it, and read theſe words:

Sir Sidney, who came in while ſhe was yet read⯑ing it, cried out, ‘'So, ſo, I have caught you in the fact, have I? What tender epiſtle have you there?'’ ‘'Only a diſcovery of your tricks, my love,' ſaid ſhe.’ ‘'Read that; but, before you ſee a word, remember I tell you it originates with Mr. Stand⯑faſt.'’

As this conduct was no leſs handſome than uſual in Lady Roebuck, her huſband was neither ſur⯑priſed at that nor at the contents of the letter. In⯑deed they laughed ſo heartily at it, that their mirth ſerved only to double their concern when, upon looking at the direction, which neither of them had noticed before, they ſaw it was addreſſed to Lady Hazard.

They were now indeed ſtrongly confirmed it came through Mr. Standfaſt, and after having inſi⯑nuated [18] away Lady Hazard's time till the lateneſs of the evening convinced them there was too much truth in the letter, they retired, and, when alone, formed that determination which we have ſeen ſo reſolutely made at the end of the firſt volume, and now almoſt abandoned at the very beginning of the ſecond.

The latter end of the letter Lady Roebuck thought could allude to no other than Standfaſt; for though ſhe had heard of the buſineſs of Dog⯑bolt, yet ſhe could not avoid looking upon that to be overſtrained, and that the tutor at the bot⯑tom was the object who wanted to recommend himſelf; and indeed Lady Hazard, who wiſhed to diſguiſe nothing from her friend, did not ſcruple to ſay there were times when ſhe had ſimilar ſuſ⯑picions, though always, upon reflection, ſhe was convinced ſhe did him wrong.

Mr. Standfaſt, being as conſeious of all theſe matters as if he had known their thoughts, com⯑batted the effects of thoſe reſolutions they had taken in the manner we have ſeen; and thus, though continually on the brink of a diſcovry, he traverſed the verge of the precipice on which he was placed as ſecurely, though not ſo harmleſsly, [19] as SHAKESPEARE's peaſant upon Dover cliff; for the peaſant is deſcribed as gathering a purifier of the blood, while the parſon was ſearching for what⯑ever could inflame and corrupt it.

CHAPTER II.

As we ſhall have ſomething to do with all thoſe characters which I have lately introduced to the reader's notice, it may not be amiſs if I men⯑tion a word or two of each in this place.

The attorney, whoſe name was Balance, had long been a great favourite of Sir Sidney; not becauſe he had a remarkable number of enemies—though that was very often a ſufficient reaſon for the baronet to eſpouſe a man's intereſt—but becauſe he had great profeſſional integrity and private worth. I ſhall in a moment explain how this gentleman conjured up ſuch a hoſt of foes, by ſaying that he mortally hated roguery, though a lawyer. Indeed it had been doubted, by many of his brother profeſſors, whe⯑ther his odd notions and ſtrange practice did not ſo decidedly operate againſt that ſtrongeſt of all laws, cuſtom, to the detriment of the general intereſt, that a point might be made to ſtrike him off the rolls. [21] For, ſaid they, very learnedly, ‘'as uſage has, time out of mind, regulated laws; as uſage has eſta⯑bliſhed that it ſhall be lawful for attornies to ap⯑propriate to themſelves not only the money, goods, and chattles, lands and tenements, wives and chil⯑dren, conſciences, peace of mind, nay even the liberty and lives of their clients; and as this ſaid lawyer Balance abſolutely rejects in toto, all ſuch general power over his clients, ſhamefully con⯑tenting himſelf with moderate and reaſonable re⯑compence from thoſe in whoſe behalf he has ſuc⯑ceeded, and ſcandalouſly declining to proſecute and purſue to their ruin, ſuch as he plainly ſees have been already plucked and pillaged, till they totter under the weight of their accumulated miſ⯑fortunes:—quere, whether, by trampling upon cuſtom, which is paramount to law, and explain⯑ing juſtice and equity to be the ſame thing, which, for the better promotion of cavils and arguments, have been conſidered, time immemorial, to have diſtinct and different meanings, and looked upon as things that ought to be for ever kept ſeparate and apart, the ſaid lawyer Balance ought not to under⯑go a heavy cenſure of the court for the firſt offence, to be ſuſpended during pleaſure for the ſecond, and if, upon returning to practice, he ſhould be found infringing this cuſtom, this uſage, this law, this juſtice, this equity, a third time, then, [22] and in that caſe, to be conſidered as incorrigible, and rendered incapable to practiſe in his majeſty's courts of juſtice!'’

No one of theſe gentlemen, however, being pa⯑triot enough to riſe up and reſcue the laws from the gripe of ſo bold an innovator, he went on with this illicit practice to the great terror of the petti⯑fogging tribe—many of whom he had cauſed to be ſtruck off the rolls—and to the admiration of all good men, and, among the foremoſt, his particular friend Sir Sidney.

We come now to the artiſts. Theſe were the ſame who had viſited Roebuck hall for the laſt three years; for though the baronet had formerly made a point of having a new ſet every ſeaſon, he at laſt gave up that plan, finding, upon taking them in⯑diſcriminately, that he brought home with him little more than a cargo of vanity, ignorance, and affectation. Having ſearched, therefore, with great care, and met with three a little more to his mind, though they certainly were ſtrange kind of oddities, he ſtuck to them, and being now accuſtomed to their ſingularities, and finding nothing in them that exceeded folly, they really furniſhed him with a fund of amuſement, independant of their profeſ⯑ſional abilities.

[23] The poet, Mr. Ego by name, was, at leaſt in his own opinion, as much any thing elſe as a writer. He knew every thing, and, what is very extraordi⯑nary, better than any body.

The painter was a profeſſed ſatiriſt; his talent lay in caricature; and he blended the ideas which were conveyed by his pencil with his converſation.

The muſician was a ſtriking contraſt to the painter; for he was as remarkably civil, if not ſer⯑vile, as the other was ſevere.

I cannot do better than introduce the reader to them as they are ſitting over a bottle at the John of Gaunt.

‘'You are a deviliſh ſevere fellow, Mr. Muſquito,' ſaid the poet to the painter.’ ‘'I?' ſaid Muſquito; 'not at all:—only a ſort of a HORACE upon canvaſs, that's all:—a bit of a teazer, or ſo:—to be ſure I can bite as hard as JUVENAL:—but why ſhould one torture flies?'’ ‘'And why not?' cried the poet. 'I would not give three-pence for a ſatiriſt who could not make any body miſerable.'’ ‘'I'll try my hand upon him,'’ ſaid the painter, ſpeak⯑ing low to the muſician. Then turning to the poet, he went on. ‘'Well ſaid Ego! Well ſaid ipſe dixit! [24] Well ſaid I b' itſelf I! Well ſaid proof poſitive! Well ſaid infallibility!! Upon my ſoul Ego you would have made an admirable pope. Sir, he poſſeſſes every perſonal and mental qualification in the ſame proportion of excellence compared to others—'’ ‘'as you do ſhameleſs effrontery,' re⯑torted the poet; 'ſo you ſee I excel you at your own trade; for I have ſaid as ſevere a thing as ever you did in your life, which has the advantage, unlike yours, of being truth. I will appeal to Mr. Toogood?'’ ‘'To him!' ſaid the painter; 'a cre⯑dulous, eaſy, fooliſh, good natured—'’ ‘'Ay, ay,' cried the muſician, 'abuſe my credulity as much as you pleaſe, but give me credit for my good inten⯑tions at leaſt.'’ ‘'I do, I do,' ſaid Muſquito:—’ ‘'You intend very well, I dare ſay, when you praiſe a man's wiſdom, and ſo you do when you praiſe his folly. In ſhort, in you human nature has ſuch an advocate, that there is ſcarcely a vice or a vir⯑tue that you have not a commendation for!'’

‘'Poor Muſquito,' cried Toogood, 'now upon my ſoul thy ſhafts muſt be terribly blunt when thou canſt find nothing better to aim them at than me. I own my ſervices are devoted to all who think proper to make uſe of them.'’ ‘'If they are rich,' anſwered Muſquito drily; 'for you know Toogood why ſhould the poor be flattered?'—’ [25] ‘'Plague take you,' ſaid the muſician, 'I was go⯑ing to ſay that I wiſh to be civil to all mankind, and if I have, in a few trifling inſtances, been miſtaken, blame nature, who thought fit to ſow in the garden of life, among a plentiful crop of valuable plants, a ſlight ſprinkling of raſcals and ſcoundrels. In ſhort, Mr. Muſquito, I would not give up the luxury of thinking well of man⯑kind, to have Mexico for my real eſtate, Peru for my perſonal, and the mines of Golconda for my menu plaiſirs. What the devil would you have me think, as you do, that every eye is divine into my heart, and every hand into my pocket?'’ ‘'Nei⯑ther would be worth while, Maſter Toogood'—cried Muſquito.’ ‘'Come, come,' ſaid Ego, 'I will finiſh the diſpute. This is the fact: you, Mr. Muſquito, are over ſuſpicious; and you, Mr. Toogood, are over credulous. I am the man for this world: I ſteer the middle courſe.'’

This company, upon Lady Hazard's recovery, ſe⯑parated into two parties; one of which ſet off for the ſeat of my lord, and the other for that of the baronet; till at length, by the ringing of bells and the acclamations of all the inhabitants, they were welcomed to Little Hockley and Caſtlewick.

Sir Sidney threw his eyes complacently around [26] him, which ſparkled with the ſatisfaction of be⯑holding ſo many ſincere adherents; and he did not at that moment a little plume himſelf upon the hope of ſeeing his friend in poſſeſſion of the ſame ſolid enjoyment.

The meeting between Sir Sidney's friends and Annette was tender beyond expreſſion. My lord declared he never ſaw ſo ſweet a creature. Charles thought her handſome, but babyiſh. His mind in⯑deed ran upon riper charms, for he had ſo little of the delicacy of love in his compoſition, that he con⯑ceived himſelf a perfect Caeſar, and having made ſo many firſt ſight conqueſts, he was yet to learn the pleaſure of ſolicitation.

It is a ſhame to talk thus of a boy of eighteen, but really Mr. Standfaſt had ſo well remembered the converſation that paſſed between him and Viney, previous to his introduction to Lord Hazard, that the young gentleman had already experienced the ſecreſy of the very ſame ſurgeon whoſe cautious con⯑duct we were witneſſes of in the laſt chapter. This gentleman, to ſay the truth, was a perfect HIPPO⯑CRATES. As well as the medical ſkill of that an⯑cient, he poſſeſſed his prudence; for he ſeemed to adhere to the famous oath of his predeceſſor, in which he enjoined himſelf to make his patient's [27] good his principal aim, and that whatever he ſaw or heard in the courſe of his practice, or otherwiſe, relative to the affairs of life, nobody ſhould ever know, if it ought to remain a ſecret.

The country and its amuſements had infuſed ſuch pleaſure and ſatisfaction into every member of this ſociety, that nothing was ſeen but cheerfulneſs.—They muſtered up a tolerable concert at Sir Sidney's, a thouſand good humoured ſallies circulated in the way of impromptues and epigrams, and ſketches of each others ſingularities were handed about, to the no ſmall diverſion of all but thoſe immediately ca⯑ricatured. Charles was pretty adroit in each way, and having a greater licence, his ſtrokes were bolder, and, in every other reſpect, at leaſt a match for the reſt. In ſhort, there was no part of their time un⯑filled by ſome pleaſure to every perſon's taſte; for it was a maxim with Sir Sidney that all was fair in which there was no premeditated miſchief. As for the reſt, Mr. Friend began to experience very agree⯑able effects from his efforts at Little Hockley, eſpe⯑cially as they were ſeconded by the exhortations of Standfaſt, who they knew had been a great ſinner, and who now aſſured them that he was become a great penitent.

Thus, poſſeſſed of every pleaſure a ſmiling coun⯑try, [28] profuſe liberality, joyful hearts, and ingenious heads could produce, their happineſs would have been complete had it not been damped by the indiſ⯑poſition of Lady Hazard, who, a ſhort time after their arrival in the country, evidently fell into a gra⯑dual decline.

This, in a great meaſure, prevented Lord Ha⯑zard from a participation in the general happineſs, and gave occaſionally no little uneaſineſs to Sir Sid⯑ney and Lady Roebuck. My lord, however, in proportion as he ſhunned the general hilarity, courted the charms which he found in private me⯑ditation, and the exerciſe of that benevolence to which he was ſo forcibly ſtimulated by Sir Sidney.

CHAPTER III.

MATTERS wore this face when Charles, who had been in continual anxiety relative to the ſituation of Miſs Figgins, ſaw her brother one morning ride into the park. It was about the time when the young gentleman flattered himſelf he ſhould become a father, and having accoſted Mr. Figgins, who re⯑turned his ſalutation with bare civility, he was con⯑vinced this manly achievement of his had been crowned with the expected ſucceſs. Relying how⯑ever on the friendſhip of Mr. Standfaſt, he felt ra⯑ther ſatisfied than otherwiſe on the ſubject, and im⯑mediately appeared as coldly civil as the young cler⯑gyman.

Mr. Figgins was ſhewn to Mr. Standfaſt, with whom he held a long conference, the reſult of which our hero waited for with impatience; and he was not a little aſtoniſhed when the two gentlemen came towards him in terms of very high altercation.

[30] Charles could diſtinctly hear Standfaſt ſay ‘'Come come, this is a little too raſcally.'’ ‘'Raſcally!' cried the other.’ ‘'Yes,' replied Standfaſt, 'for it is impoſſible that you can be ignorant of her cha⯑racter:'’—and then, ſeeing Charles, ſaid ‘'Here is the young gentleman, and I confeſs his conduct was imprudent enough, but ſir, I tell you once again it was a trap for him, and if it had not been for my poſitive injunction, ſo honourable are his ſentiments, he would have diſgraced his family for ever by marrying your ſiſter, whom I can prove to be a woman void of reputation. To tell you the truth ſir, this was the cauſe of my ſilence, and as I am convinced you muſt have been privy to the whole buſineſs, you need not expect any further countenance from my lord, the biſhop, or any other of my friends.'’

Mr. Figgins declared that if Mr. Standfaſt could in the ſmalleſt degree prove what he aſſerted, he ſhould abandon his ſiſter as a wretch unworthy his protection. He proteſted his total ignorance of her character, and ſolemnly aſſured Mr. Standfaſt he knew nothing of the intrigue between her and our hero, till—ſeeing her palpably in a condition that would ſhortly bring diſgrace on him, particularly becauſe of his profeſſion and connections—he taxed her with the fact, and ſhe, with great unwillingneſs, [31] diſcovered to him what had paſſed. He uttered a very florid ſpeech on the ſubject of ingratitude, and declared he ſhould deteſt himſelf if he could be ca⯑pable, even was his benefactor—meaning Mr. Stand⯑faſt—to withdraw his countenance and protection for ever from him, to meditate any return that could militate againſt thoſe honourable ſentiments of pure and grateful acknowledgment which were eminently his due.

Mr. Standfaſt confeſſed, till this buſineſs, he had always conſidered him as a very thankful, proper, decent, grateful young man:—nay he might recol⯑lect he had given hints that there would be no ob⯑jection to count upon his future favour; and really, if he could acquit himſelf— ‘'Will you ſuffer me to ſpeak?' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'As to Mr. Figgins, I moſt ſincerely beg his pardon for the irregularity I was guilty of in his houſe. That he ſhould know any thing of it is morally impoſſible; becauſe his ſiſter told me that ſhe ſincerely believed he would be the death of her, if he found it out; and, I aſſure you, this has at times given me ſo much anxiety, that if I had not promiſed you, Mr. Stand⯑faſt, upon my honour—which I hope will ever be a ſacred pledge with me—to leave the whole to your diſcretion, I certainly ſhould, long ago, have written to Mr. Figgins, and laid all the blame on [32] myſelf, where it certainly ought to fall: I am very happy to have this opportunity of coming to ſo proper an explanation, and will readily abide by the determination of Mr. Standfaſt in relation to my future conduct.'’

‘'My dear Charles,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'your con⯑duct in this, as in every thing elſe, is perfectly handſome. Perhaps my zeal for your honour and that of your noble father has hurried me too far, and induced me to treat Mr. Figgins with more harſhneſs than he merited. I will take his word for what he aſſerts, becauſe really, as I ſaid be⯑fore, there has always been ſomething about him like ingenuouſneſs, gratitude, and a proper ſenſe of obligation.'’—Here Figgins bowed— ‘'If there⯑fore matters go in the old train as to him, I beg that it may extend to his ſiſter.'’

‘'This is the point I wanted to come to,' ſaid Charles. 'I aſſure you we were both betrayed into what we did, for neither of us originally meant more than a very harmleſs gratification.'’

‘'Oh yes,' ſaid Standfaſt. 'Come, come, Charles, you might be a Lubin, but ſhe was no Annette I aſſure you. No, no, Figgins,' added Standfaſt, taking Charles by the hand, 'my pupil here, whom [33] I hope to ſee a duke, is no match for your ſiſter, even were there not that bar which I will hereafter convince you ſubſiſts. In the mean time, let the bantling come forth, and be brought up:—we will find a proviſion for it.'’

Mr. Figgins was now invited to ſpend a few days in the family, to which he conſented. Indeed the time paſſed ſo agreeably, that a fortnight had elapſed before he ever dreamt of taking his leave. Charles, during this interval, became very intimate with him, and Mr. Friend and the good Mildman—which laſt declared he began to have hopes of Little Hockley the moment the young gentleman had ap⯑peared among them—were charmed with his ſo⯑ciety.

Nor muſt the reader, who knows his origin, too haſtily credit that I am advancing any thing unna⯑tural or unlikely. Art does not require brilliant talents, and no people in the world are ſo eaſily im⯑poſed upon as good men. Pay but a modeſt deference to your own opinion, that you may not ſeem too ſervile; ſtruggle a little with conviction before you appear to yield to it; and, though you give up points with reluctance, never fail in the end to crown your adverſary with the palm of victory:—[34] and be aſſured of friends wherever you chooſe to make them.

Standfaſt knew mankind ſurely. This young man was bred up under him; and as he had ſtrong intellects, rather an engaging figure, a retentive memory, a wonderful natural penetration, a col⯑lected and ſhrewd ſagacity, with a fortunate knack of chequering his converſation with bits and ſcraps of philoſophy and morality, which he had ſtudied, it is not at all aſtoniſhing that he ſhould be miſtaken for a ſenſible and good man by ſuch as, could they have diſcovered any defects in him, would rather have excuſed than expoſed them.

Mr. Standfaſt, one day, having received ſome letters from London, came to my lord, and in⯑formed him that his uncle was at the point of death. Of this uncle Lord Hazard had heard him ſpeak, and always underſtood he had great expectations from him. He therefore begged that no time might be loſt, but that the tutor ſhould inſtantly ſet out to ſee his relation. This was the more rea⯑dily agreed to becauſe Mr. Figgins could ſtay to ſu⯑perintend his pupil's ſtudies, which indeed now conſiſted of nothing more than reading and com⯑paring different authors, a part of which exerciſe [35] he pleaſures of the country took off; not to reckon nis attention to painting and muſic, in both of which he was a great proficient.

Theſe preliminaries adjuſted, Mr. Standfaſt took his leave of his good friends in Warwickſhire, and repaired to London; from whence, in a ſhort time afterwards, he informed Lord Hazard that, his uncle being dead, he was left independant; but that he ſhould ſtill conſider him as his benefactor, and would, as ſoon as he ſhould have ſettled his affairs, wait on him. He anxiouſly enquired after Lady Ha⯑zard, whom he had left in a very declining ſtate of health; hoped his pupil was pleaſed with Figgins, whom he took the liberty to recommend as his tu⯑tor, while he ſhould need a perſon in that capacity, and offered to relinquiſh in his favour that annuity which his lordſhip had ſettled on him for life.

My lord replied in a ſuitable manner to this letter. He wiſhed his friend joy of his good fortune; drew a melancholy picture of Lady Hazard's ſituation; enlarged moſt pathetically on his own treatment of her; ſolemnly declared if he ſhould loſe her all his happineſs would be at an end; conſented with plea⯑ſure to his propoſal concerning Figgins, but poſi⯑tively refuſed—though he was determined to take care of the young man—to ſuffer the ſmalleſt reſti⯑tution [36] of that which he, Standfaſt, had infinitely more than deſerved:—winding up the whole with a ſtrong contraſt between the great and exalted me⯑rit of his friend, and his own unworthineſs.

In the mean time the ſummer was gliding away, during which ſcarcely a day paſſed that did not bring with it ſome new pleaſure; but yet Lady Ha⯑zard's indiſpoſition was a cloud that dimmed this ſerene ſky. As moſt of theſe amuſements however were calculated for the alleviation of her pain, eſ⯑pecially thoſe which Charles conducted—for he doated on his mother—their enjoyments ſuffered but little diminution on her account. In the mean time our hero's ſentiments changed inſenſibly every day in favour of Annette, though really his heart was yet a perfect ſtranger to the delicious ſenſations of delicate love; and thoſe he did feel, young as he was, upon ſo proper an occaſion he well knew how to ſuppreſs. He had ſome warm thoughts cer⯑tainly as to Emma, and knowing as much of books as herſelf, he very archly conceived a deſign of con⯑quering her with her own weapons; but, finding her virtue too well fortified to yield to his ſolicita⯑tions, he made an honourable retreat, greatly to her ſatisfaction, who was not in the leaſt angry; for virtue, with her, was ſlender indeed that could not withſtand every trial. On the contrary, ſhe ven⯑tured [37] to predict that Annette was his deſtined wife, but foreſaw his imprudence would coſt many a mu⯑tual heart ach before the accompliſhment of their deſtiny.

Charles certainly had not the ſmalleſt objection to conſider Annette in the light of an intended wife, nor was he by any means, as I have already ſaid, inſenſible to either her beauty or accompliſhments; and therefore—eſpecially as he had the ſanction of both his and her parents—he paid her the exacteſt attention, and loſt no method nor opportunity of inſpiring her with ſentiments highly to his advan⯑tage. But he had ever ſet his heart on ſeeing the world, and that not ſuperficially, before he ſhould ſink into a domeſtic character, which he always conceived would be a clog to the exertions of a vo⯑latile mind, like his; unleſs he could be aſſured, by repeated experience, that his partner for life was poſſeſſed of thoſe many and ſcarce attractions which would ſo bind his inclinations as to make him prefer bondage to liberty.

The attention he paid Annette had, however, a different effect on that young lady. Their little pleaſures were, it is true, not more than the ſports of children; but there was ſuch an unaffected eaſe, ſuch ſweetneſs of temper, ſuch an engaging and ſo [38] inſinuating an addreſs in our hero, without the ſmalleſt tincture of art, or illiberality, that, with⯑out her own knowledge, ſhe imbibed the ſeeds of that poiſon which, according to Emma's predic⯑tion, was deſtined to give her many a bitter pang.

Little Hockley was now improving very faſt.—Mr. Balance had routed the two attornies I for⯑merly ſpoke of, who, upon examination, were found to have practiſed without the ſmalleſt quali⯑fication. The painter had completed a picture of the return of the prodigal ſon, which was placed in a conſpicuous part of the church, and the muſician had opened a fine organ, the gift of Sir Sidney, un⯑der which the poet affixed a very elegant latin in⯑ſcription, which Emma ſaid ought to have been in Engliſh.

It had been an invariable cuſtom to celebrate the baronet's birth-day by throwing open the doors of the manſion houſe, and feaſting all comers. In the afternoon ſeveral ſports were performed on the green, and, in the evening, the company retired to a very large ruſtic aſſembly-room, where Sir Sidney always opened the ball; and after he had ſeen that his tenants and neighbours had every thing they could wiſh for, to give their pleaſure free ſcope, he [39] retired with their warm and unfeigned good wiſhes for a continuance of his health and happineſs.

Since Sir Sidney's marriage, however, this feſti⯑val had been kept on his wedding day, and this was called the grand feaſt:—for there were three others to celebrate, the birth-day of himſelf, that of Lady Sidney, and that of Annette. But theſe happening near each other, and Sir Sidney not chooſing to fill his tenants heads with too profuſe an inclination for pleaſure, he held theſe feſtivals on the four quarter days, when he never failed to lighten the hearts of thoſe who, from unavoidable neceſſity, could not be punctual with their rent.

There was ſomething ſo remarkable in the con⯑duct of the day which united the two villages, that I ſhall take a freſh chapter to deſcribe it: flattering myſelf that no one will blame me for dwelling upon a ſubject the fitteſt that can be to produce benevo⯑lent ideas.

CHAPTER IV.

CARDS of invitation, containing the following words, were in due time circulated at the houſes of the neighbouring gentry.

The combined aſſiſtance of all who could be uſe⯑ful was ſolicited upon this occaſion. The poet, painter, and muſician produced a maſque in con⯑junction, and Charles wrote and ſet an ode, as [41] well as painted the decorations for it; and it was allowed—though that might be the company's par⯑tiality—to be the completeſt performance of the day.

Lord Hazard's department was to receive the company, and accommodate ſuch as could not find room at Sir Sidney's. Charles had the manage⯑ment of the amuſements, and Mr. Friend, aſſiſted by Mildman and Figgins, undertook to preſerve decency and decorum. The company which ar⯑rived on the Sunday evening were ſerved in the apartments provided for them, and permitted to ſup and retire at their own time.

At ſix o'clock on the Monday morning, the two villages were awoke by ringing of bells, a diſ⯑charge of cannon, and other demonſtrations of joy. This done, ſeveral meſſengers were diſpatched to requeſt their attendance at a rural amphitheatre fitted up for the purpoſe, in the front of the rookery. There, by eight o'clock, the company aſſembled; and, after a ſhort but pathetic hymn to the deity, had breakfaſt ſerved up to them by children, in white and fleſh-colour dreſſes, ornamented with flowers, who drew the moſt delicious beverages from a variety of urns, diſtributed about in niches.

[42] Coffee, tea, and chocolate, were relieved by ca⯑pilaire, orgeat, lemonade, and ſherbet; while the moſt odoriferous perfumes mingled their artificial ſweets with the roſes and jeſſamine, that ſhed their emanations as they interlaced the ſurrounding treil⯑lage. Cakes, comfits, and liqueurs, were ſeen in great variety and abundance; and after the com⯑pany had amply refreſhed themſelves, during a per⯑formance of the moſt touching and melting airs, each Ganemede and Hebe moved a ſpring, and inſtantly played in the centre of every alcove a foun⯑tain of roſe water, for the uſe of ablution; which ceremony was ſucceeded by a proclamation, that every one was at liberty to take ſeparate diverſion till eleven o'clock, when they were expected on the lawn, in order to go to church in proceſſion.

This proceſſion, though ſimple, was ſtriking. It was preceded by twenty-four wool-combers, each of whom carried ſome ornament of their profeſſion. Twelve others followed, with banners, on which were diſplayed a variety of ingenious devices.—Twenty-five inhabitants of Caſtlewick, and as many of Little Hockley, ſucceeded, one of each place linked arm in arm, in token of brotherly love. To theſe ſucceeded a band of muſic:—then came the ſtewards with golden wands, who were followed by [43] their aſſiſtants with ſilver ones. Lady Roebuck, Lady Hazard, and Annette came next, in an open carriage: theſe were ſucceeded by a large number of other carriages, and theſe again by about two thouſand ſpectators.

Being orderly ſeated at church, the ſervice was performed, and an excellent ſermon preached by Mr. Mildman, from the text ‘'There is more joy in heaven over one ſinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine juſt perſons, who need no repentance.'’

The ſervice over, they returned in the ſame or⯑der—with this difference:—twelve morrice dancers met them on their way, and conducted them in a mazy round to the lawn, where all diſperſed, and, after promiſcuous ambulations about the garden, retired to dreſs for dinner, which, at three o'clock, ſmoaked in the grand ſaloon, for the company within doors, and on the lawn for all who choſe to partake of it.

In the ſaloon Lady Roebuck held her ſtate, and Sir Sidney played the humble hoſt. Annette, on one ſide, ſat with all the blooming freſhneſs of a new blown roſe; and, on the other, poor Lady Hazard, pallid as a drooping lily. On the table [44] was elegantly diſtributed a moſt ſumptuous feaſt, admirably contraſted, and delicately ſerved up. Nor did their pleaſure receive a ſmall addition from the hearty vacant mirth that aſſailed them from the lawn—which the ſaloon overlooked—where ſat as many happy gueſts as could ſurround an ox, two bucks, and four ſheep, all roaſted whole; at which Emma ſat in imitation of Lady Roebuck, and the butler—who was the very ſervant ſo faithful to Sir Sidney in France—attended, like his maſter, to ſup⯑ply the wants of the company.

Many loyal toaſts were proclaimed by a diſcharge of cannon, and pledged by the company without. At length the lawn was cleared, coffee introduced into the ſaloon, and, in a ſhort time after, notice given that the ode written by our hero was going to be performed in the ruſtic amphitheatre, where the company had breakfaſted.

The ſaloon was now prepared for the maſque, to which the company were deſired to repair in fancy dreſſes, but without vizors. Previous however to the performance, as ſoon as it became ſufficiently dark, they were led by the morrice dancers through a ſerpentine walk to the canal, where, on the oppo⯑ſite bank, was diſcharged a moſt ſuperb firework, in which the painter had exerted himſelf in orna⯑mental [45] tranſparencies, and the poet in apt de⯑vices.

The maſque over, it is impoſſible to expreſs the univerſal aſtoniſhment when, upon returning to the lawn, they found it converted into beautiful alcoves, tents, booths, and other receptacles for different par⯑ties, where boys and girls, in the moſt pictureſque fancy dreſſes, ran before them, ready to anticipate their very wiſhes. Nothing could exceed the beauty proportion, and diſpoſition of this city of the plea⯑ſures, reared as it were by enchantment. Thoſe who were not diſpoſed, however, to reſort to it for refreſhment, were attended and ſerved in a manner equally deſirable in a ſuite of rooms in the houſe; and as to Emma's company, in addition to a review of all theſe pleaſures at a becoming diſtance, they had their own rural aſſembly room for their ſupper and ball, where I am well informed not one, within ſome hours, gueſſed what it was o'clock, till the ſun ſent forth thoſe ſtreaks of crimſon which put an end to their harmleſs merriment on the Tueſday morning.

Nor did their ſuperiors ſeparate one whit ſooner, and not then without regretting that their pleaſures were at an end, and declaring that they never wit⯑neſſed ſuch taſte, nor experienced ſuch hoſpitality.

[] It may not be improper to notice ſome of the principal remarks made on this occaſion.

Annette remarked that Charles looked, ſpoke, and did every thing divinely. He remarked that ſhe was a lovely little creature; and all the company remarked that they ſeemed born for each other.—Emma remarked ſhe had made a conqueſt of the poet, the muſician, and the butler; and well know⯑ing the fidelity of this laſt to his maſter, and affec⯑tion to his young miſtreſs, declared, as ſhe undreſſed Annette, that ſhe ſhould have no objection, at a proper ſeaſon, to be the author of his happineſs.

The poet remarked Emma was a ſmart wench, and ſhould be his; for he was the man in the world for her purpoſe. The muſician agreed to the firſt remark, but thought they neither of them ſtood any chance; and the painter, overhearing them, ſwore ſhe was a caricature of mother Shipton, and they were damned fools for talking ſuch nonſenſe.

Lord Hazard remarked that he had now but one wiſh in the world; and Sir Sidney remarked—but not to my lord, that this was the firſt time their grand feaſt had been graced with the preſence of Lady Hazard, and he greatly feared it would be the laſt. Indeed that amiable and charming lady, [47] leſt ſhe ſhould diminiſh the general hilarity, exerted herſelf on that day beyond her ſtrength, and though probably the utmoſt human care—for ſhe had every aſſiſtance that money or influence could procure—could not have wholly reſtored her, yet, certainly, her now rapid decline was accelerated by the various ſhocks, though of temporary pleaſure, which ſhe received in aſſiſting to promote the happineſs of her friends.

CHAPTER V.

As this is the only entire ſummer the reader and I are to paſs in Warwickſhire, I ſhall explain pretty fully how the time jogged on. So far it is pretty evident every man's leiſure had been taken up to prepare for the feſtival, which ſome may think I have a little too particularly deſcribed. It has, how⯑ever, brought about ſomething, according to my uſual cuſtom; for it made Lady Hazard worſe, which, but for the ſake of moral truth, I ſincerely wiſh had not happened; it loſt Emma's heart; and it did two or three other things, which will be di⯑vulged in proper time.

This grand affair being over, the ſpare time was filled up with lighter and leſs regular pleaſures; among which Charles, in particular, found the con⯑trary diſpoſitions of Sir Sidney's ſcientific trium⯑virate excellent food for his frolickſome temper, which, though it had not the ſmalleſt tincture of [49] miſchief in it, loved to indulge itſelf with expoſing abſurdity. To this Maſter Figgins egged him on with all his perſuaſion, with no view, however, as he ſaid, but to oblige the young gentleman; nor, to ſay the truth, did Sir Sidney want a reliſh for ſuch fun, when every thing was kept within proper decorum.

It did not ſignify what the joke was, their argu⯑ment upon it produced all the amuſement. Charles very often ſet the poet down to a literary contention with Emma, who, being ſkilled in authorities, ge⯑nerally conquered him; for really dates and facts are very good materials for criticiſm, and method will very often be too hard for genius. Upon theſe occaſions the poet was thruſt further into a corner by the ſatiric painter, and conſoled by the accom⯑modating muſician. One afternoon, however, ſhe gained ſo complete a triumph, that he was obliged, for a long time, to own himſelf conquered.

The reader remembers that Emma had a very great predelection for Dr. JOHNSON, and Charles en⯑treated the poet to attack the lexicographer. This he did not fail to do, but kept, for a long time, to general accuſations. Emma deſired he would give her ſome opportunity of anſwering him. ‘'Any [50] man,' ſaid ſhe, 'may be made to look contemp⯑tible. ARISTOPHANES contrived this of SOCRATES, who, becauſe he was a man of inoffenſive man⯑ners, and therefore naturally decried the licentious writings and conduct of the comic poets, provoked the fury of this ſatiriſt:—but even though this is true, and though Madame DACIER was ſo charmed with this author that ſhe tranſlated—and, not content with that, read two hundred times, and every time with freſh pleaſure, the very piece that was written to render this great philoſopher ridi⯑culous—yet it proved nothing, becauſe general aſſertion is a blunt arrow that falls without in⯑flicting a wound.'’

‘'Well, what do you ſay to this?' cried Figgins, who ſtood by.’ ‘'Say!' cried the poet, 'If ſhe wants proofs of what I have aſſerted, ſhe ſhall have them; I am the man for adducing proofs. And firſt of all, has he not written a ſevere ſatire on himſelf, when he ſays of SWIFT ‘"that on all common occaſions he habitually affects a ſtyle of arrogance, and dictates rather than perſuades?"’ In another place, ‘"he predominated over his com⯑panions with a very high aſcendency, and proba⯑bly would bear none over whom he could not ſo predominate."’ Now does not Mrs. THRALE, after a confeſſion that ſhe had ſurfeited herſelf with an [51] abject and indefatigable attention to him for a number of years, ſuch as no man who did not in a moſt inſolent degree predominate over his com⯑panions could exact, does ſhe not declare ſhe could no longer bear him, and that ſhe went to Bath becauſe ſhe knew he would not follow her? Is not Mr. BOSWELL every moment frightened to death leſt there ſhould be a total breach between them? Does not the Doctor meditate an entire ſeparation only becauſe Mr. BOSWELL had the im⯑prudence to leave him for a few minutes, with truly the ſhameful intention of contributing to his eaſe and convenience? What do you ſay to all this? Does not this convince you that my aſſertions are truth?'’

‘'No, no, ſir,' anſwered Emma, 'we were to talk of a poet, you are ſpeaking of a man.'’

‘'A good evaſion,' ſaid Ego, 'and in the Doc⯑tor's own way. I am the man for ſeeing what people are about:—but come, you ſhall have him as a poet. And pray, does he not wiſh to deſtroy the very being of poetry, by inſiſting on annihi⯑lating mythology? Does he not find it very re⯑prehenſible in Mr. GAY to introduce Cloacina and the nightman in his Trivia? and does he not abuſe poor PRIOR moſt unmercifully for fabling that [52] Chloe was miſtaken one day by Cupid for Venus, and another for Diana? In ſhort, mythology is, with him, puerility. He ſays of Collins that he loved faries, genii, giants, and monſters! and that while he purſued theſe objects, he did not ſuffici⯑ently cultivate ſentiment: when all the world knows that there is an end of poetry if ſentiment is no longer to be conveyed through ſo rich and beautiful a vehicle. What do you ſay to this abuſe of the gods and goddeſſes? Is not it ſhame⯑ful?'’

‘'No ſir,' ſaid Emma, 'not at all, for a man may abuſe ſuch imaginary beings without injuring any body's moral feelings.'’

‘'Another evaſion,' cried the poet, 'I will be judged by any body. But I will go a plainer way to work. Here is a criticiſm of his that is ſtark nonſenſe. In ſpeaking of Mr. GRAY's lines on the death of a cat that was drowned as ſhe at⯑tempted to catch a gold fiſh, the laſt line ſays, that all that glitters is not gold; nor if it were, ſays the doctor, would the cat have been the better for it, for a cat does not know the value of gold. Now I ſay ſhe does, in the ſenſe it is here meant, which is nothing more than that we are not to truſt to appearances; and a cat knows that, as far as her [55] underſtanding goes, as well as a man. Can you controvert this, Mrs. Emma? No, no, I am the man for cloſe reaſoning. All that glitters is not gold ſure enough. What do you ſay to my argu⯑ment?'’ ‘'That it is not ſterling, ſir,' ſaid Emma.’ ‘'Your learned principal would have given the ſame vague anſwer,' ſaid the poet.’ ‘'Come, come, why does he take no more notice of COLLINS's ode than if no ſuch poem had ever been written? Can you anſwer me that?’ ‘'Eaſily, ſir,' ſaid Emma; 'it was written for muſic, which he did not underſtand.'’ ‘'It is a pity then,' ſaid the poet, 'that he did not underſtand it; for he cannot ſhew ſuch harmony in his own poetry, which is the heavieſt—'’ ‘'Sir,' ſaid Emma, 'he was profound.'’ ‘'Verboſe,' ſaid the poet.’ ‘'He compiled a dictio⯑nary of the Engliſh language,'’ anſwered Emma. ‘'Zounds,' cried the poet, 'you would make a man mad; I am a man that is never in a paſſion, but damme madam—'’

Here every body interfered, and it was univerſally allowed that Emma had gained a complete victory. ‘'Yes,' ſaid Emma, ſtill imitating Dr. JOHNSON, 'my triumph is complete; for if Mr Ego has no⯑thing to ſay for himſelf, the logical concluſion is, that all he can ſay of himſelf muſt be againſt himſelf, for theſe are the three diſtinctions of egotiſm.'’

[54] This witty warfare ſtuck hard with the poet for a good while: he got off, however, as well as he could; for when the painter, with his uſual acri⯑mony, told him that he ought to hide his head for ever, after being conquered by a woman, and the muſician, in his old accommodating manner, ſaid he plainly ſaw Mr. Ego had yielded the palm from the abundance of his natural complaiſance, Ego cried out, you are right, my dear friend Toogood, I am the man that knows how to behave polite to a lady.

CHAPTER VI.

NOTWITHSTANDING this repulſe which the poet ſuſtained from Emma, he had really a penchant for her, and as ſhe loved reading, he flattered himſelf he ſhould ſucceed by acknowledging her victory over him in the diſpute already mentioned, and ſubmit⯑ting tacitly to her opinion in all literary matters.

This amorous intercourſe, at leaſt that which appeared ſo to the muſician, began to make him a little uneaſy, for he flattered himſelf with pretty near the ſame hopes as the poet. Seeing this, Charles and his aſſociates hit upon a plan which they thought would afford them ſome amuſement.

Charles very archly intimated to Toogood that Emma, in her own mind, gave him the preference, but, added he, you will loſe her owing to your ab⯑ſurd diffidence. In ſhort, after proper preparatio [...] he propoſed to him a ſcheme which he ſaid would [54] [...] [] [...] [56] evince his love for Emma, even without wounding his modeſty by declaring it, would bring out her real ſentiments towards him, and would finally frighten Ego into a relinquiſhment of his preten⯑ſions to her.

The kind Mr. Toogood agreed to the propoſal with but little heſitation. It was this: the aſſo⯑ciates were to report that the muſician had hanged himſelf for love, and, to give it a colour, while he hid himſelf in a garret—where, by the way, they almoſt ſtarved him, under a pretence that nobody could come to him for fear of a diſcovery—his fian⯑nel powdering gown was put upon a ſtuffed figure, and hung as it were artfully by the neck to a ſtaple in his bed chamber; and this was ſhewn to the poet, in the duſk of the evening, in a way ſo well managed, that he really took it for the muſician.

The poet, willingly enough, ran, as he was de⯑ſired, for help, and, in the interim, the powdering gown was ſhifted from the figure to Toogood him⯑ſelf, whoſe face had previouſly been ſmeared by the painter with a compoſition of a cadaverous hue; there⯑fore, when he returned, and found Toogood ſtretched upon the bed, he had not the ſmalleſt doubt but that he had made his final exit. Pre⯑ſently afterwards Emma came into the room, and [57] being properly inſtructed for the purpoſe, began to lament her hard fate, and to utter ſo many tender things in favour of the muſician—calling him her Orpheus, her Amphion!—In ſhort ſhe flew into ſuch apparent rapture, that Charles and Figgins feared the crotchet-monger would have jumped up, and appeaſed her upon the ſpot. She ſaid this country was now deprived of a ſecond PURCEL, but where could they find another DRYDEN to record his praiſe?

Ego anſwered briſkly, that DRYDEN to be ſure was a very pretty poet, but there was one yet in the world, he flattered himſelf, as capable of ſinging the virtues of a deceaſed friend as moſt people.

Emma took him at his word, ſaying ſhe feared ſhe ſhould never be able to bring herſelf to love him—though ſhe would try what ſhe could do—yet her friendſhip he might always command, if he would, as a laſt tribute to his friend's memory, write his epitaph.

This ſettled, the company diſperſed. Charles lifted up his hands, Figgins bleſſed himſelf, the poet in profound meditation, Muſquito ſwearing it ſerved the fool right, and Emma quite in a tragedy rant: The poet deſired he might have a ſlight ſup⯑per [58] in his apartment, and pen, ink, and paper.—The muſician, who had acted his part very well, was locked up, and every body retired.

Ego was heard for ſome time to walk about his room in great agitation, and afterwards to draw his chair and ſit down very ſtill to work. In ſhort, he had finiſhed the taſk juſt at that moment

Being charmed with his production, he began to read it aloud, and afterwards was heard to exclaim, ‘'I never was ſo ſucceſsful in my life! Once more—'’and then reading—

He ſcarcely had uttered theſe words, when open flew the door, and the muſician appeared in his powdering gown, with a halter round his neck, ex⯑claiming in a hollow voice ‘'And ſo I did, perfidi⯑ous poet.'’ The bard, like Pierrot—though the muſician looked that character more than he did—now began to ſtare, to tremble, and, without quit⯑ing either the paper or the candle, blundered to the further ſide of the bed, where the ghoſt, with a moſt [59] ghaſtly grin, glided after him. Seeing himſelf fol⯑lowed, he ſprang acroſs the bed at the expence of his ſhins, and out of the door, the ghoſt hard at his heels, when hurrying down the ſtairs—which were ſtrewed with peas, unknown to either of them, they rolled over each other till they lighted on a feather bed, purpoſely laid at the landing place, where all the company in the houſe burſt in at once, and found them cuffing one another almoſt as un⯑mercifully as Mr. POPE makes the two eagles in HOMER.

The muſician began now to perceive that he had been duped as well as the poet. Sir Sidney ſaid he was ſorry to find the muſician had played upon ſo ridiculous a chord; to which Charles anſwered, his performance was perfectly in the amoroſo ſtyle.—Emma ſaid that to be ſure he had given a dying proof of his love, but not knowing that he would recover, ſhe, out of deſpair, had choſen another.—The painter ſaid it was not the firſt time Mr. Too-good had made himſelf ridiculous. The poor mu⯑ſician, getting up, laughed the matter off as well as he could. He ſaid his known character was to ac⯑commodate himſelf, as much as poſſible, to the plea⯑ſure of the company; and as to the poet, he ſaid he ſuſpected it was a trick from the beginning, for he was the man at diſcoveries! He ſwore he would [60] have acted a dead man ten times better; and as for a ghoſt! ‘'Damme,' ſaid he, 'if I had perſonated a ghoſt, I would have ſcared you all out of your wits!'’

After a hearty laugh, Emma finiſhed the buſineſs by a few ſerious words, ſaying, that they had both hung themſelves up as marks of ingratitude, in re⯑turn for Sir Sidney's hoſpitality; yet, if the ghoſt of remorſe did but haunt them a little, for enter⯑taining a wiſh to injure a poor girl, who had no⯑thing to depend upon but her character, ſhe ſhould, for her own part, think them ſufficiently puniſhed.

A truce was ſtruck, and good humour reſtored, or rather prolonged; for none of the parties enter⯑tained the leaſt rancour: on the contrary, the mu⯑ſician was the firſt to confeſs he had been juſtly re⯑proved for his error, and Ego ſaid he was an ad⯑mirer of poetical juſtice, which he flattered himſelf he had exemplified pretty ſtrongly in his writings.

About this time a matter happened which had very nearly undone ſome of Sir Sidney's pious work at Little Hockley. One John Swaſh, a miller, who was at the head of a large family, and one of the firſt who repented of his former idle tricks, had been ſet up by Sir Sidney, and had lived for ſome [61] time in comfort and credit. This man, at the in⯑ſtigation of ſome litigious perſons, who envied his preſent good fortune, had been taken up for ſheep-ſtealing: a crime which he certainly had committed ſome years before. He was to be tried at Warwick, at the ſummer aſſizes, and Sir Sidney greatly feared the fact would be fully proved; in which caſe, it would be difficult to ſave the man.

But this was not the worſt, for a number of the Hockleyites, having been guilty of crimes equally enormous, might, on his conviction, emigrate from the village, where they began to live peaceable and decent lives; and thus he ſhould loſe the fruits of that benevolent harveſt which he had been ſo long and ſo carefully bringing to perfection.

There was but one man who could ſwear to his identity; except indeed a companion, who having been formerly diſcharged by a magiſtrate, on ac⯑count of this fact, now appeared as king's evidence, to curry favour with the farmer, whoſe ſheep had been loſt, as well as to ſcreen himſelf from future proſecutions.

This man, who, as I ſaid, could ſwear to him, was a taylor, and lived, at this time, in pretty good credit at Wellingborough, but had formerly worked [62] as journeyman at a ſmall town not far from Little Hockley, and when buſineſs was not very ſtiring there, was glad enough to job about at other places, and return to his wife and family with the earn⯑ings.

He had been three days getting ready ſome mourning for a family in the neighbourhood, when, being upon the point of returning on a very dark night, he was reminded, by ſome officious friend, that he muſt go ſeven miles about, for that over the common, which was but little more than three, he would certainly meet with the ghoſt.

It muſt be underſtood that on this common was erected a gibbet, where were hung in chains two ſmugglers, who had murdered an exciſeman; and under this gibbet every evening were ſeen—for a great number of the inhabitants within ſome diſtance round were ready to ſwear it—two men in white marching with much deliberation, and carrying a coffin.

The taylor had frequently heard all this, but as it rained a little, and the way over the common lay ſo much nearer than the other, he could not think or going round:—beſides he was perfectly, at this [63] time, pot valiant, and one more glaſs put the finiſh⯑ing ſtroke to his reſolution.

Away went the taylor with his wages in his pocket, and his gooſe ſuſpended on a ſtick, which he held over his ſhoulder. When he came near the gibbet, ſure enough he ſaw two men carrying a coffin. His ſenſations may be eaſily gueſſed at. He was ſeized with ſo ſtrong a fit of horror, that his teeth chattered, his legs ſhook, he trembled from head to foot, and ſweat at every pore. He made an effort to run away, but his limbs refuſed their of⯑fice. At length, as the ſpectre approached, with one frantic ſtruggle, between fear and deſperation, his well-poiſed gooſe flew from the ſtaff that ſup⯑ported it like lightning, and hitting the head of the ghoſt that was neareſt to him, brought him to the ground—when lo! open flew the coffin, and out jumped two ſheep!

The other ſpirit, unconſcious that he had only one-ninth of an adverſary to encounter, took to his heels, and ſoon diſappeared. The firſt, however, ſtunned by the blow he had received, could not ſo eaſily get out of the taylor's clutches, who being convinced of the fact by the information of the two ſheep, purſued his victory, and actually tied the [64] culprits hands with a large piece of liſt, in order to carry him before a magiſtrate.

The ſheepſtealer pleaded very hard for his liberty as ſoon as he came to himſelf, when the taylor, knowing his voice, preſently recognized him for the very ſame John Swaſh, who now, at the diſtance of almoſt three years, was confined in Warwick jail for this individual offence.

The general opinion was that the taylor had com⯑paſſionated the ſituation of John for a valuable con⯑ſideration, which was, in the nature of a fine, to be paid by inſtallments, but had not been regularly diſcharged. Finding however that the offender be⯑gan to be pretty well off in the world, the ſubject was revived, and the matter carried by the farmer, at the inſtigation of the taylor, to the length we have ſeen.

Theſe were the circumſtances which made Sir Sidney uneaſy. He plainly ſaw that Swaſh was picked out not with a view to offer a public ſacri⯑fice at the ſhrine of offended juſtice, but merely to be uſed as an inſtrument by way of experiment, to ſee how much money could, upon ſimilar occaſions, be extorted in future:—for knowing the baronet to [65] be very warm in whatever he eſpouſed, the two pet⯑tiſoggers who were driven from Little Hockley, and a few others who accompanied them, counted upon a comfortable ſubſiſtence, which they had no doubt they could procure by raiſing contributions, in like manner, upon the generoſity of Sir Sidney.

CHAPTER VII.

The difficulty ſeemed to be how to ſuppreſs the evidence of the taylor without Sir Sidney's apparent concurrence; for it was not enough that he ſhould not ſeem to take any active part in the buſineſs, but it was neceſſary to regard it as a matter of perfect indifference to him.

On this account, it was neceſſary to be very wary in their meaſures. Charles and Figgins, how⯑ever, undertook, after a very little reflection, to re⯑move all difficulties.

The plan was explained, and greatly approved; and now came the time to put it in execution.

A houſe was taken about three miles from War⯑wick, whither Charles, Figgins, and the body of arts repaired; which laſt were informed that the [67] removal was only temporary, to take views, and at⯑tend the aſſemblies at the aſſizes.

About a month before the aſſizes, Charles and Fig⯑gins rode to Wellingborough. The latter having pre⯑viouſly rolled his coat in the road, and ſplaſhed his horſe on one ſide, they went to the firſt inn they ſaw, where they enquired if there was a clever tay⯑lor in town, who could make a coat at a ſhort warning. The landlord recommended one, but not the man they wanted; but, rather than make ob⯑jections, they determined to ſee him, and when he came found fault with every thing he produced: which indeed they were determined to do with fifty, till they ſhould ſee the object of their preſent buſi⯑neſs. At length he came, and there never was ſuch a taylor! They were ſtruck with his taſte, his manner, his price:—In ſhort, the poor devil was in raptures, though a man muſt have been very ingenious to find language for this laviſh praiſe in favour of a card of buttons, and ſome ſnips of cloth. So it was however, that the taylor never found out half ſo much merit in himſelf as at that moment. He made his men ſit up all night, and a very awk⯑ward coat was produced in the morning for Fig⯑gins, which, nevertheleſs, was the pink of taſte, and the extreme of the new faſhion; and Charles pre⯑tended to be ſo much in love with it, that he ordered [68] a frock for himſelf, with the addition of a new Bir⯑mingham button, with which he declared himſelf enchanted. This frock however he could not ſtay for. It was therefore ordered to be ſent to the houſe of the Rev. Mr. Figgins, near Warwick, where it would be paid for on delivery.

The taylor ſaid he ſhould be at Warwick at the aſſizes, for he was ſubpoened there upon a trial, and he would then, if the gentleman pleaſed, take the liberty of calling, to ſee if he was ſatisfied with his coat.

Figgins ſaid he ſhould be very glad to ſee him, for that he knew no character ſo reſpectable as a tradeſman. This was ſaid as they took horſe, and the taylor, making a very low bow, retired. The circumſtance was however ſo ſingular, that the landlord, as well as the taylor's wife, ſet down Charles and Figgins for two cheats, and cautioned the taylor not to be taken in.

The taylor had himſelf ſome ſuſpicions akin to theirs, though the flattery that had been laviſhed on him almoſt overcame his warineſs. However, to make all ſure, as he had ſome buſineſs at Warwick,—indeed no other than to con his leſſon as to his evi⯑dence [69] againſt Swaſh—he took that opportunity of carrying home the coat himſelf.

Being arrived at Mr. Figgins's, he was very kindly welcomed, detained all night, paid his bill, and informed that more clothes would be ſent for, to be got ready againſt the aſſize ball; to which our hero added, ‘'I wiſh we could prevail on you, ſir, to ſettle here, for there is not one of your profeſſion within twenty miles who knows even how to ſet on a button with taſte.'’

The taylor acceeded to the fact, took a comforta⯑ble portion of merit to himſelf, and went home in high ſpirits.

Swaſh was to be tried on the laſt day of the aſſizes, on the motion of the counſel, and three days previ⯑ous to the trial an order was ſent to the taylor from our hero for ſome clothes for the aſſize ball. The taylor could not refuſe to execute the order, but, nevertheleſs, very anxious to be in time for the trial, was determined he would be at Warwick the night before.

A ſervant being diſpatched to ſuggeſt alterations and delays, till he ſhould be detained very late that evening, he at length arrived, clothes and all, at [70] Mr. Figgins's, about half an hour paſt eleven o'clock, moſt exceedingly fatigued.

Figgins took him very cordially by the hand, and led him into a parlour, where, at near one—the clocks being put back almoſt an hour—ſupper ap⯑peared. The taylor proteſting he never was ſo diſ⯑poſed to make a good meal in his life, fell to very heartily. Thus the time paſſed on till within a quarter of an hour of day light, though by the clocks—being once more put back—the taylor did not believe it ſo late by two hours. At length he was led to bed completely drunk. Having ſlept till two o'clock in the afternoon—which will not ap⯑pear extraordinary if we conſider his drunkenneſs and fatigue—he awoke, without recollecting for ſome moments where he was. When he felt, how⯑ever, a fine, ſoft, ſtately bed, he began to have ſome faint idea how he came there; but, as every thing appeared as dark as pitch, he concluded it was in the middle of the night, and turned to go to ſleep again; this, after tumbling and toſſing for half an hour, he effected, and taking another pretty good nap, waked about half an hour paſt ſix.

Feeling a violent head-ach, and finding himſelf intolerably hungry, he could not help thinking the night remarkably long. He got out of the bed, and [71] groped about for the windows, and having drawn one of the curtains, opened the ſhutters, but it was all the ſame. He could not throw up the ſaſh in⯑deed, owing, as he ſuppoſed, to a mode of faſtening it, which he did not underſtand. He was yet con⯑vinced, however, that it was not near day light, and therefore determined to go to bed again.

In groping out his way, he caught hold of the toſſel of a bell, whieh immediately tingled very forcibly. This frightened him out of his wits.—How could he apologize in a gentleman's houſe for making ſuch a diſturbance? After he had been in bed about a quarter of an hour, in anxious hope that nobody had heard the bell, a ſervant came into his room, with a candle, yawning, ſtretching, and rubbing his eyes, who aſked him what he would be pleaſed to have.

The taylor begged his pardon a hundred times, for diſturbing him, though it was nearly ſeven in the evening, and aſked what o'clock it was, and how long it would be till day light?

‘'O'clock, ſir!' ſaid the ſervant, why we han't a been in bed above a quarter of an hour; I believe there will be a good three hours yet before the cock crows.'’

[72] ‘'Three hours!' cried the taylor, 'why I never paſſed ſuch a night in my life! Three hours!—why I ſeem as if I had lain twenty; and then I am ſo curſed hungry.'’ ‘'Ay, that is your long jour⯑ney, ſir,' ſaid John.’ ‘'I don't know what the devil it is,' ſaid the taylor, 'but could not you, my dear Mr. John, get me a bit of ſomething for the tooth?'’ ‘'Lord love you, no ſuch thing,' ſaid John; 'you muſt e'en ſtay till morning.'’ ‘'Morn⯑ing!' cried the taylor, 'why I ſhall be famiſhed in three hours; I never had ſuch a craving in my life.'’ ‘'Well, well,' ſaid John, 'then I will ſee what I can do; but I muſt get the keys of old Mother Search, the houſe-keeper, and ſhe is a devil of a cruſty toad, I can tell you.'’

The taylor implored him to ſee what he could do, and John ſaid he would return directly. He did not, however, make his appearance for another half hour, when he brought word that there was nothing to be had.

This news the taylor was obliged to ſwallow in⯑ſtead of the repaſt he had expected, and wiſhing John a good night, endeavoured once more to get to ſleep. This however was impoſſible; he kicked about, turned, twiſted, got up, lay down, and be⯑tween whiles, fell into a kind of doſe, till night [73] actually came. His patience was now entirely ex⯑hauſted, and, for the firſt time, he ſuſpected that ſome trick had been played him. The whole con⯑duct of this family had been ſo extraordinary, that he began now to reflect on his neighbours' ſuſpi⯑cions; but then, how could that apply to him?—he had nothing to be robbed of. They might mur⯑der him, however, but what harm had he done to any body? Perhaps it was all a drunken frolic:—perhaps it was day-light all this time. Whatever it was, he might be ſure no ſervant would ſet him right; he was therefore determined to ſally forth, and know the truth of every thing.

So reſolved, he immediately put on his clothes, and groping out the door, met with no impediment all the way to the garden, where, by feeling about, he ſoon found himſelf. Here he gave that credit to the ſtars which he denied to John, and being now convinced his brain was affected, he thought he could not do better than return, without giving any further diſturbance to the family. This, however, was not ſo eaſily practicable as he imagined. The door had ſhut after him in ſuch a manner, that he found it out of his power to open it.

His ſituation was now truly deplorable. He durſt not knock, for fear of making more diſturbance in [74] the houſe. In the mean time he was devoured with hunger, and being in a ſtrange place, in the night, his fancy transformed every buſh, not into an offi⯑cer, but a ghoſt.

Theſe apprehenſions were not a little heightened by a variety of noiſes, which now aſſailed his ears. Clanking of chains, groans, and howls fixed him petrified to the ſpot, while ſtrange lights, which came and diſappeared, added not a little to the hor⯑rid workings of his teeming fancy. At length ſome⯑thing tapped him upon the ſhoulder, when turning round in an agony of fear, he ſaw, as plain as ever he did any thing in his life, John Swaſh ſtaring him in the face. What at this moment were the poor taylor's ſenſations! He ſqueaked, kicked, plunged, without being able to take his eyes from this dread⯑ful object, till preſently his ſight failed him, his muſcles were all relaxed, and he meaſured his length on the ground.

A few tweaks by the noſe and ſome cold water brought him a little to himſelf, when he found John and another ſervant lifting him up. This circum⯑ſtance did not a little facilitate his recovery. The moment he got the uſe of his ſpeech, he cried out, ‘'For the love of God, dear chriſtian gentlemen, ſpeak to me! Oh Lord, is he gone? Did you [75] ſee him? Oh dear, dear, dear, dear—there he comes again! Hold me faſt!—don't let him fly away with me!'’

John and his fellow ſervant had ſome difficulty to comply with his requeſt, he ſtruggled ſo hard, for fear gave him the ſtrength of a giant.

The ſpectre approaching, the taylor's fear, or rather horror, was beyond deſcription ‘'There,' cried he, 'Don't you ſee it?'’ ‘'See what?' ſaid John, 'I ſee nothing but the trees and the ſtars, do you Thomas?'’ ‘'Not I,' ſaid Thomas.’ ‘'Come come, ſir, doo ey goo to bed—yow han not a ſlept to night. When the woine a be got out of your head, yowl be in your right wits, like a ſober parſon.'’

The ghoſt now began to ſpeak. ‘'Huſh, huſh,' cried the taylor.’ ‘'Oh Lord have mercy upon me, ſave and deliver me. It ſpeaks! Oh John Swaſh, John Swaſh, how have I offended thee?'’

‘'Oh miſerable taylor, liſten to me,' ſaid the ghoſt.’ ‘'I will John indeed,' ſaid the poor terror-ſtruck wretch,’ and now the ghoſt went on.

‘'For the lucre of gain thou didſt try to hang me. [76] though well thou knoweſt I never did thee harm; but I have eſcaped thy malice, for rather than bring diſgrace upon my poor wife and family, I made away with myſelf. Now if thou wiſheſt to ſleep peaceably in thy bed, make a full confeſſion of thy wickedneſs to Sir Sidney Roebuck, and through him reſtore to my unhappy family that money which thou haſt at different times frigh⯑tened me out of. Remember, and let not my an⯑gry ſpirit viſit thee a ſecond time.'’ So ſaying, the ghoſt diſappeared.

‘'Lord have mercy, ſave, deliver, and forgive my ſins,' ſaid the taylor.’ ‘'What d'ye toak a⯑bout?' ſaid Thomas.’ ‘'Pardon a poor, wretched, miſerable ſinner,' exclaimed the taylor.’ ‘'Come come,' ſaid John, 'it will be time enough to ſay your prayers when you are up in your room.'’ ‘'How can you be ſo blaſphemous?' ſaid the taylor, 'did not you hear what he ſaid?'’ ‘'Who? Who?' cried John.’ ‘'Why the man's out of his wits.'—’ ‘'Who!' exclaimed Snip, 'why poor John Swaſh; I have killed, I have murdered him, and his blood will be on my hands.'’ ‘'Odds wounds,' cried Thomas, 'theſe be odd ſort of ſpeeches; I do not wonder yow be troubled in mind, if yow a done ſuch wicked things as theſe:—but coom, yow be only a ſleep, and a dreaming.'’

[77] In ſhort, the trembling taylor was at laſt con⯑veyed to his room, where he lay ſweating and ſhi⯑vering, and almoſt ſuffocated under the clothes, till day-light.

He now got up, and ſaying his prayers longer and louder than ever he had done in his life, he be⯑gan, though ſtill in bodily fear, to conſider how he ſhould prevent a ſecond viſit from the ghoſt. As however the family was not yet ſtirring, and he thought he had made pretty ſufficient diſturbance in it already, he returned once more to bed, where, having undergone ſo much mental and corporeal fatigue, he fell into a ſound ſleep, which probably ſaved him from a ſevere fit of ſickneſs.

The reader has ſeen that the windows had been purpoſely blocked up, on the firſt night, on the out ſide, to cheat the taylor, through the whole of that day, into a belief that it was not yet light; by which means the trial of Swaſh came on, and he was ac⯑quitted for want of evidence; for as to the confede⯑rate, Figgins had ſeen, and ſo completely intimi⯑dated him, with threatening to lay a detainer againſt him on another ſcore, that he purpoſely prevaricated on the trial, and the whole buſineſs was diſmiſſed as frivolous and vexatious. The noiſe which the taylor heard when he was in the garden, and which [78] his fears had ſo greatly magnified, was nothing more than the taking down the blinds, which, as I have ſaid, on the outſide were affixed to the windows.—But the ghoſt was no other than the individual John Swaſh, who had been releaſed in the afternoon, and properly tutored for the purpoſe.

The taylor, at the proper time, was ſummoned to breakfaſt in the parlour, where he was kindly re⯑ceived by Mr. Figgins and Charles, as well as the poet and the muſician:—the painter being gone to take a walk. They informed him they were ex⯑tremely ſorry to hear he had been ſo ill in the night, and the poet, pretending to know ſomething of phyſic, felt his pulſe, which having done very grave⯑ly, he declared that the gentleman was not ſo ill in body as that he was troubled with thick-coming fancies that diſturbed his reſt.

‘'That's very true, ſir,' ſaid the taylor, 'you have found out my diſorder at once.'’ ‘'Well but can't you cure him of that?' ſaid Figgins.’ ‘'No,' anſwered the poet gravely, 'in that caſe the pa⯑tient muſt adminiſter unto himſelf.'’ ‘'Thank you ſir,' ſaid the taylor; 'it is very true—he muſt indeed—and ſo I will, if it ſhall pleaſe God, be⯑fore I am many hours older.'’

[79] ‘'You ſee, you ſee,' ſaid the poet, 'I know all the ſymptoms of this diſorder. You are very hungry ſir, are you not?'’ ‘'Yes ſir,' ſaid the taylor, 'I dare ſay I could eat a ſhoulder of mutton, and look round me.'’ ‘'A bad ſymptom, ſir,' ſaid the poet.’ ‘'Pooh, pooh,' cried Charles, 'I will never believe that a hungry ſick man is in much danger. Come John, let us have the breakfaſt, the gentle⯑man will be too late for the trial.'’ Then addreſſ⯑ing himſelf to the taylor: ‘'When do you expect it to come on ſir? I hope you will convict the raſ⯑cal; for really times are come to ſuch a paſs that an honeſt man cannot keep his property in ſafety.'’

The taylor's countenance underwent ſeveral alte⯑rations, and he faultered out, ‘'why ſir I don't think it will come on at all.'’ Here John came in with a ſmoaking plate of toaſt. ‘'Zounds, let us fall to,'’ ſaid Charles. ‘'Come ſir, help your⯑ſelf.'’

The taylor began to put a piece to his mouth, when in came the painter. ‘'Your ſervant,' ſaid Figgins, 'where have you been this morning?'—’ ‘'Faith,' ſaid Muſquito, 'I have been to ſee a very unpleaſant ſpectacle, I aſſure you. A poor fellow, one Swaſh, who was to have been tried this morn⯑ing [80] for ſheep-ſtealing, poiſoned himſelf laſt night in his cell, and, through the intereſt of Sir Sid⯑ney Roebuck, the coroner's verdict was returned lunacy, and they are now carrying the body to his wife and children.'’

Here the tea and toaſt dropt out of the taylor's hand, and he entreated, for the love of God, that he might be conducted to that very Sir Sidney Roebuck, for he could not eat nor ſleep before he diſburthened his conſcience of ſomething that lay very heavy on it.

Every one affected extraordinary ſurpriſe at this declaration; after which, Mr. Figgins ſaid ‘'Sir, I am a clergyman, and if I can do you any ſervice by hearing your confeſſion, and giving you ſalutary advice, I will do it with pleaſure.'’ To which the terrified taylor—looking about him—ſaid, ‘'No ſir, that won't do; I am afraid he will appear again if I tell it to any body but Sir Sidney.'—’ ‘'Appear!' ſaid Charles, 'Who? Who will ap⯑pear?'’ ‘'The ghoſt ſir, the ghoſt!' ſaid the tay⯑lor; 'John Swaſh's ghoſt!'’

A gentleman now deſired to ſpeak with Mr. Fig⯑gins, who being uſhered in, proved to be Sir Sid⯑ney.

[81] The moment the taylor ſaw him, he fell upon his knees, and cried out ‘'Oh dear ſir forgive me.'—’ ‘'Forgive you!' ſaid Sir Sidney, 'why who are you?'’ ‘'Sir,' ſaid he, 'I am the taylor, the wicked taylor that tried to hang John Swaſh.'’

The baronet was then informed of all the ghoſt enjoined Snip, and at length, on his earneſt entreaty, went apart with him to make an ample confeſſion. This indeed amounted to nothing criminal in the taylor, except the extortion of the money; but it laid up ſuch a body of evidence againſt the emi⯑grants from Little Hockley, as the baronet had no doubt would put a ſtop to their nefarious attempts for the future.

The taylor's confeſſion being ſigned and ſworn to, he was permitted to eat a voracious breakfaſt with John, for nothing after this could prevail on him to come into the parlour.

A large cavalcade now appeared in the road, which poor Snip, as well as every body elſe, knew to be the judges, who were leaving Warwick to open the aſſizes at Worceſter.

The taylor, though no great conjuror, ſaw plain⯑ly he had been tricked. He now neither wondered [82] at his reſtleſſneſs nor his hunger, and leſt he ſhould any longer remain in doubt, John Swaſh himſelf—who ſoftly entered the kitchen—tapped him upon the ſhoulder once more, ſaying, ‘'Maſter Cabbage, you have twice taken me for a ghoſt, beware of the third time.'’

The taylor received a very wholeſome admonition from Sir Sidney, who explained to him in very pa⯑thetic terms, the cruelty and wanton maliciouſneſs of diſturbing the quiet of a man and his family, who, he ſaid, were objects of great compaſſion, as well as praiſe; for there were very few inſtances of thoſe who had ſo given themſelves up to bad exam⯑ple, as to have been guilty of every wickedneſs and depravity, and afterwards deſirous of returning from their vicious courſes. He ſaid there was no encouragement to which ſuch objects were not en⯑titled. How reprehenſible then was it in thoſe who waited for the moment when ſuch ſhould return to virtue, and, in conſequence of their honeſt in⯑duſtry, become in tolerable circumſtances, to ſeek for opportunities to diſtreſs and harraſs them, and ſo prevent the happy effects of their laudable and honeſt endeavours.

As for the taylor, he told him he was well con⯑vinced he had been ſet on by others, and as he had [83] now made a candid and fair confeſſion relative to all thoſe dark conſpiracies which he plainly ſaw were levelled againſt theſe poor repentant ſinners, if he would go on a little further, and join with him in detecting this knot of villains, he might rely upon his favour; and he would enjoy a much higher ſatisfaction—that of diſcharging his duty as an ho⯑neſt man.

The taylor was ſuffered to depart, after faithfully promiſing all that had been enjoined him, and Sir Sidney was, for the firſt time, let into the whole of the myſtery by which the taylor had been prevented from appearing at the trial; for it muſt be under⯑ſtood that Sir Sidney knew the taylor was to be kept away, but he did not know in what manner.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE houſekeeping of Mr. Figgins, near War⯑wick, being now broken up, Charles and his friend returned to Hazard houſe, and Muſquito, Ego, and Toogood to Roebuck hall.

Charles had noticed that Muſquito, in conſe⯑quence of his ſatiric vein, had conceived himſelf a kind of ſuperior to his two companions; for when⯑ever it came up in converſation that they had been ridiculed in the buſineſs of the ghoſt, he took care ſagaciouſly to hint that no one dared play him ſuch a trick.

Our hero was therefore determined to leave him no room for exultation, eſpecially as by the mode through which he intended to ſhew him off, as well as the reſt, he ſhould do even a more meritorious act than he had done in ſaving Emma from the perſecutions of the poet and the muſician. This method of ſtudying miſchief, only by way of in⯑flicting [85] merited puniſhment, was a ſpecies of amuſe⯑ment in which it has been ſeen our hero delighted. It certainly was highly praiſeworthy in one ſenſe, for it turned every thing off with a laugh only againſt the offender, whereas, had it been ſhaped into a complaint, and preferred againſt him to Sir Sidney, it might have endangered the hopes which he built on his patronage.

John Swaſh had a daughter, who muſt have had an uncommon mind for her ſituation in life; for, from her earlieſt infancy, ſhe was remarked to have had a deteſtation to that vice which ſurrounded her. She profitted by avoiding bad examples as much as others by imitating good ones. In ſhort—which is the ſtrongeſt proof that can be given of the excel⯑lence of her heart, and the incorruptibility of her honour, ſhe, at eighteen, was as ſpotleſs a character at Little Hockley, as the moſt innocent inhabitant of her age and ſex could be at Caſtlewick.

The painter had long laid ſiege to this young creature, who had all that beauty which regular features, roſy health, and a perfect ſymmetry of form can give. He drew her likeneſs, and took care it ſhould be a flattering one. He took a ſketch of the mill, and made it a preſent to Swaſh, whoſe profeſſional pride was thus tickled. He painted a [86] favourite tortoiſeſhell cat for the mother, and, in a variety of other inſtances, made his talents ſubſer⯑vient to his wiſhes; but, in particular, he vaunted that he had been the principal inſtrument in de⯑taining the taylor from appearing at the trial.

I know not if the girl's gratitude on the ſide of her duty pleaded in his favour, or whether nature began to whiſper to her that, good as ſhe was, love—as ſomebody has expreſſed it—is the ſovereign end of our being; but certainly ſhe began to liſten to the painter's converſation with pleaſure, and as ſhe had never in her life been controlled, ſcrupled not to walk with him in an evening. She ſoon, however, repented of her complaiſance, and was almoſt fatally convinced on what terms theſe oppor⯑tunities were requeſted. She reſented his inſolence, which was manuel as well as verbal, and without ceremony informed her mother of all that had paſſed, who, good woman, I am ſorry to ſay it, did not make ſuch forcible objections to it as the daughter did. To ſay the truth, ſhe had a large fa⯑mily, and looked upon her daughters as much in the light of traffic, as her barley meal. In ſhort, won by a handſome ſum, a promiſe of painting her picture in the attitude of milking a favourite cow, and a half anker of genuine nantz—with ſhame I write it—after but little heſitation, ſhe agreed to [87] this method of providing for her girl as ſhe called it.

This good woman, in her youth, had been toler⯑ably handſome herſelf. Maſter Fluſh had been heard to intimate that he fancied the governor—meaning Standfaſt—had taken care to provide a birth in heaven for Maſter Swaſh, in the month of April; but I am afraid nobody had ſo ſtrong a claim to that favour as Lord Hazard.

Charles had eyed this girl with pleaſure, but would not for the univerſe have given way to the ſhadow of an impulſe to her diſhonour. And here it may not be amiſs to beg the reader will ſtop with me, and admire how greatly to our own advantage we take reſolutions which are in favour of virtue; for it is within poſſibility that, had our hero given way to an inclination natural enough for a youth of warm blood to entertain, and I hope full as natural if there were any thing like honour in his diſpoſition, to conquer—hear it ye ſeducers of virtue! Ye mercileſs triumphant deſpoilers of innocence! who are cruel becauſe you have power!—inſolent be⯑cauſe victorious!—hear it, and reflect with horror on the miſeries that to often reſult from your vices,—he might have contaminated a ſiſter!!

[88] From ſo deplorable a crime, however uninten⯑tional, did Charles, by his perſeverance in his ho⯑nourable reſolutions, very probably eſcape; for he, by his frequent chat with this girl, had taught her boſom to glow with tenderneſs, but having put the curb, as we have ſeen, upon his wiſhes, and ceaſed to be particular from the moment he was apprehen⯑ſive of danger—during which interval the painter ſtept in—ſhe found ſome pleaſure, which the reader may be aſſured is not unnatural, in liſtening to lan⯑guage of the ſame kind from another, even though it was not ſo eloquently worded, or ſo gracefully delivered.

As Charles withdrew his attention from this girl upon a ground for which ſhe loved him ſtill more—for he made no ſcruple of confeſſing the truth—the poor girl having been repulſed by her mother, as we have ſeen, or rather encouraged to make her fortune, according to the old gentlewoman, by that which, according to any body elſe, would have been her ruin, was walking ſolitary and unhappy by the ſide of her father's mill-ſtream, when Figgins and our hero paſſed by. Charles ſaw the pearly tear ſtanding on her cheek, and very good naturedly enquired the cauſe. After a little reluctance ſhe informed him, and concluded her artleſsly pathetic [89] ſtory with ſaying ‘'Indeed it is a ſad thing when a poor girl's mother bids her to be wicked; but I won't be wicked, if I am ever ſo undutiful I won't.'’

Both Charles and Figgins commended her laudable reſolution, and now occurred an admirable oppor⯑tunity of puniſhing the painter in his own way. He immediately told the girl of his intention; to for⯑ward which, ſhe was deſired to acquaint her mo⯑ther that ſhe would be a good girl, and behave civil to the gentleman, and, when he came, ſhe ſhould make him an appointment in the duſk of the even⯑ing in the bed chamber; that he would let her father privately into the ſecret, who ſhould, in concert with them, ſo revenge himſelf upon her audacious lover, as to leave him very little reliſh for ſuch a⯑muſement in future.

The girl was charmed to find her cauſe taken up ſo warmly by our hero, for ſhe knew, let what would happen, the painter muſt not dare to com⯑plain.

The aſſignation was made, and Swaſh apprized of the whole buſineſs. The painter, as may naturally be ſuppoſed, attended punctually, and the huſband being, as it was imagined, ſafe at the ale houſe, the [90] amorous Appelles was conducted to the young lady's bed chamber, by her accommodating mamma, and deſired to go to bed, where he ſhould be made as happy as he could wiſh.

He had not lain long in this ſituation, before he heard a foot upon the ſtairs, when immediately his heart beat high, his fancy anticipated the expected pleaſure, and all his ſenſes were in an alarm; but, however, all theſe were nothing to the alarm that preſently followed. In ruſhed—at leaſt his fears made him believe ſo—half a dozen myrmidons; pop half a dozen times went half a dozen piſtols; the firſt of which was a ſufficient intimation that the ſalute had very little of love in it. Indeed he won⯑dered how it came that he was not a dead man, for his fears had wounded him in twenty places.

The very firſt of theſe hints he took, and darting out of the foot of the bed, he preſently cleared the landing place, and gained the bottom of the ſtairs; by which time he received a few more compliments of the ſame kind. Theſe, however, though they were unneceſſary to refreſh his memory, haſtened his departure, which he took without paying the ſmalleſt compliment to any of the family, but ruſh⯑ing out at the ſtreet door, made his way acroſs a paddock, which led to the road; his purſuers ſtill [91] popping at ſuch a rate, that he verily believed he was flying from a whole platoon.

Being come to a bank, he collected his whole might to jump over the hedge, into the road, but the diſtance being greater than he imagined, he plunged, with all his force, naked as he was, into a bramble buſh, which clinging in a hundred places to his ſhirt, and in as many to his fleſh, pinned him down ſo firmly, that he was obliged to make ſeveral excruciating efforts to free himſelf. He did ſo how⯑ever at laſt, but finding himſelf ſurrounded with enemies, who were ſtill popping at him, he doubled as artfully as any Jack hare, and was followed as cloſely, with this difference, that the game opened inſtead of the pack; for he yelped, howled, ſwore, ejaculated, curſed, and prayed, in ſuch a ſtrange collection of hyſterical tones, that the muſician, who was then preſent, had as much reaſon to be enraged as Hogarth's, for all the complicated din there deſ⯑cribed, ſeemed to be centured in one perſon.

This diſcordance however did not laſt long, for trying to croſs the mill ſtream by a bridge, which to be ſure had been laid down an hour before, but was now drawn up, poor Muſquito came ſouſe over head and ears into the water, which being in that part pretty deep, would have cooled him for in⯑triguing, [92] and every thing elſe in this world, had not a large fiſhing net been previouſly placed to receive him.

The net was immediately drawn up, which, with all the haſte they could make however, was not ef⯑fected before the poor painter had totally loſt his ſenſes.

He was now put into a ſhell, and the church being near, carried to the bone houſe, where being held up by the heels, a quantity of water ran out of his mouth, and he preſently exhibited ſigns of life. The moment this event took place, they hurried off with the lanthorn—the only light they had—and the ſexton, who, being a friend to the miller, connived at the trick, immediately returned with his mattock and ſhovel on his ſhoulder.

‘'There,' ſaid he, as if to himſelf, 'that job's done.'’ ‘'Oh d d d d dear,' cried the painter,’ ‘'It is odd there ſhould be nobody to own the man,' cried the ſexton, putting down his things.’ ‘'B b b oh—ah—oh—' cried the painter.’ ‘'I have made him a good grave, however,' cried the ſexton, 'and as ſoon as the coroner's queſt has ſat upon him—'’

[93] The painter now muſtered ſtrength enough to ſit up, and cried, ‘'Oh d d d d dear—f f f f friend.'—’ ‘'Lord, what's that!' ſaid the ſexton.’ ‘'Oh f f f f for the love of God help me,' cried Muſquito.’ ‘'Why lookee now,' ſaid the ſexton, 'here's my man come to life. Lie down now doey; lie down, I ha been juſt making your grave.'’ ‘'Oh Lord,' exclaimed the painter, 'my g g g g grave!'’ ‘'Ay ay, nobody will own you, you ſee, and ſo we ſhall bury you to-morrow morning.'’

‘'Bury me!' cried the painter, who had by this time got out of the ſhell. 'Oh Chriſt, where am I brought to?'—then looking round him—'Oh, dear friend have pity upon me.'’ ‘'Odds wounds,' cried the ſexton, 'don't come nigh me; I never could abide a dead body in my life, unleſs in the way of buſineſs, and when it was ſcrewed up, as a body may ſay: ſo don't come nigh me.'’

The painter told him he was alive, the ſexton ſaid he was a damned liar, and took up the lanthorn to be gone: the painter followed: the ſexton hol⯑howing out ‘'the devil take the hindmoſt.'’ At length, turning round a corner of the church, he blew out the candle, ſlipt away, and the painter found himſelf alone, ſore from head to foot, wet and naked, in the middle of a church yard, above [94] two miles from Sir Sidney's, at half an hour paſt ten o'clock at night.

In this condition he poſted to the alehouſe, where he intended to have trumped up a ſtory of his being robbed, but his old friend the ſexton being the firſt man he ſaw in the room, he only deſired the uſe of ſome clothes, for which he ſaid he would ſatisfy them handſomely.

The man of the houſe agreed to accommodate him, and fetched ſome things for that purpoſe, which Muſquito put on before the fire; for the landlady was gone to bed. In the mean time the gueſts were not ſparing of their jokes. ‘'Bleſs me,' ſaid one, 'the gentleman has been ſadly mauled with zummet! He looks as if he had tumbled into a hornet's neſt.'’ ‘'Icod,' ſaid another, 'I think its more like being ſcratched with cats.'’ ‘'Very loikely,' ſaid another, 'two legged cats may hap.'’ ‘'Lord love you,' cried the ſexton, 'you noas no⯑thing about it. The gentleman was tooked up in the mill-dam. They miſtooken for a viſh.—Dam maw, I thoughten the biggeſt Jack I ever ſawed. And ſo as I was a telling you, when the gentleman coomed in, we took un to the boane-houſe. Adds waunds meaſter, you do ought to [95] give maw zummet to drink your health, after making your grave.'’

The painter did not reply a ſingle word to all this wit; but, having hurried on the landlord's clothes, and ſaid he would return them in the morning, and ſatisfy him for his trouble, he ſneaked to Sir Sid⯑ney's, and ſkulked up ſtairs to bed.

Charles and Figgins came in the morning to breakfaſt. Every body was very inquiſitive to know how it happened that the painter had not ſupped at home. One ſaid ſignificantly he was perhaps better engaged; another, that whatever his amuſement was, he hoped it was to his liking. In ſhort, the poor painter was handſomely played off. At laſt it came to Sir Sidney's turn, who ſaid honeſt Swaſh had been with him that morning about an affair ſomething in the ſtyle of the ſoldier and the king of France:—the ſoldier craved pardon for having thrown a man's hat out of window, and, having ob⯑tained it, ſaid he had thrown his head out too.

Here Sir Sidney related the whole buſineſs of the preceding evening, as indeed he had heard it from Charles, not from Swaſh. He concealed his know⯑ledge of the gallant, who, he ſaid, was rightly ſerved, and he only wiſhed the next time the gentleman, [96] whoever he was, took it into his head to corrupt innocence and deſtroy domeſtic peace, he would never after having done ſo preſume to come into his preſence. He concluded with reprobating the con⯑duct of the mother, and heartily recommending the girl to Lady Roebuck's notice, who declared, as Emma was in want of an aſſiſtant, ſhe ſhould be im⯑mediately placed about the perſon of Annette.

CHAPTER IX.

IT never, for a ſingle moment, occurred to Charles that he had wrought an event moſt wonderfully in his own favour by thus puniſhing the painter; for Jude—ſo was the miller's daughter called—rang the changes in his praiſe ſo continually, that, as her voice was the voice of nature, and her ſentiments ſtrong genuine gratitude, his cauſe could not even in Emma have had half ſo powerful an advocate: nay with Emma herſelf:—for though ſhe was well enough pleaſed that the youth had conceived favour⯑able thoughts of her, though ſhe admired the ready willingneſs with which he had corrected his error, yet there was, with her, a diſtinct difference in the two caſes. As to herſelf, ſhe was a hoſt alone; ſhe defied temptation; and, to ſuch a youth as Charles, ſhe was rather pleaſed than concerned that ſhe had had an opportunity of ſhewing upon what erroneous ground he began his career, and what certain mi⯑ſery would be the conſequence of his perſuting in [98] indiſcriminate purſuits, in which he might be aſ⯑ſured, though he would often dupe others, he would oftener be duped himſelf.

Emma repreſented to him that the ſenſations of a tender and ſuſceptible heart, which had given a ſin⯑gle pang to ſuffering virtue, muſt be intolerable; and therefore conjured him to ceaſe from a conduct which was fooliſh as well as wicked, impolitic as well as unworthy; for it was a barter of virtue for infamy, tranſient pleaſure for laſting pain: and however conſonant to the boiſterous and turbulent paſſions of youth, would, throughout his life, be overſhadowed by a cloud of wretchedneſs, which the ſplendour of rank and diſtinction would vainly ſtruggle to diſſipate.

To ſay the truth, this incident had touched Emma in the right key; for if ſhe gave Charles credit for his delicate and honourable treatment of Jude, how much then was due to her admonitions which pro⯑duced it?

If Emma had a weak ſide, certainly this was it. She was perfectly a ſchemer on the ſide of virtue, and thought the paſſions might be bottled up, like the winds of Aeolus; forgetting that there never wants curious and turbulent ſpirits to let them out, [99] not only to excite freſh dangers, but make the caſe worſe, by leaving no remedy.

Nevertheleſs, nothing could be purer than poor Emma's intentions, which, though they were not always infallible, hit nine times out of ten as ſhe wiſhed they ſhould. Here it was impoſſible they ſhould miſs. Standfaſt indeed, had he ſo far con⯑deſcended, would have at pleaſure changed the form of every one of them; and, ſpight of Emma's pene⯑tration, have ſhewn them, even to her, ſo deformed that ſhe ſhould ſcarcely have known them for her own.

This gentleman, however, ſeems to be meditat⯑ing at a diſtance; and, as the courſe is left free for youth, ſweetneſs, good nature, and ingenuity to pay their open court to beauty, modeſty, and delicate ſenſibility, no wonder if, ſanctioned by parents, ſtrongly ſupported by irreſiſtible advocates, and their mutual wiſhes being in their eſſence eminently congenial, a ſtrong, and, one would think, indiſſo⯑luble compact muſt naturally be formed between Charles and Annette.

To ſpeak plain, which I, as well as Emma, think the beſt way, ſo many were the deſirable ends an union between this amiable couple promiſed to ae⯑compliſh, [100] that, had it not been for their youth—though probably they would not have found that an objection—neither themſelves, the fathers and mo⯑thers, connections and dependants, the two villages of Caſtlewick and Little Hockley—for Little Hock⯑ley was really now riſing into ſame, in ſpight of Mrs. Swaſh and her unworthy propenſities, for which, between the reader and I, ſhe got well thraſhed by her huſband—not one of theſe I ſay but would have bleſſed the day which united this lovely pair, and, what to ſome of them would not have been an un⯑welcome object, have produced an extraordinary grand feaſt.

But whether fortune thought with Emma that virtues and paſſions are given us to be exerciſed and controlled, or whether the mind, like the conſtitu⯑tion, is ſoberer in its age for having been taken down in its youth, I ſhall not pretend to decide here:—certain it is that the blind and varying god⯑deſs did not altogether take part with the friends of our hero and heroine; the reaſon why, and the man⯑ner how, ſhe thought proper to diſſent from this otherwiſe unanimous opinion, will hereafter be gra⯑dually developed. In the mean time, I am really concerned that, juſt when we find Charles and An⯑nette in the full enjoyment of their friends' admira⯑tion, and that of one another, I ſhould be under the [101] unpleaſant neceſſity of throwing as complete a damp over all their ſpirits—ſuch a ſcene of light and dark⯑neſs is this life—as I had before preſented to them of joy and exultation.

I am ſure the very name of poor Lady Hazard will anticipate every word of the ſad tale it is my un⯑willing duty to relate. This amiable lady, this lovely, this fatal ſacrifice to complicated villany, whoſe fall was doomed to tear the heart of him who in early life had departed from the paths of honour: This charming victim, who it ſhould ſeem by an error of fate received the blow that was meant for her lord:—But it was no error; it is blindneſs to ſuppoſe fate can err; he was to live, that in the ex⯑piation of his original guilt, his pangs might tor⯑ture him with accumulated keenneſs:—

Sweet Lady Hazard, who had ſeemed to decline with the ſummer, had been for ſome weeks evi⯑dently haſtening to her diſſolution, when at length the ſolemn ſentence of the phyſicians precluded all hope. Indeed ſhe felt that a few hours would put a period to her ſufferings, and deſired, with calm reſignation, that ſhe might, for the laſt time, ſee her friends about her.

This affecting requeſt was ſoon complied with, [102] for Lady Roebuck had been almoſt continually with her from the moment ſhe was in actual danger, and though our hero and his companions had, at differ⯑ent opportunities, employed their time as we have ſeen, yet the moſt thoughtleſs of them would at any moment have flown to have contributed in the ſlighteſt degree to her eaſe or comfort. In fact, ſhe was gliding out of the world by ſuch imperceptible degrees, that, as ſhe ſupported her melancholy ſitu⯑ation with wonderful fortitude, there had ever been, till very lately, ſome ſlight hope of her recovery.

Lord Hazard had ſome time, by her own parti⯑cular deſire, been left alone with his lady. Before however I relate what paſſed at this affecting inter⯑view, that I may not improperly interrupt the reader's banquet of grief—which by ſome is thought to be a very delicious luxury—I ſhall notice, in order, if poſſible, to heighten the lovelineſs of Lady Hazard, and the wretchedneſs of her Lord, that, owing to ſome expreſſions which fell from the ſur⯑geon, during the operation at the John of Gaunt—which I have deſcribed as particular as was neceſſary or delicate—ſhe became acquainted with that ſecret which ſeems to be ſet up as a beacon in this hiſtory to warn the reader that a very ſmall deviation from prudence may plunge a family into irretrievable miſery.

[103] The interview between Lord and Lady Hazard was of that affecting kind that at once excites pity and terror. It was one of thoſe moments when the tongue denies relief to the heart, when nature would ſink but for the aſſiſtance of madneſs, and when the preſſure of calamity numbs the keenneſs of its tor⯑ture.

Lord Hazard, overwhelmed with the recollection of his unworthineſs, and loaded with the ſelf-re⯑proaching conſciouſneſs of his guilt, lay in a torpid ſtupor. His angel wife, though every ſigh haſtened her departure, pitied his pangs, and ſorrowed for his ſufferings. He, burning to diſcloſe what ſhame forbid him to utter, and ſhe dreading a horrid tale ſhe had long and ſilently anticipated!

In this ſtate—that hand of death extended over her brow which he would have given the world to have been directed to his—no merciful tear to relieve his ſwolen heart, he muſt have expired with exceſ⯑ſive ſenſibility, had not a few inarticulate ſounds, accompanied by a piteous ſigh, burſt from his tor⯑tured boſom.

‘'Be calm, my ſweet love,' cried Lady Hazard:’ ‘'Calm!' returned he’—her celeſtial voice penetrat⯑ing his torn heart, and the tears guſhing in torrents [104] from his eyes— ‘'Yes, calm as the pitileſs butcher that kills the innocent lamb! When thy ſpotleſs ſoul ſhall look down with juſt horror and kind commiſeration on thy polluted huſband, and thy cruel murderer, then tell me to be calm! Infuſe thy incomparable innocence into my culpable heart, inſpire me with virtue, and teach me to be happy. See! Oh heavenly God!—ſhe hears me with ſorrow, but not with aſtoniſhment! She knew it!—'tis plain ſhe knew it!—and my foul crimes have, like the influence of a malignant poiſon, ſlowly conſumed her life! Pity, pardon, immaculate angel!—But my thoughtleſs frenzy is too much for her tender frame. How are you, my love? She anſwers wildly!'’—And ſo indeed ſhe did. Lord Hazard's violence had thrown her into a delirium, in which ſhe remained a few mi⯑nutes, and then expired!

The incoherent expreſſions ſhe uttered during this melancholy interval, ſufficiently confimed Lord Hazard that his lady was but too well acquainted with the fatal ſecret; and, leſt he ſhould not be wretched enough at her loſs, he had now the addi⯑tional reflection that his crime had firſt ſapped the foundation of her peace, and afterwards gradually deſtroyed her life. Regardleſs however of any diſ⯑covery, or its conſequences, he ſummoned every [105] poſſible aſſiſtance to her aid; but no ſyllable that eſ⯑caped Lady Hazard reached any ear, except that Charles, who firſt entered the room, heard his mo⯑ther fervently exclaim, which were the laſt words ſhe uttered, ‘'If any bleſſings were in ſtore for me, of which I have been untimely deprived, ſhower them, merciful heaven, upon the head of my dear boy.'’

CHAPTER X.

Having ſo completely thrown the two families in the country into the vapours, as to make it im⯑poſſible they ſhould play any of their whimſical tricks in our abſence, the reader and I will take a look at Mr. Standfaſt and his aſſociates; and, as much as any thing, becauſe it is now high time that we ſhould reſcue that gentleman's fame from ſuch an opprobrious ſtain as that of having compaſſed the death of Lady Hazard, and brought about that ſcene of diſtreſs deſcribed in the laſt chapter, ſolely for the purpoſe of doing miſchief.

I am ready to grant that no man upon earth had more ſatisfaction in contemplating the wretchedneſs which was produced by any one of his contrivances, but then I do inſiſt that it was not ſo much for the pleaſure of the thing, as the collateral conſideration; and I ſincerely believe, ill as I think of him, that could he have had the ſmalleſt chance of doubling his [107] advantage, be it in profit or pleaſure, by ſacrific⯑ing his whole party, he would not have made a ſingle ſcruple.

But, to argue this matter fairly. What had Mr. Standfaſt gained by heaping all this complicated miſchief on the head of his friend and benefactor, but an addition to the ſalary which he had honeſtly earned by being tutor to Charles? Why nothing literally, to be ſure, as to himſelf. As to whom then? This is an article that remains to be ac⯑counted for. Again, if Mr. Standfaſt, on his own account, received no other ſatisfaction—which ſurely was a ſmall reward for ſuch eminent villany—what other motive ſtimulated him? Revenge.—Revenge! Yes:—and now let me get rid of theſe two articles. And firſt, as to whom he ſeemed to be working for.

Know then reader that Mr. Standfaſt, the con⯑ſummately artful Mr. Standfaſt, whoſe ſuperior talents in the craft of inflicting unmerited calamity none ever attained, whoſe truly diabolical ſpirit never conceived miſchief complete unleſs the ſhaft with which it wounded ſtruck at virtue, who could cajole and cozen all the world, and dupe every one elſe, was himſelf a dupe to—Mrs. O'Shockneſy!

[108] Here is the collateral conſideration, but whence the revenge? From the ſame quarter. Mr. Stand⯑faſt, who held all women as his ſlaves, who treated ſerious, reaſonable, honourable love as a banter; who mocked at the very idea of a ſolemn and ſacred obligation to a woman; this very Mr. Standfaſt,—pity him, oh pity him, villain as he is—was a ſlave to Mrs. O'Shockneſy. Hence his revenge. He was her firſt love; was the friend of him who killed her huſband in a duel; ſhe had a child by him before ſhe ſaw Lord Hazard, and would have married him, but that his lordſhip ſtept in and carried her:—nay, let me whiſper to the reader, that it was not impoſſible but Zekiel was his ſon.

A number of doubts which the reader had before formed, are now diſſipated; nor will it be neceſſary to go again over the minutiae of Mr. Standfaſt's conduct, which was dictated by her, though car⯑ried into effect by him; and, as ſhe dared join oſ⯑tenſible acts to his covert ones, what wonder if the unſuſpecting virtue of Lord Hazard was ſur⯑priſed.

Her views and her ambition were obvious.—Lady Hazard was to be put out of the way by a diabo⯑lical contrivance, which, had it been avowed, could have faſtened nothing on its perpetrators. His lord⯑ſhip [109] would naturally be inconſolable for her loſs, and who knew if he would ſurvive it, when he came to conſider that it originated in his guilt. Should this imaginary bleſſing be realized, her ſon would come into poſſeſſion of the title and eſtate; if not, ſhe would at leaſt have the triumphant con⯑ſolation that ſhe had imbittered his future felicity.

This conduct was natural and common, infa⯑mous as it was. But how ſhall we account for that of her paramour, who could not, fond ſoul, reſt in the country abſent from her he loved. Charles, as to Miſs Figgins, was a ſtoic to him. The lady had promiſed, on the death of Lady Hazard, to honour him with her hand, and inſtead of going to receive the laſt benediction of an expiring uncle, his buſi⯑neſs in town was to keep from expiring the valuable love of the amiable Mrs. O'Shockneſy.

Thus, while friendſhip, obligation, and all other ties that naturally induce gratitude, only ſtimulated Mr. Standfaſt to every atrocious and raſcally mea⯑ſure that could ſap the foundation, and lay a train for the deſtruction, of that love and harmony that were exemplary in the family of his patron and be⯑nefactor. The mere whim and caprice of a wo⯑man, whom he knew to be worthleſs, and com⯑pletely the reverſe of every thing for which ſhe could [110] expect admiration, made him—expert as he was at every thing artful, proof as he was againſt every thing but ſelf—undertake the moſt wicked, as well as the moſt ſilly, things in nature. Here is a Hercules, not contented with wielding the club—not quite ſo worthily, by the bye—he buckles to the diſtaff.

It will be unneceſſary for me to mention that Figgins was ſent for and fixed with Charles by Mr. Standfaſt's participation; nor will it very probably have eſcaped the reader's ſagacity that the whole affair of Miſs Figgins, who had not been with child, was nothing more than to hold out a pretended ſe⯑cret over the head of that young gentleman; for both Standfaſt and Figgins well knew that there is not a ſtronger hold of a grateful and generous heart than the knowledge of obligation: and this is the ſort of credulity I have deſcribed as a part of our hero's compoſition, which, throughout his life, induced him to be thankful to others for lending him imaginary benefits, that they might receive from him real ones.

But why ſhould Charles be devoted to the ſame ruin with others? He could not poſſibly hinder any one of their ſchemes. He had nothing that could give them the ſmalleſt uneaſineſs. Was it [111] then nothing to be the darling child, the hopeful cheriſhed favourite, while Mrs. O'Shockneſy and her ſon were turned into the world, the ſport of malicious tongues, and the veſtiges of fallen great⯑neſs? Charles—though were the records of the human heart ſearched for every thing good and great that ever made up an amiable character, the ſame marks of worth would be found in his:—Charles muſt be traduced, muſt be vilified, it was neceſſary, it was material; he muſt be ſunk that his elder brother might riſe. Beſides, Mr. Stand⯑faſt had a huſband in his eye for Annette; a better huſband; ſince who can deny but a rich, ſenſible, thinking youth, as one will appear, anſwers that deſcription more perfectly than a poor, vicious, diſ⯑ſipated, inconſtant wretch, as will be the character of the other.

Reader, it was not Zekiel that our friend Stand⯑faſt had found out for Annette. I know not if ſuch an attempt would not have been a touch even above his art; but, however, that young gentleman will probably ſhew, by and by, that he would chuſe to be conſulted before any material ſtep ſhould be taken that concerned him.

Maſter Zekiel had, at the time I am ſpeaking, pretty decided opinions, and one of them was to [112] appear, however he might really be, ſatisfied with all his mother and Mr. Standfaſt ſhould determine, unleſs they ſhould aſk him to ſign any paper, which he was fully reſolved never to do.

As the reader has not yet heard the upſhot of the buſineſs relative to thoſe letters wherein an applica⯑tion was made for the grant of the eſtate in War⯑wickſhire, I may as well inform him here that Sir Sidney's application rendered that of Mrs. O'Shock⯑neſy and her ſon fruitleſs; therefore, through Standfaſt's advice, an addition was made to the an⯑nual ſtipend of the ſon, who immediately left Eaton, and went to France, with Snaffle for his companion, and Fluſh for his valet; while Dogbolt, who had long ago dropt his title, being a handſome fellow, occaſionally comforted Mrs. O'Shockneſy, when Mr. Standfaſt, who as yet dared not ſee her, except by ſtealth, was out of the way.

Mr. Kiddy had taken good care to make himſelf particularly uſeful to Zekiel, who ſwore there was ſo much fun and gig about the rum dog, that he would rather have him for a companion than all the black-jacket codgers in England.

Whether Kiddy had any latent meaning in the ſingular pains he took to ingratiate himſelf with his [113] young maſter, I will not here enquire; but certain⯑ly Standfaſt one day told him to take care how he came on, to which Kiddy archly replied, ‘'Oh, as for that, maſter governor, don't you go for to be uneaſy: honour you know among thieves.'’

Thus have I ſhewn, when all things are conſi⯑dered, that Standfaſt was the worſt actor in his own farce. Nay I know not, upon all great occaſions, whether to the ſubordinate objects the whole praiſe is not attributable. Trim ſays, while he is muſter⯑ing his tattered troop, fifty thouſand ſuch ragged raſcals as theſe would make an ALEXANDER, and who can deny but the taylor and the mantua-maker tell truth when they ſay that the ſplendour of the birth night is owing to them.

CHAPTER XI.

FOR want of leiſure, or perhaps inclination, or for ſome other wiſe reaſon, no leſs cogent, I did not mention to the reader that, at the laſt grand feaſt, a young ſtranger appeared, and indeed attracted a great deal of notice. He was then juſt arrived from Madeira, and brought letters to Sir Sidney from a merchant there, with whom the baronet dealt for wines, and tranſacted other buſineſs. Coming ſo opportunely, he was invited to the feaſt, and cut, as I have ſaid, no inconſiderable figure.

Charles took great pleaſure in accommodating this gentleman, whoſe name was Gloſs; ſtudying his eaſe and convenience while he remained in War⯑wickſhire. He requeſted the pleaſure of correſ⯑ponding with him, and begged his intimate friend⯑ſhip when he ſhould return to England, with a view of ſettling, which he talked of doing after he ſhould have taken a trip to the Cape of Good Hope, where [115] his father had died immenſely rich, on his return from India.

The winter had now began ſo to perriwig the trees, as ſomebody has called it—by the way, ſome⯑body and nobody are very uſeful figures in rhe⯑toric—that the ſemicircle of evergreens before Sir Sidney's ſaloon, with the cluſters near it, looked like a vegetable court of judges and counſellors, in powdered ties and full-bottoms.

This hint, and a call of the houſe of commons—for Sir Sidney had ſtayed in the country beyond his uſual time, rouſed the baronet, and made him be⯑gin to think of putting on his boots. Yet not even his duty, dearly as he loved it, could induce him to ſtir a ſtep without Lord Hazard, who was become what SHAKESPEARE ſays of life, ‘'a walking ſhadow.'’

Lord Hazard looked upon himſelf as the execu⯑tioner of his wife, and though his grief was inward, yet it did not eſcape ſuch vigilant friendſhip as Sir Sidney's. His lordſhip declared he would de⯑vote himſelf to retirement. His friends, however, at length prevailed; and, to make the ſatisfaction complete and univerſal, Annette was, for the firſt time, to ſee London, accompanied by Emma.

[116] It was the continual ſtudy of every one to make Lord Hazard's time paſs agreeably, in which plea⯑ſurable taſk Mr. Standfaſt now aſſiſted, whoſe pre⯑ſence his lordſhip confeſſed contributed greatly to relieve his care, though heaven knows he had no ſuch intention; for his viſits were for no other pur⯑poſe than to warn him of certain ſnares which Mrs. O'Shockneſy was not preparing for him, in order, if poſſible, to entangle him in others that ſhe was.

About Chriſtmas arrived Charles's friend Gloſs, from the Cape of Good Hope, where he had, he ſaid, ſettled his affairs greatly to his ſatisfaction.—He brought anſwers to ſome letters with which Sir Sidney entruſted him for Madeira.

As Mr. Gloſs will hereafter cut no inconſiderable figure in this hiſtory, it may not be improper to give ſome account of him. He was the ſon of a clergyman, who, probably, knowing that the ad⯑vancement in the learned profeſſions was a thing that depended leſs upon merit than intereſt, had bred him up to trade: not ſparing, however, to give him a complete education, which he very pro⯑perly thought could do him no harm in any ſitua⯑tion.

[117] One thing, however, was very romantic in this ſcheme. All theſe bricks were to be made without ſtraw; for the old gentleman either could not, or would not, give his ſon a ſhilling, towards laying a foundation for that fortune he was nevertheleſs ſure he would one day or other make. But having added the living languages to the dead ones, and procured a recommendation for him to a counting⯑houſe at Liſbon, they parted: the father furniſhing him with ſome excellent rules for the regulation of his future conduct, and forbidding him to draw for any thing but advice.

The young gentleman's temper happened luckily to fall in with his father's. He undertook, if he were eligibly ſet out, to make his fortune. His maxims were, from early youth, that if a man choſe to fix his eye upon a ſpot, let it be ever ſo out of his preſent reach, or ſurrounded by ever ſuch diffi⯑culties, through perſeverance it might be come at. In little, he had proved this doctrine to be founded; for he never in his life poſſeſſed, in his own right, a ſingle ſixpence, and yet he had cut a figure with the beſt.

It is curious to remark, that though no man upon earth knew better the value of ſubſtance than Mr. Gloſs, yet he ſeem conſtantly to live upon [118] ſhadow. The appearance, and not the thing itſelf, ſeemed to be what he moſt delighted in. He ſo com⯑pletely turned round all his employers in their own buſineſs, that the tide of their fortune ſoon ran in a larger channel, and they were aſtoniſhed at the riches which originated from plans of his adviſing. They however little conſidered what a yoke they were forming for themſelves; for it was not long before the young gentleman ſtipulated for a parti⯑cipation of their profits, in conſequence of which he took the earlieſt opportunity to involve the af⯑fairs of the partnerſhip, and was the only one able to ſave any thing from the wreck of a bankruptcy, in which the whole concern was ſoon involved.

After this ſtroke he went to Madeira, where he drew a picture of the folly of his partners, and ſhewed very clearly—for it is certainly true that people are to be reaſoned into, as well as out of, any thing—how unwiſely they had acted, and how fooliſhly he had thrown away his time.

Being, through a houſe with which he had been connected, very ſoon taken in an active partner, for a ſlight ſhare of the profits, and with liberty to trade privately on his own account, he entered into the ſpirit of the Madeira trade in ſuch a ſtyle as aſtoniſh⯑ed every merchant on the iſland. He had the ad⯑dreſs [119] to tie the Dunkirk dealers down to give him and his connections a preference in brandies, pro⯑vided they dealt to ſuch an amount; in conſequence of which he ſoon had it in his power to ſtagnate the Dunkirk trade in Madeira, by being able to un⯑derſell the brandy merchants themſelves, who, eager to catch at the bait he held out for them, had ſup⯑plied him largely, little ſuſpecting he would hold back what he had bought, with a view of foreſtalling their next market.

I give this as one among a variety of inſtances in which he ſaw further into people's affairs than they did themſelves. By this means he had reſources for them which they never dreamt of, and of courſe was able to ſtipulate for better terms for himſelf.

In the mean time it was, one would think, this man's pride never to have a ſhilling he could call his own. Nothing was expenſive enough for him, and when it was his turn to treat at Bachelor's-hall,—a place at Madeira built by the unmarried men, and remarkable for hoſpitality—it was in a ſtyle that aſtoniſhed every body: for his taſte was equal to his ingenuity.

At length Madeira became too barren a ſpot for the fecundity of his genius. He left it after giv⯑ing [120] it many real advantages, and was univerſally regretted, as a man wonderfully calculated for bu⯑ſineſs, and yet a moſt agreeable companion.

He got a conſiderable ſum for his concern in the houſe he left, which he took care, in a few months, to get rid of in England.

The reader remembers that this gentleman brought letters from his connections in Madeira to Sir Sidney. Theſe were of courſe greatly in his fa⯑vour. Indeed the baronet was very well diſpoſed to ſhew him any kindneſs; but it was among the maxims of Mr. Gloſs never to make uſe of a friend except to carry a material point, and a man muſt be very ſhallow indeed if he could not pretty well gueſs beforehand whether that point could be carried.

The plan upon which this young gentleman pro⯑ceeded was very ſimple, but it required conſummate talents. It was nothing more than to adminiſter to every man's foibles, and reprobate his vices. It is imppoſſible to deſcribe how a man is infallibly taken hold of by a conduct of this kind. Very few are uniformly good, or uniformly wicked; therefore, all who are not have both follies and vices mixed with ſome good qualities, Our follies are always agree⯑able [121] to us, but though all vices are the conſequence of them, we deteſt the vice itſelf, while we hug the folly that may have cauſed it. Cloſe however as we may take folly to our hearts, we never fail to be privately aſhamed of ourſelves for it, nor to at⯑tribute, in the face of the world, our actions to any thing elſe rather than this hidden cauſe. What power then muſt that man have over you, who, by encouraging you in your foibles, not only has diſ⯑covered this pleaſurable deformity you are ſo ſtudious to hide, but, by gloſſing it over, contrives to make you believe it appears as agreeable to him as to yourſelf. This man has your heart fully and wholly, and there is nothing you can deny him.

This was Mr. Gloſs, who, however he came by it, had this art in the higheſt perfection, and knew ſo well how and upon whom to play his game, that he was ever ſure of coming off winner.

Nor are the talents which form this character of neceſſity required to be very brilliant, though va⯑rious and perſpicuous. They are of the minor kind: a quickneſs of conception, a cloſe obſervation on men and manners, ſome ſhrewdneſs, and a good memory compriſing them all: to which indeed—but that would be a deduction in worthy matters— [122] muſt be indiſpenſibly added, frontleſs impudence and a total want of feeling.

Any man with theſe in his poſſeſſion, if he em⯑ploy himſelf in nothing but this purſuit, will ar⯑rive to as great perfection in the noble art of play⯑ing upon mankind, as will raiſe him to that degree of conſequence he may think proper.

Theſe qualifications ſtood with Mr. Gloſs in the place of Fortune, and with theſe he turned that fickle lady's wheel as he thought proper.

Will not the reader begin to feel uncomfortable when, in conformity to that veracity which all hiſ⯑torians ſhould critically keep in view, I am obliged to declare that this was the gentleman Mr. Stand⯑faſt had in his eye as a huſband for Annette.

Charles, Figgins, and Mr. Gloſs were inſepe⯑rable. The latter cut a prodigious figure. He had an elegant chariot, half a dozen footmen, and might have been taken for a newly arrived nabob. It was an extraordinary thing, however, that go where they would, though he was ſure to run up a moſt expenſive reckoning, he, by ſome careleſſneſs or other, conſtantly left his purſe at home, ſo that [123] he preſently became indebted to Charles more than two hundred pounds in odds and ends of this kind.

This paſſed off as eccentricity, and as he had a moſt agreeable apparent indolence of mind, which, by the way, was what Kiddy would have called a copy of his countenance, he appeared to our hero the moſt delightful companion he had ever met with.

It was agreed that Charles, with Figgins as a companion, ſhould, early in the ſpring, ſet out to make a tour of Europe, in which he ventured to expreſs a very ſtrong wiſh that Mr. Gloſs would accompany him.

This however could not be. That gentleman was in treaty for a borough, which a member was expected every day to vacate in his favour. Be⯑ſides, he had requeſted Sir Sidney to cheapen an eſtate for him in Warwickſhire, and he was curſed⯑ly afraid that a certain woman of condition, that he ſaid ſhould be nameleſs—and ſo ſhe well might, for ſhe was not in exiſtence—would inſiſt upon a kind of a half promiſe he had made, and nooſe him; which matter, he ſaid, were it really ſerious, he verily believed would drive him abroad; for he did [124] not think the poſſeſſion of the fineſt and richeſt wo⯑man in the kingdom a compenſation for the loſs of any man's liberty of his figure and conſequence.

CHAPTER XII.

THE ſpring put an end to thoſe town enjoyments which had employed the leiſure hours of our hero and his connections, and now Charles and his friend Figgins began to prepare for an excurſion to thoſe parts of the world where true politeneſs is thought to be native, ſo heartily do Engliſhmen reprobate the manners of their own country, though they ſo dearly love its principles.

It was ſettled that our hero ſhould go on to Italy, by the borders of Flanders, and not ſee Paris till on his return to England, through the heart of France; as it was thought, by that means, he would the better taſte the pleaſures of that capital.

Charles's heart was fully ſet on this tour, and, for ſeveral days, it was the general topic of all the friends. He received the good wiſhes and advice of all with great thankfulneſs. Sir Sidney, with [126] the heartieſt friendſhip, entreated him not to en⯑graft French manners upon an Engliſh cion. He begged of him to hear, ſee, and conſider; to ap⯑prove and adopt whatever mended the heart, but to reject with contempt all that merely went to deco⯑rate the perſon. He ſaid a flattering exterior was a dangerous thing, and there were ſometimes more art and deſign under a feather, than any graver de⯑coration of the head. He ſaid the whole character of the French was comprehended in minutiae; that this rendered them at firſt ſight agreeable, after⯑wards neceſſary, and at length, to credulous men, endearing, but to the penetrating trifling and tire⯑ſome.

Sir Sidney ſaid he would not wiſh for a better authority for pronouncing a man weak and igno⯑rant than his having a ſtrong attachment, upon re⯑peated trials, to the French in general. They were, he ſaid, polite without good manners; acquainted with every thing, though perfect in nothing; pray⯑ing one moment and cheating the next; holding you in their arms, and laughing over your ſhoulder; gay with deſign; accommodating with arrogance; apparently open, but really hypocritical; aſſuming with meanneſs. In ſhort, he ſaid their lives were a mixture of pride and ſervility; ſelf-conſequence and adulation; ſtatelineſs and cringing; proteſta⯑tion [127] and inſincerity; and though their ſports were the ſports of children, their miſchief was the miſ⯑chief of monkies.

‘'Happy the man then, ſir,' ſaid Charles, 'who, like you, can ſenſibly diſcriminate between the extremes of this motley character, and retain ſo much of it for his own uſe as ſhall make him wary in his dealings with the world, without being diſhonourable.'’

‘'I know not,' ſaid Sir Sidney, 'whether I de⯑ſerve your compliment, but this is the very effect I would wiſh the French manners to have upon you, who, however cautioned, will, I fear, from the openneſs of your heart, and your ſtrong de⯑ſire to find men what they ought to be, take, without examination, that droſs which the French ſo very eaſily contrive to paſs for ſterling. As to Italy, ſee every valuable picture, ſtatue, and ſtruc⯑ture; hear all that is excellent in muſic, admire the country, and come away, leſt, excluſive of the danger to your own morals, you are obliged to con⯑feſs that the moſt beautiful, and once the moſt glo⯑rious, place in the world, is now the moſt infamous.'’

Lady Roebuck, who truly regarded Charles as her ſon, as much from inclination as from a promiſe [128] made to Lady Hazard on her death bed, gave him only general advice as to his youth and inexperience, relying however on his ſtrong good ſenſe, and that rectitude of heart which, as we have already noticed, was remarkable in ſo young a man. She promiſed to keep Annette firmly to her ſentiments of eſteem for him, and doubted not but his conduct would warrant all her exertions in the promotion of his happineſs; and finally, that Annette improved at home, and he abroad, there could be no doubt of their making one of the moſt happy, as well as ele⯑gant couples in the world.

Emma warned him againſt the jays of France and the nightingales of Italy. She ſaid ſhe foreſaw that, if his heart was not ſteel and adamant, he would be ruined; that ſhe had read his mind thoroughly, and plainly ſaw that the only vice he had in the world was want of deceit. It was, to be ſure, a ſtrange declaration, but it was very true. That ſhe ſhould not wonder at any thing he became in the hands of the French and Italians; for he was ſuch pliable wax that any man, with a plauſible ſtory, the argu⯑ment of which could be deduced from a good mo⯑tive, might ſhape him into any form. She begged of him, in particular, to beware of holy hypocrites. What ſhe had read, ſhe told him, of their cruelty and diſſoluteneſs, was yet worſe, if poſſible, than all [129] the gambols with which the forms of their facetious religion ſeemed to burleſque its author: or rather, the author of that which they daringly ventured to innovate, and which involved a ſyſtem of morality mild as mercy, and benignant as his holy name who eſtabliſhed it. Above all ſhe cautioned him againſt convents, and an intercourſe with thoſe drones of ſociety the inmates of them, who, from leiſure to plan, and inclination to execute, were the perpe⯑trators of every ſpecies of profligacy and miſchief. Her reading, ſhe ſaid, had induced her to believe that there were more than three hundred thouſand cloyſtered clergy in France, and a proportionable number of females; that the wickedneſs, the attro⯑cious wickedneſs carried on within thoſe walls, which were ſuppoſed to immure ſaints, was ſhock⯑to humanity.

Emma further obſerved that it could not be ſup⯑poſed that any thing like the licentious infamy of France and Italy could ever have been practiſed here, becauſe England had, properly ſpeaking, never been the ſeat of that dangerous religion; but let it be recollected, in the reign of Henry the Eighth, what barbarous, what deteſtable veſtiges of popiſh profligacy were diſcovered at the demo⯑liſhing Netley abbey, and many other convents.—Subterraneous communications for nightly viſits [130] from friars to nuns, and nuns to friars. Hidden infants apparently murdered. If then the plant, which was here an exotic, grew to ſuch perfection, how muſt it flouriſh in its native ſoil. It was hor⯑rible to think of it!

‘'But,' added Emma, if I may credit what I have read, this moſt unholy, irreverent, indecent, ri⯑diculous religion, is clearly where it exiſts a jeſt with all but the ſuperſtitious ignorant. What is the mode of chooſing a pope but a blaſphemous impoſition, in which, one would think, to puniſh them for preſumptuouſly daring to give out that their election is from heaven, they once, by in⯑ſpiration no doubt, as well as upon all other oc⯑caſions, choſe a woman, who betrayed her ſex, their ſhame, and opened the eyes of every one who choſe to ſee. But vive la bagatelle in that, as in every thing elſe, ſoon got the better of good ſenſe and ſound reaſon, and they went on electing popes, the choice of heaven; not however with⯑out taking a precaution, leſt heaven ſhould have again deceived them.'’

Emma's precautions were applauded by a burſt of laughter, and Charles entreated her to make herſelf perfectly eaſy, giving her his word that he would take particular care that his ſmall plan⯑tation [131] of underſtanding ſhould not be eaten up by theſe black locuſts.

Annette took an innocent but tender leave of her lover; for Emma had ever encouraged her not to be aſhamed of a truly virtuous paſſion. Our hero felt himſelf greatly charmed at the diſtinction, and exulted not a little at reflecting that after time and experience ſhould have prepared him with manly and proper reſolutions, and given him riper quali⯑ties of mind and perſon, the poſſeſſion of ſo charm⯑ing an object would be within his reach. Many were their mutual proteſtations: ardent, yet inno⯑cent; heartfelt, yet reaſonable. At length they ſeparated, with a promiſe to write to each other, and with vows of inviolable fidelity.

One audience now only ſtood with Lord Hazard, before the time when our hero was to depart. This interview was without witneſs. My lord took his ſon tenderly by the hand, ſaying, ‘'My dear Charles, lowered as I am by my grief, wretched by calamity, and diſordered by both, my merits are more than rewarded by having you for my ſon. I never made you a ſtranger to my youthful exceſſes; indeed it would perhaps be policy to paint them to you even in their ſtrongeſt colours, that you might ſhun the certain ruin that awaits [132] ſuch profligacy. Your incomparable mother, now no more, was—I cannot think of it but my ſoul is in arms—given me to bleſs my repentant heart with comfort more than ſuch a wretch de⯑ſerved; yet did I, after the enjoyment of ſuch bliſs, ſuch unexampled delight, daſh the cup of happineſs from my lips, in the very moment that it held for me all the bleſſings of life in one deli⯑cious draught.’

‘'Wonder not at my words, Charles, it is very true; your mother owes her death to me!—to your father!—to your wretched culpable father! He who ſhould from duty, from gratitude, from a ſenſe of his own honour, her virtues, her an⯑gelic virtues, have avoided like contagion the moſt diſtant means that could wound her mind the thouſandth part of a moment, much leſs join with wretches, with infamous deteſtable wretches, to work the deſtruction of her peace, and then her life! Oh look with pity,' cried he, in agony, injured, martyred ſaint, and calm the woes that tear me!—that deſtroy me!—that feed me with ſuch torturing remorſe as would make me think annihilation a bleſſing! My dear boy thou art aſtoniſhed.'—’

‘'I am indeed ſir,' ſaid Charles; 'but it cannot [133] be; I know ſir it is impoſſible. The fixed, the ſolemn melancholy with which my indeed incom⯑parable mother's death has ſhaded your brow, makes you ſee every thing through a ſadly deceit⯑ful medium, and you think the irregularities of your youth ſat near her heart. But cheer away this melancloly, my lord and father: let me fore⯑go my intention of travelling, and ſtay to comfort you by my watchful and tender duty. I will ſwear to have no joy, no employment, but the dear pleaſing taſk of exhauſting all my little talents to divert and ſoften your anxiety.'’

‘'My good, my noble boy,' ſaid Lord Hazard, I cannot now enjoy a ſingle glimpſe of happineſs but that which reſults from reflecting how great, how illuſtrious a figure you will one day make. My heart is ſet on your travelling, and the letters I ſhall receive from you will be all my comfort. As for the reſt, time and reflection, ſweeted by the friendſhip of Sir Sidney, may reſtore my health—which I will endeavour to preſerve for thy ſake—but nothing can give me back my peace of mind. This unhappy buſineſs, which was not a youthful folly, but a relapſe of honour:—Poor boy, I little thought, when I was ſchooling thee, how much I ſtood in need of a tutor myſelf. But my words, like my deeds, want connection. I [134] was going to ſay I would relate this damned buſi⯑neſs to you by letter, with reflections; the whole of which together may ſerve you for an excellent ſyſtem of advice, for it will have both honeſt pre⯑cept and dreadful example in one.'’

Charles acceeded to the terms, and pledged him⯑ſelf before hand, ſo well he ſaid he knew his fa⯑ther's excellent heart, that in diſcuſſing this buſi⯑neſs, be it what it might, the guilt would vaniſh, though the cala [...]ity ſhould remain.

My [...] thanking his ſon for this earneſt of his tender [...]ty, proceeded in more tranquillity to tell him the ſtate of his expectations.

‘'Heaven knows, my dear, my worthy boy,' ſaid he, 'that it would be the pride of my life could I leave you my her [...]ditary eſtate and honours, but they are ſo rigidly tied up, that it is impoſſible. All you can have therefore is your mother's join⯑ture, amounting to about fifteen hundred a year, and what ready money I may die poſſeſſed of, which I hope will realize for you an annuity equal to that amount: and with this fortune I know Sir Sidney will be content to take you for his ſon in [...]. Your income till you are of age will be a thouſand a year: ſpend this freely; I give you [135] leave; but do not ſpend a ſhilling more. If I ſhould die before you return—'’

‘'Far be that unhappy day,' ſaid Charles. 'Come ſir, take leave of melancholy reflections; I ſhall not elſe have the heart to leave you. Indeed I can hardly bear the thought at any rate. Warm as my youthful imagination paints the various pleaſures of different courts and nations, I ſhould be wretched in the midſt of them all, and alone though in a throng, if I thought, in my abſence, my father indulged a ſingle ſigh that my preſence could ſuppreſs.'’

‘'Noble boy,' ſaid Lord Hazard, 'charming youth, adieu: your kind words ſhall ſerve me for conſolation till I have your firſt letter; your firſt letter till I have your ſecond; and thus you ſee pleaſure will accumulate with me—and every poſt too—for by every poſt I hope you will write.'’ ‘'I will indeed, my dear father,' ſaid Charles, 'but let me not go while you are thus uneaſy. I feel a reluctance, an unſpeakable reluctance to leave you. There is an inquietude hangs over me that I can⯑not deſcribe.'’ ‘'It is nothing, my kind boy,' ſaid his father, 'but the damp I have thrown on your ſpirits; my letters however will diſſipate it. I have ever wanted to open my heart to you, for [136] I wiſh to think you as much a friend as a ſon.—Do then, by the moſt tender, the moſt endearing expreſſions, in both qualities, hearten me to live to be happy, to make thee ſo; thee, my good boy, my only remaining comfort!'’ ‘'Doubt not my whole power, my whole devotion,' ſaid Charles. 'Be aſſured there is no purſuit upon earth that I ſhall not conſider as ſecondary to my duty to the beſt of fathers.'’ ‘'And now Charles,' ſaid my lord, 'almoſt the happieſtof fathers, ſince I ſee I ſhall derive ſo much pleaſure from thee.'’

A ſervant now informed them the chaiſe was ready. A few more reciprocal promiſes of attention paſſed, after which they joined the company, to every individual of which Charles bid a tender adieu; till at length, having embraced his father with uncommon emotion, he burſt into a flood of tears, hurried with Figgins to the chaiſe, and had got twenty miles before he once opened his mouth.

CHAPTER I.

EVERY thing Mr. Figgins had done hitherto was rather a partial rehearſal behind the ſcenes than the actual performance of his part. He now comes forward on the ſtage, where we dare truſt him with⯑out a prompter, ſo well had he perfected himſelf in thoſe ſcenes where he was deſtined to make his appearance: and indeed it were to be wiſhed that other actors, whether on the theatre or in the pul⯑pit, at the bar, at court, or any of thoſe many playhouſes in the kingdom, were—though but for the ſake of conſiſtency—half ſo well qualified to ſuſtain their parts, or half ſo perfect in them.

[138] Charles had not twice changed horſes in his way to Dover before he had much welcome cauſe to be charmed with the ſolicitude of his friend. Figgins well knew that to treat a diſorder in the mind, he muſt have recourſe to a practice the very reverſe of that generally adopted with relation to the body; therefore, inſtead of nauſeous, unpalatable draughts, in which one would think its profeſſors imagined conſiſt all the ſecrets of phyſic, he ſtudiouſly went about to prepare all that he conceived would charm the heart and expand the liberal mind of our hero. He drew him from his ſilence by degrees; extolled in the higheſt terms of admiration his filial piety; repreſented the condition of his father as the work⯑ings of a truly amiable mind, formerly irregular indeed, but now reſtored to the exerciſes of reaſon and benevolence; he drew a warm picture of both the power and the will of Sir Sidney to ſooth all his cares; and finally, painted the extreme ſatisfaction that would reſult to him by a contemplation that he had one ſon who would become ſo great an honour to him as to make noble amends for the obloquy caſt upon his name by the deſpicable ignorance and con⯑temptible conduct of the other.

After ſeveral ſimilar preparations, he began to enter upon the grand ſubject, and at length made his young friend perfectly ſenſible for what purpoſe [139] they were then in the poſt chaiſe. France and all its gaieties began inſenſibly to blend in their con⯑verſation, and Figgins archly remarked that gravity was an exotic which certainly would not flouriſh in ſo ſmiling a climate.

Charles was ever remarkably tenacious of not permitting his private feelings to inconvenience his friends, and the leſs he conceived himſelf obliged to reſtraint by a man's preſence, the more forward he was to ſhew that his attention was voluntary.—He felt Figgins's kindneſs, and began to unbend. Beſides, he had high health, and brilliant ſpirits; and however ſincerely he might grieve at heart when he reflected—which he certainly very often did for his time of life—ſorrow caught but little apparent hold on his volatile mind.

Being arrived at Dover, they beſpoke a paſſage boat to themſelves for the next morning, and while it was yet day-light took a walk to ſee that cliff which Emma had convinced herſelf, by her read⯑ing, though now the boundary of the channel, had certainly, in former times, made a part of the con⯑tinent.

On their return to ſupper, the landlady informed them that a young lady, attended by a footman and [140] a female ſervant, had arrived ſince their departure, and finding that our travellers had engaged the only paſſage boat on the Dover ſide, expreſſed an anxious wiſh that ſhe might be permitted to go half the expence of the veſſel, and ſail with that opportu⯑nity, for that her affairs called for expedition; and ſhe had been alſo informed that as the wind blew right into Calais harbour there would be no chance of any arrival from thence.

It will eaſily be conceived that the requeſt was inſtantly complied with, though not the terms of it. A genteel compliment was inſtantly returned to the lady, with an earneſt entreaty that ſhe would ſuffer the gentlemen to wait on her. The interview was permitted, the lady was complimented with the offer of a paſſage for her and her ſervants, which it was delicately hinted to her muſt be gratis, and, after as much heſitation as was due to good breed⯑ing, ſhe accepted the propoſal.

What Figgins had ſo ſucceſsfully began, this lady completed. She was young, handſome, and lively, and though there appeared now and then a little levity in her manner, yet Charles, upon Figgins's ſuggeſtion, was willing to attribute it to her extrac⯑tion and ſituation, the firſt of which they ſoon [141] learnt from her own mouth was French, and the latter that of a widow.

In the courſe of their converſation, it came out, to the great ſatisfaction of our travellers, that this young lady, by name St. Vivier, was born in En⯑gland, and the daughter of a French refugee; that ſhe married a French gentleman, who was pro⯑ſcribed for ſome overt acts in which he ſtood up for the liberty of the ſubject, but he now being dead, ſhe was going to ſee what ſhe could collect in France of the ſcattered remains of his fortune; that her journey was to Lyons, and being obliged to make ſome ſtay at Sedan, for intelligence among her late huſband's relations, ſhe ſhould purſue her rout by the borders of Flanders.

As this was ſtep for ſtep the way that had been marked out for Charles, what could be ſo fortunate as the above intelligence. This fact was commu⯑nicated, and a propoſal ſuggeſted that they ſhould make that tour together. It was not however men⯑tioned but with the moſt ſuitable propriety as to preparation and manner. The lady found great difficulty to believe that her route was really that which our travellers had intended to take, but ſaw, ſhe ſaid, that they were ſo polite as to alter their intention in compliment to her.

[142] Both Charles and Figgins vehemently proteſted the truth of their aſſertion, and indeed uſed ſo many arguments to convince her that it would have been an infringment of that politeneſs which ſhe ſeemed to poſſeſs in a natural and elegant degree to have [...]urther doubted their veracity. The next difficulty was that it would appear very odd if ſhe ſhould travel in the company of ſtrangers. Charles ſaid ſhe had her own ſervants with her, and Figgins noticed that they were all alike ſtrangers in France, where indeed no explanations were ever required when people paid their way. This ſhe ſaid ſhe ſhould make a point of doing to the utmoſt farthing, if ſhe conſented at all, but at any rate ſhe muſt en⯑treat till the morning to conſider of the propriety of their propoſal, ‘'for,' added ſhe, 'a woman of ho⯑nour cannot be too cautious, eſpecially in ſuch a licentious country as France has been deſcribed to me.'’

In this remark both our hero and his friend ac⯑quieſced, and now ſupper being announced, the lady, after ſome little difficulty, was prevailed on to partake of it; not however without remarking that matters muſt be put upon a different footing when they ſhould arrive on the other ſide of the wa⯑ter. To which our hero replied, with a very pe⯑netrating glance, that he ſincerely hoped it would [143] be ſo, and, upon the lady's looking grave, added, ſince it appeared to be her wiſh.

A ſmart breeze the next day conducted them ſafely to Calais in ſomething more than three hours, where, after the cuſtomary ceremonies of entering their names, paying a viſit to the cuſtom-houſe, giving ſomething in charity, and ſatisfying a few clamorous porters, they were glad to get hold of ſome ſoup gras at Deſſeins, which, as well as the reſt of their dinner, they found excellent.

In the evening they went to the play, which was alſo performed in the ſame inn, where there is a remarkable neat theatre, and by no means ſmall. During the performance Charles was greatly pleaſed with the remarks of Madame St. Vivire, who ſpoke French admirably well, and perfectly taſted the neat nothingneſs of the French little operas, two of which were that night given. Our hero, who knew alſo that language as well as reading could teach it him, begged to be this lady's ſcholar for the prac⯑tical part of it. She readily agreed, by which means, as he feigned, whenever he found it con⯑venient, to know leſs than he did, he had a thou⯑ſand opportunities of indulging himſelf in a thou⯑ſand witty ſallies, by way of trying how a declara⯑tion of love would be taken, which he the leſs he⯑ſitated [144] to do, as a widow at her own diſpoſal was fairly out of his agreement.

He firſt tried his French eloquence to perſuade her that the pleaſure of her charming company and the advantage of the rapid improvement he ſhould make under her tuition would amply overbalance the expences of their journey. At firſt however ſhe could not think of conſenting to this, but Charles being ſtrongly ſeconded by Figgins, ſhe at length agreed.

This matter ſet Charles more at eaſe, for he was pretty well aſſured ſhe could not be a woman of very nice honour who would, in this inſtance, yield to the ſolicitation of two ſtrangers. He there⯑fore determined to ply her with the whole force of his amorous eloquence. At night he took notice ſhe ſipped the burgundy pretty freely, which op⯑portunity he ſeized to inſinuate ſome bold hints which were not ill received. Maintaining this ground, he had ſoon reaſon to think the lady would, after a very ſhort ſiege, ſurrender in form, which hopes were confirmed the next morning by Figgins, who had already won the lady's woman—both a handſome and genteel girl—and reaped the fruits of his victory.

[145] Charles redoubled his aſſiduity, and Madam St. Vivier, after holding out with great apparent mo⯑deſty, at length reluctantly promiſed to make him happy on their arrival at Liſle, to which place, having ſeen every thing at Calais, not forgetting the picture where the citizens are kneeling to King Edward, with halters about their necks, which curioſity was recommended to his attention by Emma, they now prepared to ſet out.

About an hour before the horſes were to be ready, Mr. Deſſein begged the favour of an au⯑dience with Charles, which being granted him, after a proper apology and preparation, he ſaid he had a matter of great delicacy to communicate, which concerned him nearly.

Charles expreſſed ſome ſurpriſe at this declara⯑tion, and having previouſly promiſed at Deſſein's entreaty, that he would in no wiſe take the matter ill, he was informed that, ſome months before, a gentleman came to him one morning, ſaying, ‘'Mr. Deſſein I have been robbed of thoſe eighty louis d'ors which I yeſterday received from you in a bag.'’ He replied it was impoſſible; that his money might probably be miſlaid, or found by the ſervants, but that in that houſe nobody could be [146] robbed. He would make enquiry, he ſaid, and the money would be reſtored to him.

The gentleman went out, and at his return Deſſein had eighty louis d'ors ready for him in a bag ſimilar to the other, for money being in France often paid in three livre and ſix livre pieces, the bankers have all bags on purpoſe.

The excuſe made to the gentleman was, that, as the houſe was very full the evening before, the ſer⯑vant, after he was aſleep, ſeeing the bag lie on the ground, had brought it to one of the clerks, who had put it in the counting houſe; for it ſhould be known that Deſſein is a banker as well as an inn⯑keeper. The gentleman, not in the leaſt ſuſpect⯑ing the truth of what he heard, put the money in his pocket, and went away.

The fact, however, which had been ſo artfully ſuppreſſed, was this: Deſſein ſaid he ſaw in a mo⯑ment that the gentleman had been really robbed, and upon making his enquiries, as to the ſituation of the lodgers, he found to a certainty by whom. In ſhort, he ſaid, this crime was committed by a young Engliſh gentleman, heir to a high title, and a large eſtate; that it could not be for want of mo⯑ney, [147] as, no doubt, he might have had what he pleaſed of his father; but finding himſelf in an immediate neceſſity, inſtead of applying to him, in which caſe he might have been ſupplied, he took this ſum without conſidering the conſequences.

Mr. Deſſein ſaid the reſolution he took upon it was to ſay nothing upon the ſubject to any perſon till he ſhould ſee the young gentleman himſelf, for that out of gratitude to the Engliſh, to whom he owed his all, he would rather loſe ten times that ſum than make a ſtir about ſuch a trifle, but that having ſeen that young gentleman ſince, and been treated by him in a very en cavalier ſtyle, though he was determined not to expoſe him, except to his own family, he ſhould now certainly make no ſcruple of applying for the money.

In ſhort, he informed our hero, who began now to ſmell a rat, that Zekiel was the thief.

What an opportunity is here to put an end to this hiſtory! Charles had nothing to do but get his brother hanged, to be heir to the family, title, and eſtate, his marriage with Annette would have fol⯑lowed of courſe, and when they had produced half [148] a dozen children, for Lord Hazard to dandle on his knee, and comfort himſelf in his old age, he would have ſunk peaceably to reſt, and have left his darling ſon and daughter in poſſeſſion of his ho⯑nours.

Whether Charles foreſaw an uniform tranquil⯑lity in ſuch a life, and was determined to experi⯑ence what ſort of pleaſures are generally produced by variety, or whether—which is full as proba⯑ble—he felt a ſtrong wiſh to hide his unnatural brother's frailty, we will not enquire. Certain it is, he, without heſitation, repaid Mr. Deſſein upon the ſpot, thanked him for his prudence, and re⯑preſented that he was ſorry to ſee his brother poſ⯑ſeſſed ſo inſolent a ſpirit, but begged he would conſider the whole as an extravagant tour de jeuneſſe, which had more of falſe wit in it than premedi⯑tated vice. He deſired that the whole might ſink into oblivion, and in particular that it might never come to his father's ears.

Mr. Deſſein promiſed literally to follow the di⯑rections of our hero, with whoſe manner and ge⯑neroſity he was very much ſtruck; and could not help remarking that he plainly ſaw, though [149] the honour was veſted in the elder brother, the younger poſſeſſed the virtues which could alone enoble a family.

CHAPTER II.

CHARLES having finiſhed this buſineſs greatly to his ſatisfaction, determined that no hint ſhould eſ⯑cape him concerning it, not even to Figgins; but, leſt future inſtances of his brother's nefarious con⯑duct ſhould multiply in a ſtrange country, where it would coſt him dearly to extricate himſelf from ſuch difficulties, he lengthened a letter he had al⯑ready written to his father, by firſt very delicately apologizing for touching on ſuch a ſubject, and then entreating that his brother's allowance might be augmented, even though his own ſhould be curtailed; for that it was impoſſible for a man in any ſtyle to cut a figure in France—particularly a young and inexperienced man—with a ſlender in⯑come. He gave ſome general reaſons for this re⯑queſt, and, though with great deference, ſtrongly ſubmitted the matter to his father's conſidera⯑tion.

[151] After entreating Mr. Deſſein to ſend any letters forward for him to Liſle, he took leave of Calais.

At Liſle they purpoſed ſtaying a few days, and as Charles promiſed himſelf the poſſeſſion of Ma⯑dame St. Vivier, he was determined to ſport as grand a figure as his circumſtances would allow.—He therefore hired a carriage, made parties, and gave petits ſoupees at his inn, which were of courſe frequented by as many gueſts, particularly officers and abbes, as could beg, borrow, or ſteal cards of invitation.

One evening, about half an hour before ſupper, arrived un My Lor Anglois, with a gentleman and lady, two footmen and a maid ſervant, who could not get ſo elegant a repaſt as they wiſhed, all the delicacies being taken up by our hero, who had in⯑vited a large party by way of adieu to Liſle.—Charles, when he came to underſtand the inconve⯑nience of the ſtrangers, of which he had been in⯑nocently the cauſe, upon conſulting Figgins, ſent his compliments and requeſted as a favour that they would add ſans facons to the number of thoſe he had invited.

The invitation was as freely accepted as given, the two gentlemen and the lady preſently appeared, [152] and were received with all that freedom ſo com⯑mon in France. The lady was immediately ſur⯑rounded by the officers, and the gentlemen, who appeared to be true Engliſh ſportſmen, were hunt⯑ing out for any body who could ſpeak a word of Engliſh. Figgins and our hero relieved their diſtreſs as much as poſſible. At length ſupper appeared, and preſently one of our bucks ſaid to the other, ‘'I ſay, you Tadpole, if I can think how ſo many people jabber ſo curſe confoundedly with their jaws full.'’ ‘'Oh, my lord,' ſaid his friend, 'a Frenchman's jaws are like the tools of a trunk maker, they always make more noiſe than work.'’

Figgins gave them a hint that they had better be on their guard, leſt any of the company ſhould un⯑derſtand Engliſh.

‘'Oh dam'me,' ſaid my lord, 'the queer lantern jawed bitches of fellows know no more about Engliſh than they do about roaſt beef: only ſee if they do. Mounſeer!'’ ‘'Monſieur,' anſwered a very polite abbe.’ ‘'I ſay,' ſaid my lord, 'Moun⯑ſeer, how much ſoup meeger and frogs do you hide away, when you can get it, in your leather bags of cheeks, that look for all the world like the jaw bags of a monkey?'’

[153] The abbe, after paying him the utmoſt attention, replied, ‘'Monſieur, je ne comprend pas un mot.'—’ ‘'Now what the devil,' faid my lord, 'is paws umo?'’ ‘'He fays he does not underſtand what you ſay,' anſwered Figgins; 'but you ſee how open you are yourſelf, for what he ſaid might have been abuſe for ought you knew to the con⯑trary.'’

‘'Come ſir,' ſaid my lord, 'no offence to you, but I will bet you five hundred, and I ſay done firſt, that if any French raſcal in company dares for to offer an affront to me, I twigs him a lick of the jaws.'’

At this moment Madam St. Vivier ſaid ‘'My Lord Hazard I have the pleaſure of drinking your health.'’ To which Charles anſwered, ‘'My dear Madam I thank you; give me leave to drink with you, that our wiſhes may be mutual.'’

The ſtranger, who was diſputing with Figgins, here cried out, ‘'Hey! what's this! Here you Tad⯑pole, how is this? Here is a gentleman does me the honour to take up my title before I am dead, ay and before my old put of a father is dead too!'’

[154] Charles, penetrating in a moment the whole force of theſe few words, bluſhed with indignation, which Zekiel perceiving—for the reader ſees it was he—followed the blow he had given, by ſaying ‘'Ay, dam'me, fine work; fine times, when every little whipper ſnapper can ſet up for a lord!'’ ‘'True,' ſaid Figgins, who had a mind to give our he⯑ro time for recollection, 'and one may ſee by your own appearance how contemptible it is,'—’ ‘'Nay,' ſaid Mr. Tadpole, 'you muſt now ſuffer me to ſpeak ſir. This gentleman is certainly the eldeſt ſon of Lord Hazard, who has ridiculouſly diſcarded him under pretence of libertine conduct, when there is ſcarcely ſuch an old libertine as himſelf in exiſtence.'’

‘'Sir,' ſaid Charles, 'your aſſertion is a falſity. I ſee this whole buſineſs. I am by accident in the company of my elder brother, who ſhall not, nor ſhall you ſir, traduce the character of the moſt amiable father that ever had exiſtence.'’ ‘'Come, come,' ſaid Figgins, 'let the matter, now it is explained, be, as it ought, forgotton; or at leaſt defer it all the company is gone, or till to-mor⯑row morning.'’

‘'I defer it!' ſaid the young lord;’ ‘'no ſuch thing I aſſure you:—who's afraid of theſe grinning ba⯑boons [155] here?'’ for the Frenchmen had by this time began to ſhrug up their ſhoulders, and demonſtrate other tokens of admiration. ‘'My brother Charles here, for that is the go I ſee, thinks, becauſe he has got a parcel of ſtarve-gutted rips of moun⯑ſeers about him, that a man of my condition, dam'me, is to be grinned out of his title.'’

‘'When the title comes to be yours,' retorted Charles, 'there will be more likelihood of grinning than at preſent; but the matter, as Mr. Figgins has very properly ſaid, ſhould drop, which you had better agree to yourſelf, at leaſt for the pre⯑ſent, if it were only in conſideration of your being my gueſt.'’

‘'Your gueſt!' ſaid Zekiel, 'why do you think as I would have come for to eat any of your ſup⯑per if I had been up to ſuch fine gig as this?'—’ ‘'As much,' ſaid Charles, as I would have invited you, had I known who you were:—as the invita⯑tion therefore was ſent as from ſtranger to ſtran⯑ger, I am willing to give it another turn to all thoſe who have not underſtood the diſpute, and I am ſure the whole company will join in laughing it off.'’

‘'Yes, and a fine laugh it would be againſt me, [156] hey Tadpole. No, no, dam'me, I will tell them all about it. I ſay, Mounſeer, no my lord he—I my lord.'’ ‘'Ah ha!' ſaid an officer, without underſtanding him.’ ‘'Dam'me if I ever ſaw ſuch a ſet of fools in my life,' ſaid Zekiel.’ ‘'That man no my lord at all; I am one great, grand my lord myſelf!'’

‘'Very great and very grand indeed,' ſaid Charles; 'it is pity that nobody knows it.'’

‘'You are a puppy, Mr. Charles,' ſaid Zekiel: why the devil don't you help me out, Tadpole? you can jabber a little of their damned gib⯑beriſh.'’

Tadpole undertook to inform the company how the matter ſtood, in which account he certainly be⯑haved very ſcandalouſly, by repreſenting Zekiel as a lord, and Charles as an impoſtor, without ex⯑plaining how innocently the matter had been fallen into. Here Charles interfered with all the warmth he could. It was however to no purpoſe. Ceſt affreux! Jeſu Maria! Ceſt honteux! and half a dozen other expreſſions of aſtoniſhment, were all uttered together, and the whole company agreed that they had all along feared our hero was a low born fellow by his prodigality. In ſhort, a thouſand marks of [157] attention were immediately laviſhed upon Zekiel, which being interpreted to him through the me⯑dium of Tadpole, he ſwore he never liked French people ſo well in his life, while Charles, fortified by indignation againſt the apoſtacy of his gueſts, did not now think it worth his while to undeceive them, but contented himſelf with taking this as a caution how he ſhould ſummon together a promiſ⯑cuous company in France at his own expence for the future.

Figgins however was determined it ſhould not go off ſo. He obſerved that not one of the company, while they beſtowed pretty liberally the moſt humi⯑liating epithets on Charles, grudged to eat or drink any thing they could lay their hands on, he there⯑fore moved that either nothing ſhould be touched, or that they would accompany every word, in the manner they had before this diſcovery, with ſome well-turned compliment to him at whoſe expence they ſat down; for as nothing was expected for ſo ſumptuous an entertainment but words—a coin in which they were very rich and very prodigal—he muſt beg, in the name of his friend, that they would fulfil the conditions of the feaſt, otherwiſe it would induce him to wiſh for a bill, that every man might pay his reckoning in another coin, with [158] which he did not believe they were ſo well pro⯑vided.

This ſarcaſm gave very high offence, notwith⯑ſtanding which they eat and drank on without offer⯑ing to comply with either of Mr. Figgins's condi⯑tions, till at laſt Zekiel, to whom they were ex⯑plained through Tadpole, offered to pay his ſhare, and invited his new friends to follow his ex⯑ample.

His adherents began now to forſake him; no one came into his propoſal, and all eyes were imme⯑diately fixed again upon Charles, who ſeeing what ſort of turn matters were likely to take, got up, and ſaid, ‘'Come gentlemen, I will end the diſpute:—Is it not fair that he ſhould be conſidered as the true Lord Hazard who pays the bill?'’

A general affirmative was inſtantly given, and Zekiel being aſked if he would pay the whole ex⯑pence of the evening out of his pocket, anſwered he would ſee ſuch a ſet of mounſeers and madames at the devil firſt. Charles then called the waiter, who ſaid there was nothing to pay, for that his honour had ſatisfied every thing, as well for the ſupper as the dance and little opera that would enter in a few minutes.

[159] Zekiel now under went a thouſand mortifications, which he contented himſelf with returning by a⯑buſe, in a language the Frenchmen could not un⯑derſtand. At length he ſneaked off to bed, vowing revenge againſt his brother, which Mr. Fluſh, who, as we have ſaid, was a follower of his fortunes, aſſured him, as he aſcended the gallery, was eaſily practicable.

I have already ſaid Charles had reaſon to believe that Madame St. Vivier would at Liſle recompenſe his attention, by conſenting to make him happy upon his own terms. That very night ſhew was to comply with his wiſhes, and this ſecret, by a means I ſhall take an opportunity one time or other to ex⯑plain, Mr. Fluſh had diſcovered, and now im⯑parted it to Zekiel, who getting inſtructions as to the ſituation of all the different bed-chambers, de⯑termined to ſupplant his brother.

In purſuance of this determination, when all was ſilent in the inn, he went to the room where he had been directed, and finding it invitingly open, faſtened the door on the inſide, and groped about till he found the bed. Being accoſted by a female voice, in a whiſper, he replied in the ſame man⯑ner. He then undreſt himſelf, and was welcomed into bed as warmly as he could wiſh. In about [160] half an hour after, another perſon knocked ſoftly at the door, whom he of courſe gueſſed to be his brother Charles; but, adviſing the lady not to take the ſmalleſt notice of this intruſion, after a ſhort time the importunate viſitant gave over knocking, and went away.

He began now to glory in his ſucceſs, and had a great mind to ſtay and brazen the whole matter out, but was ſo earneſtly entreated by the lady to ſpare her delicacy, and to leave her before the day dawned, that he at length complied.

Elated with this revenge, Zekiel, as he occa⯑ſionally paſſed our hero in the morning, could not help looking big, and half inſulting him. Charles bore every thing very patiently, till, being obliged to anſwer an impertinent queſtion or two, a very provoking altercation enſued, and Zekiel ventured a moſt invidious and wanton invective againſt the memory of Charles's mother. Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when our hero fairly knocked him down, and indeed was ſo tranſported with paſſion, that he ſwore he would not reſt a mo⯑ment till he had ſacrificed ſo infamous a raſcal to the offended laws.

Zekiel being again upon his legs, came up and [161] demanded what he meant by that. Charles bid him aſk Monſieur Deſſein. At theſe words Zekiel was in a cold ſweat, and trembled from head to foot, and was actually upon the point of confeſſing the robbery when Figgins and Mr. Tadpole came up-Seeing this, Charles, in the language of Tamerlane, bade him keep his own wicked ſecret, and be ſafe; and aſking Mr. Tadpole which way they intended to go to England, and being anſwered by the way of Oſtend, he adviſed him, for the ſake of his friend, to keep that reſolution.

Figgins plainly ſaw there was ſome hidden mean⯑ing in this expreſſion, and had indeed, though he had not betrayed it, thought a little myſteriouſly of the tete a tete interview between Charles and Mon⯑ſieur Deſſein; to which another circumſtance that occurred at Liſle being added, he thought it neceſ⯑ſary to tax Charles with want of confidence, and puſhing the matter while it was warm, he obtained from our hero, who was the worſt qualified in the world for a hypocrite, the whole truth.

Figgins thanked him for his frankneſs, and ſaid that in return he would give him ſome intelligence relative to Maſter Zekiel that would not a little ſur⯑priſe him.

[162] He ſaid, that being all well fluſhed the night be⯑fore, every one ſeemed to have his different appoint⯑ment. For his part, he had made an aſſignation with Kitty, Madame St. Vivier's maid, which he went to keep, but, by ſome accident or other, miſ⯑taking the chamber, he had certainly introduced himſelf to Miſs Tadpole, who, it was plain, ex⯑pected ſomebody; for, upon finding it impoſſible to anſwer many of her queſtions, ſhe was at firſt in manifeſt confuſion, but ſoon recovering herſelf, gave a turn to the unintelligible part of her conver⯑ſation, and, in direct terms, made him underſtand that ſhe took him for Zekiel, though what ſhe ſaid was ſo worded that he plainly ſaw this was the firſt interview of that nature which had paſſed, and which ſhe was evidently ſurpriſed into, owing to her ex⯑pectation of ſome other perſon.

Taking the hint, therefore, he paſſed himſelf on her for my lord, which indeed ſpoilt all his ſcheme of pleaſure for the remainder of the night, except ſo much as gratified his curioſity; for having yielded to his embraces before matters came to be explained, ſhe took on ſtrangely, and complained of being ruined in her ſleep, and all the old cant of thoſe ladies who are well verſed in ſuch arts as paſs off their ſtale ware to inexperienced young gentle⯑men.

[163] ‘'I topped my part,' ſaid Figgins, 'for learning from her all thoſe vows and promiſes which your precious brother has made her, I confirmed them with a number of his quaint oaths, and at length left her apparently ſatisfied.’

‘'I ſhould not forget to mention that after I had been ſometime in bed, a knocking and a voice was heard at the chamber door, on which, in her fright, ſhe ſaid ‘"that is my brother, I know his voice"’—'and ſo, by the way, did I. She would have let him in, to have witneſſed the proteſtations I had made her. This however I overruled, and after a time the brother—for I dare ſay it was he—went away; but, upon putting all conſiderations together, I am convinced this Mr. Tadpole is the lady's gallant, and they are trying together to nooſe your brother, which, upon my ſoul, I think, for the ſake of the family, ought to be pre⯑vented.'’

Charles agreed to this, and ſaid if Mr. Figgins would confront the lady on their return—for they were now on the ramparts—he would, in ſpight of his inward indignation for his brother, try to un⯑deceive him, and ſo ſave him from this infamy, that ſeemed to await him.

[164] Figgins ſaid he was an excellent young man, and he would ſecond ſo laudable an endeavour with all his heart. ‘'But,' ſaid Figgins, 'now we are on the ſubject of laſt night, you, I find, kept my ap⯑pointment; for Kitty tells me this morning that ſome perſon ſtole into her room, whom ſhe miſ⯑took for me, but, finding her error—but not till ſhe had yielded—made the beſt of it, and hu⯑moured the miſtake.'’

‘'This is ſingular enough,' ſaid Charles, 'I aſ⯑ſure you it was not I; I was much better em⯑ployed.'’ ‘'Are you ſure of it?' ſaid Figgins.—’ ‘'Oh certain,' ſaid Charles. 'My aſſignation was no myſterious one; I had no occaſion to ſhroud my deſigns in darkneſs, for the joys I reaped were heightened by the bluſhes of my miſtreſs, which were revealed to my view by a wax taper, which I dare ſay was bought for a very different cere⯑mony.'’ ‘'Then by God,' ſaid Figgins, 'it was your brother, who dubbed me with my harlot, while J was dubbing him by anticipation with his wife, and I am damnably miſtaken if he has not had ſuch anticipaters in the lady's favours for any time this four years.'’

This converſation brought them back to the inn, where they found their whole benevolent deſign [165] rendered abortive, for Zekiel and his company had in their abſence ſet out, and were now ſeveral miles on their journey towards Oſtend.

‘'Let them go,' ſaid Figgins, 'and ſince the fellow will run his noſe into the matrimonial gin, let him ſqueak for it; but I hope, while I re⯑probate his folly, I am not glancing at any in you. Madame St. Vivier and you are evidently upon very kind terms; I need not hint to your good ſenſe that ſhe is a mere adventurer..'’ ‘'Oh,' ſaid Charles, 'that one may plainly ſee: I ſhould like however to know her real ſtory.'’ ‘'That, for your ſake, I have diſcovered,' ſaid Figgins.’

‘'Madame St. Vivier and her maid are neither more nor leſs than Aimwell and Archer in the Beaux Stratagem. They are travelling to the ſouth of France, by the way of Lyons, which route I believe they take ſimply becauſe it is ours. On their return, by the way of Paris, Mrs. Kitty is to be the miſtreſs, and Madame St. Vivier the maid, and whatever they pick up in their journey they are to go ſnacks in. The girl acknowledges to me that the firſt idea was to trap you into a marriage, but finding we were too knowing for them, and in facts better calculated to adminiſter to their pleaſure than their convenience, like a [166] couple of generous girls as they are, every thing it ſeems is to be left to ourſelves.'’

‘'Which generoſity they muſt not repent,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'By no means,' ſaid Figgins; 'and if in our way we meet with any Engliſh booby, not your brother, let them in God's name profit of their good fortune.'’

This introduced ſome general remarks on En⯑gliſh travellers, which Madame St. Vivier inter⯑rupted. Figgins acquainted her with the diſcovery as to her ſcheme, and both the gentlemen aſſured her they would aſſiſt it as far as they could, without injuring their characters as men of honour.

Poſt horſes were ordered to be ready the next morning. While they were harneſſing, Charles having occaſion to pay the civility of an adieu to a perſon in power, who had done him ſome kindneſs as to his buſineſs at the cuſtom-houſe, and other matters, had the curioſity to call himſelf at the poſt office, for he had not yet received a ſingle letter from his father, though he had written ſeveral.—He was there informed that there had been letters, but they were fetched away by a footman, in a live⯑ry exactly like his own, the day before. Charmed with theſe tidings, he flew back to the inn, think-that [167] the footman muſt have been John, who had forgot to give them to him; but how great was his ſurpriſe when John aſſured him he had received no letters, and offered to go back to the poſt-office to rectify the miſtake, whither they immediately ſet out, Figgins begging them to be expeditious, for the horſes were put to. ‘'But ſtay Charles,' added Figgins, 'I will tell you, as ſure as you are alive, how the caſe is. Your brother's livery is the ſame as yours; he has intercepted your letters, and is now gone the devil knows where; and ſo the unnatural wretch, while you were ſaving his reputation, and perhaps his life, by your unpa⯑ralleled liberality, in the affair of Deſſein—owing I dare ſay to the cunning of the fellow who tra⯑vels with him, for he has not head enough him⯑ſelf—has hit upon this treacherous plan to make a breach between you and your father.'’

‘'It muſt be ſo,' ſaid Charles, 'but that we may be ſure I will write to Deſſein, to know if he has ſent any letters, and his anſwer ſhall be addreſſed to Bruſſels.'’ ‘'Well thought,' ſaid Figgins, 'we can do that from the next poſt.'’ ‘'But ſtay ſir,' ſaid John, 'I wiſh I might go to the poſt-office, though I don't believe his honour thinks me guilty.'’ ‘'Guilty of what, you fooliſh fellow?' ſaid Figgins, 'your maſter knows your fidelity:'—’ [168] Nor will the reader be at a loſs how much to lay to the account of it, when he is told that this was the very John who, upon a former occaſion, reſcued Lady Hazard, and refuſed Dogbolt's half-guinea.

The laſt is not the only hint contained in this chapter to which I would have the reader minutely attend. It may be neceſſary probably to revert to it in the courſe of the work; but if it tend to any material circumſtances that will more powerfully diſplay themſelves by being developed in their place, I ſhall adhere to that rule I have in general ſet down for myſelf, and only excite preſent curio⯑ſity, to ſtrengthen future gratification.

CHAPTER III.

ALL theſe circumſtances together having con⯑firmed Charles in his opinion that Figgins was a ſincere friend, John a faithful ſervant, and Zekiel a great rogue, our travellers took the road to Bruſ⯑ſels, and at the firſt ſtage our hero wrote to Mr. Deſſein, as he had reſolved.

As I am writing the hiſtory of Charles Hazard, and not a tour on the continent, I ſhall trouble my readers with no more than ſuch circumſtances as immediately concern that young gentleman, or lead to his affairs, together with ſuch minutiae as naturally produced them, and ſuch remarks as may ſerve for their elucidation.

In conformity to theſe rules, I ſhall only ſay that at Bruſſels nothing happened of conſequence enough [170] for me to record except that Charles and Figgins became intimate with a young Frenchman, named Combrie, who had ſtollen a nun, and married her. This couple were glad enough to have eſcaped from France with ſafety, without ſtaying to accompliſh a deſign which they had formed of getting the lady's fortune out of the hands of a truſtee, in which the church had placed it. They were therefore little better off than in the poſſeſſion of an unbounded ſtock of love, and what money Mr. Combrie, who was the cadet of an honourable family, had been able to procure from the fondneſs of a doating mo⯑ther.

Having however violated one of the moſt ſacred laws of France, by carrying a nun out of that king⯑dom, the mettled Frenchman conceived he could incur but little more blame if he puſhed his point ſo far as to take her fortune forcibly out of the hands of a litigeous procureur, who had made uſe of the money to his own advantage for two years, and eluded every attempt, even of the clergy, to get it from him.

The man of the law was however too vigilant and circumſpect for Combrie, who being a novice in a matter which required ſo much wary caution and prudent reſolution, and beſides too much [171] tranſported with his expected happineſs, he ma⯑naged his plan ſo bunglingly, that ſo far from ſuc⯑ceeding with the procureur, he had very nearly been defeated in his views concerning the lady.

Though this couple loved each other with perhaps more tenderneſs for being without fortune, yet moſt people agree, and they could not but yield to the general opinion, that money is a ſecurity for love, eſpecially after reflection takes place. In⯑deed, being in a ſtrange country, from whence they muſt ſhortly, for the ſake of ſafety, recede further, they were not ſo blinded by their affection, but they ſaw that their future proſpects would be in a very doubtful way, if ſome ſcheme was not hit upon to reſcue the money before it could be con⯑fiſcated for the uſe of the church.

Combrie, who had been at Bruſſels but a ſhort time, yet who was looked upon, in conſequence of his ſhyneſs, as a very equivocal character, ſaw plainly the danger of making a confident in that place, and as an attempt at the recovery of his wife's fortune would be impracticable, without a confederate or two, taking a hint from the ſtrong congeniality that appeared between the ſentiments of our travellers and his own, he fancied he ſhould be ſafe at-leaſt in their confidence, even if they did [172] not lend him aſſiſtance. Beſides, his affairs were very preſſing, and he doubted, if his reſolutions were not ſuddenly and effectually taken, whether the all-graſping power of the church would not deprive him of every poſſible hope.

Having no time to deliberate, and being em⯑boldened by the engaging freedom and true breed⯑ing of Charles and his friend, he ventured, without reſerve, to entruſt them with his affairs, into which our friends gave ſo freely, that Figgins, who the reader knows was no mean hand at a plot, concer⯑ted one that it was agreed would infallibly ſucceed, even without rendering either him or his friend liable to the ſmalleſt ſuſpicion of being concerned in it.

Full of their project, the three friends ſet out, leaving Madame Combrie in her apartments at Bruſſels, but firſt ſending Madame St. Vivier before them to Sedan, where ſhe actually had buſineſs; for as to themſelves, out of ſafety to Combrie, they travelled to Nancy in Lorraine, where lay the ſcene of action, by the way of Luxembourg, and, in fact, as much in Auſtria as poſſible till they ſhould come to Metz, where they were to hold their grand counſel of war. Madame St. Vivier, however, was not at all apprized of their buſineſs, but only in⯑ſtructed, [173] after ſhe had accompliſhed hers, to meet them at Nancy, to which Sedan lies in the direct road.

Without ſtopping to look at a ſingle proſpect, building, or even crucifix, in the way, I ſhall ſet down my travellers at Metz, where, by agreement, they ſeparated, Charles and Figgins taking poſt horſes for Nancy, and Combrie jogging after them at his leiſure, upon his own horſe: not however till they had agreed whereabout they ſhould find him in the ſuburbs, near which place Combrie had a truſty friend, who he was ſure would give him every neceſſary aſſiſtance.

Being arrived at Nancy, they went to the con⯑vent of Chartreux, where ſtrangers, eſpecially of condition, are for a ſhort time treated gratis. The members of this convent being all men of fortune, and, in general, ſuch as have retired from the world through diſappointments at court, are always charmed at the arrival of new gueſts, whether their viſits be owing to curioſity or neceſſity, but they are particularly pleaſed with the Engliſh. No wonder then that the ſuperior, when he underſtood that Charles was a young Engliſh nobleman, and Figgins his governor; that they had unexpectedly been deceived as to remittances from England, and [174] therefore from actual neceſſity had intruded on their generous inſtitution, both for immediate ſuccour and advice, inſtantly ſignified—eſpecially as their pretenſions were corroborated by the teſtimony of letters of credit and recommendation, and many other authentic documents—his warmeſt wiſhes to enter heartily into their intereſt. They paid him a number of acknowledgments for his great civility to ſtrangers, and ſaid they piqued themſelves on their own ſagacity, which had pointed out the pro⯑priety of applying to a man of his piety, as well as conſequence, upon ſuch an occaſion, rather than run the riſk of being impoſed upon by an indiſcri⯑minate choice of a perſon to ſupply their preſent wants, without an eligible recommendation.

After this preface our travellers acquainted the ſuperior that they wiſhed his reference to ſome money negociator, for a preſent ſupply, who aſſur⯑ing them that it would give him particular pleaſure to recommend them to ſome perſon who ſhould treat them conſcientiouſly, mentioned his near re⯑lation Monſieur Goufre, le procureur: not however till he had expatiated on the wickedneſs of thoſe uſurious wretches who take advantage of the neceſ⯑ſitous, and oppreſs their fellow creatures under the idea of relieving them.

[175] Figgins ſaid he had heard of one Monſieur Banc⯑ſec, but the ſuperior aſſured them they could not get into worſe hands. Charles ſaid certainly it would be their intereſt to rely upon the ſuperior's advice, and begged the favour of a note to Mon⯑ſieur Goufre. This requeſt was immediately com⯑plied with, and our friends went their ways to the gentleman's houſe in queſtion, after thanking the kind recluſe in terms of the warmeſt gratitude.

Before however we introduce the reader to Mon⯑ſieur Goufre, it will not be inexpedient to ſay how Charles and his friend happened to get recom⯑mended to the very man who retained Madame Combrie's fortune.

The reader has ſeen that he was a near relation to the ſuperior of the Chartreux, which was well known to Combrie, and it will not appear extraordinary that this connection with the clergy ſhould be the means of Monſieur Goufre's being often employed in matters which concerned the church. In fact, the frequent litigations by friends of the deceaſed to recover monies conditionally left for charitable uſes, on one ſide, and the aſſertion of the church's right on the other, had, upon many occaſions, pro⯑duced ſuch a ſee-ſaw of intereſted altercation be⯑tween the procureur and the ſuperieur, that matters [176] perfectly plain and clear in themſelves, often wore an air of ſuch myſterious embarraſſment under ſuch deluſion as frittered large legacies into bills of ex⯑pences, which were cunningly ſnacked by the law⯑yer and the monk.

One of theſe lucrative bones, at which they had been a long time nibbling, was Madame Combrie's fortune, the perfect ſituation of which, nay even the drawer in which it was depoſited, Figgins un⯑dertook to procure intelligence of; to do which, properly, they had recourſe to the ſuperior, and through him were reſolved to attack the heart of his relation in that part where he was moſt vulner⯑able—for it was not true that they actually wanted money—and to give a colour to this it was no bad plan to ſeize an opportunity of taking the Char⯑treux by the outward ſymbol of his profeſſion, and make his charity, which was counterfeit, the in⯑ſtrument of his real confuſion.

Combrie being arrived in the Fauxbourg, and informed of their reſolves, the moment came to put their deſign in execution. Charles and Figgins waited on the procureur, who, after all the neceſſary difficulties, which, upon motion, was to be re⯑moved by Monſieur Deſſein, agreed to accommo⯑date them with what they ſhould think neceſſary; [177] for they had repreſented that they ſhould change their route ſo often, and probably from momentary in⯑ducements, that it would be better to take up in ſpecie as much as would ſerve for ſome months, and leave in the hands of Monſieur Goufre travell⯑ing bills of Sir James Herries, and other Engliſh bankers, to the amount of the ſum and the diſ⯑count.

Nothing retarded the payment of the money but waiting for a letter from Monſieur Deſſein, which at length arrived greatly to the ſatisfaction of all parties. It ſpoke very handſomely of Charles and his friend, and it is proper to mention that, over and above the buſineſs of aſſuring Monſieur Goufre, it mentioned that letters had been ſent to Charles at Liſle, on account of which he had written to Bruſ⯑ſels, and this confirmed Charles in his opinion of Zekiel's treachery. Figgins however made a dif⯑ferent uſe of this circumſtance, greatly turning it to their preſent account, for he proved very clearly that if thoſe letters ſent to Liſle had been received, the application to Monſieur Goufre would have been unneceſſary.

During the interval between writing to Calais and receiving an anſwer, Charles and Figgins had twice dined with the procureur, and the latter had ſo [178] inſinuated himſelf into his good graces, that under pretence of enquiring into the practice of the French laws, he wormed out of him almoſt all his affairs. The endowments of the monaſteries naturally came up in their converſation, in which buſineſs he owned he was very much employed, and one morning, when they were talking in the counting-houſe upon this ſubject, the procureur ſaid, as he was locking up his bureau, ‘'here now is a pretty large fortune which has been leſſened almoſt one-fourth by liti⯑gation. It belonged to a nun, who has been lately ſtolen from a neighbouring monaſtry—there it is labelled and ſealed up, in notes upon the Caiſſe d'accompte, payable au porteur—and I have now a ſupreme order, which I ſhall yield to next week,—after I have made out my bill againſt it—to ſur⯑renderit to the Lady Abbeſs.'’

Naturally gueſſing that nuns were not ſo fre⯑quently ſtolen but that her he had heard of muſt be Madame Combrie, Figgins found his point ſo far gained, and now the letter being arrived from Ca⯑lais, nothing remained but to receive their money.

On the evening appointed for this buſineſs, the procureur was invited by our travellers to a ſump⯑tuous entertainment at the Hotel D'Angleterre.—Before ſupper the ceremony of ſigning and ſealing [179] was performed, and after ſupper all was hilarity. Figgins made the procureur harrangue, Charles pre⯑vailed on him to ſquall ſeveral chanſons a boire, and Madame St. Vivier, who arrived at Nancy that very afternoon, took him out to walk a minuet with her. In ſhort, the votary of chicane having made a good bargain, a good ſupper, and fallen violently in love with Madame St. Vivier, did not notice how the hours wore, and was at length, after a good finiſh⯑ing doſe, carried to bed, in a condition that laid him by the heels till ten o'clock the next morning.

CHAPTER IV.

IT was three hours after Monſieur Goufre went home before he diſcovered that any trick had been played him, for I hope the reader does not ſuppoſe the ſupper was given for nothing. He aſked one of the clerks if any body had called while he was engaged the evening before, and was anſwered no⯑body of any conſequence but Father Benedick.— ‘'What Father Benedick?' ſaid Goufre.’ ‘'Him,' ſaid the clerk, 'we ſent to you at the Hotel D'An⯑gleterre, and by whom you ſent your keys, with written orders to deliver the fortune belonging to the convent of our lady of the aſcenſion.'’ ‘'Written orders! Keys!' cried the aſtoniſhed pro⯑cureur.’ ‘'But it is impoſſible; here are my keys.'’ ‘'Well ſir, theſe are the keys he brought,' ſaid the clerk, 'and here is the order: ſurely we know your hand writing.'’

Upon this Monſieur Goupe read, in a faultering [181] accent, and in a hand ſo like his own that he could himſelf find no difference: ‘'Let Father Benedick have the packet in the bureau labelled Money belonging to the convent of our lady of the aſ⯑cenſion.'’

As all the French dance well, it is not wonder⯑ful that Monſieur Goufre had ſcarcely read theſe words when he took a chaſſee to the bureau, where he diſcovered the neſt without the bird, caprioled back to the parlour for his hat and cane, rigadooned to the door, briſeed out of it, and in a new faſhioned pas courant preſently made an entre at the houſe of the general of the police. There being joined by a proper number of figurants, under the characters of ſergeants du ville, archets, and pouſe culs, the procu⯑reur paraded at their head to the Hotel D'Angleterre, where, to enrich the proceſſion back again, he en⯑treated our hero, Figgins, and Madame St. Vivier to perform a pas de trois.

In plain Engliſh, he fairly believed his pocked had been picked while he was aſleep, and that our travellers, who were thieves, had taken this me⯑thod to rob him; and having imparted theſe ſuſ⯑picions to the general of the police, he obtained an order to bring the delinquents before him.

[182] A few words however ſerved to convince that of⯑ficer, and even the procureur himſelf, that his ſuſ⯑picions were groundleſs. The clerk depoſed that about ſeven o'clock in the evening, a perſon in the garb of a friar, calling himſelf Father Benedick, came to their houſe, and ſaid he had particular bu⯑ſineſs with Monſieur Goufre, relative to a certain fortune belonging to the convent of our lady of the aſcenſion. He repreſented that upon various pre⯑tences it had been ſo long kept out of the church's hands, that it was in agitation to procure a ſuſpen⯑ſion of the procureur's employments, if he ſhould refuſe immediately to deliver it. He ſaid it was pity Monſieur Goufre was not within, for his au⯑thority was ſo powerful and deciſive, that if he re⯑turned it would be with force, which he would willingly avoid. The clerk ſaid, in conſequence of theſe menaces, he made no ſcruple of ſending the ſuppoſed friar to his maſter, who, about a quar⯑ter before eight, returned with Monſieur Goufre's keys, and a written order to deliver the fortune which was locked up in the bureau, and which had a label ſimilar to that deſcribed in the ſaid written order. The clerk ſwore he believed it to be the hand writing of his maſter, and he was ſure the keys were thoſe his maſter then held in his hand.

[183] Mr. Figgins here entreated that he might have permiſſion to aſk the procureur a few queſtions, which requeſt being complied with, he ſaid ‘'Pray ſir in whoſe company were you from half paſt ſix o'clock till nine, during which time this fraud is ſaid to have been committed?'’

Monſieur Goufre anſwered in his company.— ‘'Were you not,' ſaid Figgins, 'during that whole time, in your ſober ſenſes?'’ ‘'Perfectly,' an⯑ſwered the man of law.’ ‘'And now let me rouſe your beſt recollection while I aſk if in that very interval of time, you were not talking of your ex⯑tenſive buſineſs, of your property, and indeed of this very fortune you now ſay you have loſt, but which you then bragged you had ſafely locked up; as a proof of which you ſhewed us thoſe very keys, and at the very time as it ſhould ſeem, that your clerk was uſing them—which is a very likely ſtory—to deliver that fortune up to a perſon he had never before ſeen.'’

The poor procureur felt this unanſwerable mode of reaſoning moſt ſeverely, and the general of the po⯑lice—whether other caſes had induced him to doubt the veracity of Monſieur Goufre, or whether he was conſcious that Engliſhmen are conſtantly upon theſe occaſions not thoſe who dupe, but thoſe who [184] are duped—ſeemed to pay great attention to Fig⯑gins's harrangue, who ſeeing his advantage, thought he could not do better than follow it up: which he did in theſe words.

‘'Upon the whole, it appears to me, and ſo it ſhall to the Engliſh embaſſador, that Monſieur Goufre having found in us a pretty free-milch cow, as to ſome money tranſactions we have had toge⯑ther, has fancied, notwithſtanding the documents we have produced, that we could not make good our pretenſions to rank and independency, and therefore imagined we might be awed, by the ac⯑cuſation of a ſham robbery, into a compoſition: and this appears from many circumſtances.—What had we to do with this fortune? Why were we to know in what place it lay? Why have we been repeatedly ſhewn the key that locked it up? Beſides, the matter has been ſo bunglingly managed, that the clerk depoſes that very key was ſent at the individual time he himſelf confeſſes to have had it in his pocket. Then he does not pretend to ſay that the hand writing is not like his, but, on the contrary, ſo like that he ſhould have taken it for his own. But it was neceſſary this ſhould be ſaid, becauſe if the hand writing had not been exactly like his, the clerk would have had no pretence whatever to have delivered the [185] fortune. Again, what was this ſame Father Be⯑nedick?—and how had he got all this intelligence? How inſinuated himſelf into his pocket inviſibly, and conveyed away the keys, during an interval of perhaps the only five minutes in an hour and a half that they had been truſted there without his hand upon them for their ſecurity; but, at any rate, to make the ſtory in the ſmalleſt degree colourable, what connection had this ſuppoſed Father Benedick with them, to lend the ſmalleſt probability to their being concerned in a tranſ⯑action ſo very derogatory to their honour as gen⯑tlemen, ſo totally unneceſſary to their circum⯑ſtances, which Monſieur Goufre had taken care, with the moſt ſcrupulous exactneſs, to make him⯑ſelf maſter of—and ſo diſgraceful to the name of Engliſhmen? How had it been proved that they, ſo far from knowing the friar in queſtion, had a ſingle aſſociate, even of their own country?—for both the clerks gave very clear teſtimony that Father Benedick ſpoke with an accent ſo pure and vernacular, that they were ſure he was a French⯑man: and indeed ſo he was. All theſe circum⯑ſtances conſidered, it was impoſſible this affair ſhould be otherwiſe than a groſs attempt—an event which occurred too frequently—to impoſe upon Engliſh credulity; which, however others [186] might paſs over, would not, in the preſent in⯑ſtance, be regarded in any light either trifling or pardonable; on the contrary, it would be found that men of character had been tampered with, who were both able and willing to right themſelves. He therefore inſiſted, for the ſake of general juſ⯑tice and the honour of the Engliſh nation, that the matter ſhould be fully and publicly inveſtigated: to which and they would be content to ſubmit to a temporary impriſonment, provided Monſieur Goufre ſhould be laid under the ſame reſtric⯑tion.'’

The general of the police, whou could not pro⯑bably ſee that all this intelligence had been, by the moſt ſubtle train of artful inſinuation, deliberately drawn from Goufre, by Figgins, with a view to forward the deſigns of Combrie—who the reader ſees was father Benedick—had no manner of doubt but that every word he had heard was truth.

His own private opinion indeed was, that being in a ſhort time to deliver up the fortune, the procu⯑reur had conjured up the whole accuſation to cover his embezzlement of the money. As to the friar, he had not the leaſt doubt but that he was a real character, procured probably by his relation, the ſuperior of the Chartreux, who, as we have ſaid [187] was occaſionally concerned with Mr. Goufre in his law practices.

In ſhort, he ſo well knew, as he thought, the trim of the buſineſs, that he would not have heſi⯑tated to comply with the terms of Mr. Figgins, had he not had ſome very material objections to get rid of.

In the firſt place, he well knew that their know⯑ledge of each others illicit conduct was mutual; they had trod together the paths of oppreſſion; and it was their conſtant cuſtom when either was likely to get into a ſcrape, to call the other to his aſſiſtance. In the preſent caſe, however, the procureur had pre⯑viouſly ſworn to the general of the police that he had actually been robbed, and this was indeed the truth; but matters—thanks to Figgins's addreſs—wore now ſo different an aſpect, that this ſeeming want of confidence quite exaſperated him, and no⯑thing but his own actual ſafety made him heſitate a moment to take part againſt the procureur.

Balancing thus between his conviction and his intereſt, he thought proper to purſue a middle courſe. He ſaid, as there had actually been no⯑thing proved which had been alledged, he could not anſwer ſending to priſon three perſons, one of [188] them a lady, who had made ſo handſome a defence. Monſieur Goufre had certainly, in the firſt tranſ⯑ports of his reſentment, done what he thought very juſtifiable, but what, upon reflection, had neither certainty, nor even probability, to ſupport it; that it was plain he had been ſome way or other tricked, how would very likely hereafter appear; and, if he had been too warm, ſtung as he was at being de⯑prived of a large depoſite, which it would cut deep into his fortune to make good, thoſe very traits of liberality on which that gentleman—meaning Fig⯑gins—had dwelt, would, he hoped, induce him and his friend to overlook ſurely a very pardonable error.

Charles ſaid, Monſieur Goufre's mad manner of rectifying a miſtake, he thought, deſerved no lenity at their hands. For his part he ſhould deteſt the idea of patching up a matter that ſtruck ſo hard in him at the honour of every young nobleman on his travels. He ſhould think, if he paſſed by ſuch a glaring impertinence, every one of his Engliſh ac⯑quaintance ought to reſent it. He ſhould therefore acquaint the Engliſh embaſſador, who was his fa⯑ther's particular friend, of the whole buſineſs, with⯑out the ſmalleſt reſerve; and if he muſt endure to have a hated liberty forced upon him, he would at leaſt, let his inconvenience be what it might, ſtay [189] in that town till not only himſelf and his friend ſhould be handſomely cleared, but till he who had the audacity to ſcandalize their characters ſhould meet with his merited puniſhment. So ſaying, he gave the lady his hand, and ſaid if their forms would admit it he ſhould chuſe to go from that place, but that he ſhould be found at the Hotel D'Angleterre till the matter was finally decided.

They were followed out by the general of the po⯑lice, who whiſpered Figgins, in the hall, that he plainly ſaw Monſieur Goufre had done a raſh thing, but that it need not hinder them from purſuing their tour, for if they would leave twenty guineas in his hands, he would take care as much juſtice ſhould be done to their honour as if they were pre⯑ſent.

In this I verily believe he ſpoke truth, but Fig⯑gins cut him ſhort with this reply:

‘'Sir, If the law has any power over us, uſe it now you have us in your cuſtody; if not, the beſt of you ſhall have reaſon to repent this outrage: and as to leaving twenty guineas in your hands, I would do it with great pleaſure, were I not un⯑luckily bound by a vow not to truſt any French⯑man further than I can ſee him.'’

[190] The general of the police ſaid it was a great pity ſo good an opportunity ſhould be loſt, and added that perhaps the young gentleman was not bound by the vow.

Charles ſaid he was always bound by the deter⯑minations of his governor, eſpecially when they went to a prevention of his being duped.

The general of the police not thinking fit to urge the matter any farther, after many reverences, retired to the procureur; after which our travellers departed, firſt giving the officers of juſtice ſome⯑thing to drink.

Monſieur Goufre was found by his friend in a ſtate of diſtraction. The latter however believed it all put on, and began very ſeverely to upbraid him with his duplicity, and to blame him for having made ſuch a fool of himſelf.

The procureur ſwore that he had been robbed, and was ruined, and confirmed the oath with a hundred others. He was unfortunate enough however to gain no manner of credit; on the contrary, the general of the police told him, in ſo many words, that ſince he was above placing confidence in his [191] friends, he ſincerely wiſhed the Engliſhmen might trounce him.

This introduced a warm bout at alternate recri⯑mination, till at length both became cool, and they determined, in conjunction with the ſuperior of the Chartreux, to take an early opportunity of delibe⯑rating on the moſt expedient means to get out of ſuch a diſagreeable ſcrape.

CHAPTER V.

MADAME St. Vivier had not the ſmalleſt idea that her companions really knew any thing of the fraud. She had acted her part to perfection the night before, as to making Monſieur Goufre drunk and ridicu⯑lous, but was ignorant that the trick went any fur⯑ther than getting good terms from him as to the money that was borrowed; neither had a ſyllable of the ſituation of Madame Combrie been explained to her; for it is natural to ſuppoſe our travellers did not ſo ſin againſt good breeding as to introduce ſuch a character into that lady's company. She might be ſent purpoſely to Dover, and probably was in⯑tended to be played off as a corps de reſerve upon our hero, but when no direct outrage on propriety was neceſſary, Mr. Figgins was too great a general to call in aſſiſtance, when every thing went on even beyond his wiſhes. But how beyond his wiſhes? Patience, dear reader: I would not have you know [193] what is brewing, juſt at preſent, for any conſidera⯑tion. Attend then, and let the fruit of your curio⯑ſity ripen by degrees; nor—that it may have the better reliſh—wiſh to gather it till it ſhall be ready to drop into your hand.

Four or five days after the affair of the general of the police, the procureur waited on our travellers, with great deference and reſpect, and informed them that he had received a letter which had ſatiſ⯑fied him in every point relative to the fraud. He therefore acquitted them ſo heartily of any concern in that matter, that he appeared extremely ſhocked at his conduct, and ſaid he would publiſh their in⯑nocence coupled with any acknowledgment of his own, by way of conceſſion, that they ſhould think proper to dictate. As to himſelf, he had the plea⯑ſure to inform them that as it was now known he had not been to blame, at the mediation of his re⯑lation the ſuperior of the Chartreux, and his friend the general of the police, the chapter of the con⯑vent to which the money was due had remitted the payment of it till his death, provided he would then add the intereſt of it, and an additional be⯑queſt of ten thouſand crowns.

The letter to Monſieur Goufre was as follows:— [194]

This letter, which ſpeaks ſo plain, completes the account of Figgins's ſcheme, which I have thus piece-meal explained to the reader. The circum⯑ſtance of the keys, which was a fact, together with the knack which Combrie had of imitating Goufre's hand writing,—which indeed is not difficult, for al⯑moſt all Frenchmen write alike—gave a hint of it, and the idea of an application to the ſuperior of the Chartreux, and all thoſe concurrent circumſtances which we have ſeen ſo well managed, could not fail to crown it with ſucceſs.

This hiſtory then has ſo far acted in its cuſtomary province as to make one couple happy already. How long they are to continue ſo, it is not im⯑poſſible [197] but we may hereafter have occaſion to no⯑tice.

It will eaſily be ſeen that this affair ended greatly to the honour of our travellers, who, in conſe⯑quence, attracted the notice of all the Engliſh who then reſided at Nancy. Among the reſt they were viſited by a gentleman, whoſe company, as a plain ſtraight-forward, well-meaning man, was very a⯑greeable to them. He ſerved admirably well to make one at a party of whiſt, and for a curſory ac⯑quaintance really was not without his merit.

A very ſhort time however let them into the cha⯑racter of this new acquaintance, whoſe name was Ireland; for one night, being at whiſt, with Mr. Figgins for his partner, Charles was ſo tantalized into betting, and confuſed off his guard, that he got up from the table an hundred and fifty pounds loſer, in ſpight of all the hints and expoſtulations of Fig⯑gins, who only played for crowns.

The next day he heard, from undoubted autho⯑rity, that Mr. Ireland was an errant ſharper, and had eſcaped from England after killing a gentle⯑man in a duel, who had dared to tax him publicly with a palpable fraud.

[198] This loſs however had one good effect upon our hero, for he made a moſt ſolemn vow never again to loſe five pounds at one ſitting, which reſolution he inviolably kept to the day of his death.

I have ſaid very little of Charles's continual diſ⯑appointments, at not receiving letters from his fa⯑ther, or indeed any body elſe, ſince his departure from England. The truth is that it gave him in⯑expreſſible concern, and occaſioned from him many and various remonſtrances, which were apparently very little heeded.

Figgins teſtified as much uneaſineſs as our hero, but upon this, as well as every other ſubject, he comforted him by a variety of arguments. He ſaid it very often occurred that people on a tour miſſed of their letters, though at length they came ſafely to hand; that at Nancy, for example, it was ſome⯑times three weeks before a man could write a letter and receive an anſwer to it; and this inconvenience would encreaſe in proportion as they went farther. There was no doubt, he ſaid, but every thing would fall upon its legs, and the letters would all come together in a lump, and he cheerfully agreed to wait at Lyons till every proper explanation could be mutually exchanged, not only as to Charles and his father, but every other correſpondent.

[199] This kind accommodation in Figgins gave our hero great pleaſure. He had really, at times, felt very unpleaſantly on this ſubject, and though he could account for his diſappointment at Liſle, yet more than two months had elapſed ſince that time, during which interval he had repeatedly written in ſuch a full and ſatisfactory manner, that he could not bear to reflect on the parting between him and his father, and, at the ſame time, hold in mind that all his attempts to learn the ſtate of that ami⯑able parent's mind were continually baffled. He knew not what might have happened in his ab⯑ſence: he had dreaded to leave him: nay he would not think on the ſubject, it was dreadful to him! yet he could not give a reaſon for it. Who knew but the letters received at Liſle, ſince he had heard nothing afterwards, might give an account of an unfavourable alteration in his father's health: per⯑haps they contained a tender injunction to come and cloſe the dying eyes of an indulgent parent: per⯑haps he was then dead, and the letters were from friends who gave him the melancholy news, which his perfidious brother had received with a trium⯑phant and cruel joy.

Reflections like theſe greatly embittered the en⯑joyments of our hero, and though I have not thought it neceſſary to preſent the reader with any [200] thing but the agreeable ſide of the picture, yet it is certainly true that Charles had his moments when he felt very ſevere and bitter unhappineſs; nay he had once very nearly determined to return to Calais, the better to inveſtigate this unpleaſant buſineſs, though the natural gaiety, and I will ſay honeſty, of his diſpoſition, prevented his particular griefs from interfering with pleaſures in which others were concerned. What wonder then if the kind conſoling advice of Figgins kept his mind in that tranquillity which made it impoſſible for an un⯑concerned perſon to penetrate his chagrin.

I have conceived it neceſſary to ſay thus much, leſt the reader ſhould think our hero had, in imita⯑tion of ſome other heroes, left his feeling in his own country, and that his foreign freaks—every one of which I undertake to contend had a defenſi⯑ble motive—were merely the common effect of that faſhionable conceit and ſupercilious levity which are the qualities the French have, in general, a right to take as a ſample of Engliſh manners.

All affairs at Nancy being properly ſettled, Charles began to be very impatient for their de⯑parture to Lyons. Before they ſet out, however, he drew up a recapitulation of all his other letters, to which he added many earneſt entreaties; and, [201] that it might be ſure to go ſafe, entruſted it to the care of Figgins himſelf, who inſiſted upon putting it in the poſt office, ſwearing he began to ſuſpect every body; and, when he returned, ſaid that Maſter John ſhould not be ſo confidently truſted for the future. ‘'Why ſo?' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Nay no great matter,' anſwered Figgins.’ ‘'I begin to have my ſuſpicions of him: but perhaps theſe devils of women have corrupted him.'’

Charles aſked his friend what induced his ſuſpi⯑cions. Figgins ſaid, ‘'I caught the raſcal in a lie, that is all: which I cannot bear. Dam'me if there is ſo pimping a thing upon earth as an un⯑neceſſary lie.'’ ‘'From a perſon in whom you place confidence,' ſaid Charles, 'there cannot be a crime of ſuch magnitude. As death is better than torture, ſo open enmity is better than hid⯑den deceit. Even a trifling lie, in ſuch circum⯑ſtances, may conceal the moſt tremendous conſe⯑quences. For my part, I look upon plain inte⯑grity to be ſo poſitively eſſential in the compoſi⯑tion of a friend, that though I were one maſs of imperfections, I would forgive the continual rei⯑teration of them, both to myſelf and the world, rather than they ſhould be hyperbolically gloſſed over. On the contrary, if I thought the man I [202] truſted could even meditate a wiſh to deceive me, let my partiality be what it might, I would tear him from my heart, even though it ſhould burſt in making the effort.'’

Figgins, who had eyed our hero with extraordi⯑nary tokens of amazement, while he animatedly pronounced theſe words, firſt looked pale, then red, but recovered however in time to put in for his ſhare of this honeſt opinion; and, after an eulo⯑gium on Charles's way of thinking, and reflecting on John, who alone he choſe to underſtand as the per⯑ſon all this warmth was levelled at, he finiſhed his remark with ‘'Damn the fellow, I ſhould be ſorry to find him a raſcal, for I have a regard for him.'’

Charles certainly had no particular meaning in the words he had uttered, but his diſappointment at not hearing from his father gave him occaſionally a kind of peeviſh diſcontent, as if he found ſome⯑body had deceived him, though he knew not who. As a proof that he had not the ſmalleſt miſtruſt of Figgins, he entruſted him, as we have juſt ſeen, with his letter to put in the poſt office; yet he was ſcarcely gone but he wiſhed he had taken it himſelf: though he ſincerely believed this wiſh a tacit, though an involuntary, injuſtice to his friend.

[203] The contents of his letter next were gone over in his mind, in which he found nothing but a repe⯑tition of diſappointments, that, for ought he knew, would be rewarded with new ones; eſpecially as he was confident, in his own mind, they originated in ſome ſecret cauſe which he had not been, nor ſhould ever be perhaps, able to penetrate. In this trim of thinking, when Figgins returned and dropt thoſe hints concerning John, out came the very ſoul of our hero, and ſo it would have done had his own ruin been the conſequence.

Figgins—for what reaſon perhaps the reader may conceive—verily believed this thruſt was at him, and though he not only ſaw he had well parried it, but, as he firmly believed, diſarmed his young friend of all ſuſpicion, yet he feared, that ſhould he take in his head to arm himſelf frequently with theſe im⯑patient doubts, as he did not want for ſkill in theſe ſort of conflicts, he, Figgins, might one day or other receive ſuch a hit as might prove a mortal ſtab to all his hopes of bringing thoſe ſchemes to bear which he certainly, for ſome reaſon or other, was concerting; for though I have conſtantly allowed that Charles was credulous, he could not be groſsly impoſed upon; and no man knew this better than Figgins, who, with all his management, would not have been able eaſily to gain his ends, which [204] were now—though the reader, as I have ſaid, muſt wait with patience to know how—nearly accom⯑pliſhed, had not a ſeries of unexpected events con⯑curred to give him a helping hand.

CHAPTER VI.

OUR travellers arrived at Lyons after a ſafe and pleaſant journey. They viſited every thing curious, were frequently at the play, made acquaintance with men of condition and taſte, and, in ſhort, here, as in other places, availed themſelves of every opportunity of improvement: thus fulfilling the real purpoſes of travelling.

Theſe matters however I have even leſs time to particularize here than I had heretofore, and therefore ſhall leave to the readers imagination what was the employment of a young man and his governor who were really ambitious of returning home with as much knowledge as they could pick up, but which acquiſition Charles in particular—as the reader ſhall hear—became poſſeſſed of more than he wiſhed.

Our hero, walking one day in a field beyond the ramparts, was meditating on a ſmall book, in the [206] midſt of a grove, when he heard behind him a ruſtling. Directing his eyes to the place from whence the noiſe iſſued, he ſaw two men very warmly attacking each other with drawn ſwords. In the impetuoſity of his firſt ſenſations, he bounded like a fawn to the place, and drawing to part the combatants, one of them, like Mercutio, was hurt under our hero's arm. He faultered out ‘'Oh Jeſu Je ſuis mort!'’ and fell down.

Charles was ſo dreadfully ſhocked at this acci⯑dent, that he thought of nothing but endeavouring to ſuccour the wounded perſon, on which chari⯑table employ he was ſo intent, that he did not pay the ſmalleſt regard to the other, who, upon ſeeing his antagoniſt drop, fled with the fwifteſt precipi⯑tation.

A moment's recollection convinced our hero that he was in a moſt ſingularly perilous ſituation. The poor wounded wretch ſeemed to be dying, and every circumſtance would ſerve to make it believed that he was the murderer. Nevertheleſs, his ſtrong humanity ſo prevailed over his prudence, that he ran without the wood, and holloed to the centinel upon the ramparts for help, telling him there was a man dangerouſly wounded.

[207] Several gentlemen who were walking on the ram⯑parts preſently came up, to whom Charles related, but not without much confuſion—for he was moſt exceedingly affected—the whole matter as it had paſſed. Unfortunately his relation gained very little credit. They all knew the nature of duelling, and naturally imagined a prudent perſon would, upon ſuch an occaſion, go another way rather than interfere with two men who were agreed upon fairly deciding a quarrel by the law of arms.

Charles was aſtoniſhed when he underſtood their ſuſpicions, and could not help aſking, with ſome diſdain, whether the French always requited the good offices of ſtrangers in the ſame manner. One or two of the gentlemen took heat at this, and ſaid he ſhould anſwer every thing at large before the general of the police.

Charles treated their menaces with perfect in⯑difference, relying upon the teſtimony of the dying man, who however left his protector in the lurch; for after an ineffectual attempt to ſpeak, he pointed to Charles, and falling backward, expired.

This action was univerſally allowed to have been intended as a ſign to diſtinguiſh the murderer, and what ſtrongly corroborated the general opinion was [208] our hero's ſword, which was very much ſtained with blood. It was in vain that he accounted very na⯑turally for this circumſtance, by ſaying that when he firſt ſaw the dead man fall, he abandoned his ſword, the better to lend him aſſiſtance, and that of courſe, as it lay, the blood, which ran in a ſtream, had fallen upon it.

This was conſtrued into cunning and art. In ſhort, the guard arrived, and he was conducted to the houſe of the general of the police, comforted however with ‘'Courage! on pardon en France un coup de vivacite.'’ In ſpight however of theſe com⯑fortable tidings, Figgins, who had been waiting for our hero to breakfaſt at their inn, was very ſoon ſummoned to breakfaſt with him in priſon.

Figgins inſiſted upon it, in the ſtrongeſt terms, that it was impoſſible his friend could be concerned in this buſineſs otherwiſe than as an accidental me⯑diator. The gentleman who had fallen was a man of ſome conſideration, reſident in that place, where Charles was an abſolute ſtranger, and had not the ſmalleſt acquaintance. He offered to ſwear that, till this unhappy morning, he had never been a ſingle ten minutes out of his company ſince his ar⯑rival in Lyons, and how could ſo ſerious a quarrel have engendered without previous malice?—with⯑out [209] the ſmalleſt acquaintance with the unfortunate perſon, or even knowledge that any ſuch man had exiſtence? He maintained there was not upon earth a leſs turbulent ſpirit than his friend; that his diſpoſition was the ſweeteſt, mildeſt, moſt benig⯑nant, in the world; that there could not be in na⯑ture a more benevolent heart. He would anſwer with his life that, was the fact as they ſuſpected, his young friend had not the ſoul to be guilty of ſuch low, ſuch treacherous baſeneſs as to diſown it. On the contrary, as no laws were ſo lenient, as to accidental rencounters, as thoſe of France, ſo far from denying what had happened, he would feel enough at having been the deſtruction of a fellow creature, however unintentionally, without adding guilt to misfortune, by excuſing himſelf at the ex⯑pence of a wilful lie.

Beſides theſe arguments, Figgins inſiſted that they had not conſulted even common probability in this buſineſs. His friend had averred that the murderer fled. Who was he then? No people were ſo remarkably provident as to who went and came as the French. Let the book of the general of the police be conſulted, and ſee who had retired from the town. If he was a ſettler, it would eaſily be known; if a ſtranger, intelligence of him might be gathered at the place where he lodged. As to the [210] action of the dying man, he was aſſured it had been intended to point out his friend as one who had endeavoured to preſerve him. In ſhort, he ſaid let the matter but have time, and be maturely inveſti⯑gated, and he would reſign himſelf as an accom⯑plice, and willingly await the ſame fate: ſtaking his own life upon the iſſue of his friend's inno⯑cence.

This manly and noble ſpeech, which was made in preſence of ſome of the moſt conſiderable people of Lyons, had its effect. It was warmly agreed, even by the relations of the deceaſed—who, by the bye, got a fortune by his death—that every thing ought to be well conſidered. Accordingly, the term of ſix weeks was fixed to make all the neceſ⯑ſary enquiries, at which time it was intended, if nothing happened to exculpate our hero, that he ſhould be brought to trial.

It was now the buſineſs of Figgins to alleviate, as much as poſſible, the diſtreſſes of his friend.—he had however very little comfort for him. It had been found that a ſtranger had actually ab⯑ſconded on the very morning this ſad affair hap⯑pened, but as the inland towns in France are not ſo particular as to mere ſtrangers as the ſea-ports, he could not learn his name. He aſked Charles if he [211] had no idea who the murderer was. Charles ſaid he had ſcarcely given him a ſingle look, ſo inſtan⯑taneouſly was the miſchief done; and that from that moment he had not ſeen him at all, his whole care having been directed towards the dying man: but, notwithſtanding all theſe diſadvantages, he was ſure he had ſomewhere ſeen him, though it was then utterly out of his power to recollect when or where.

In a few days after the impriſonment of our hero, Figgins came to him and ſaid he was greatly afraid there was ſome damned plot in the buſineſs, for that the women were gone off, and had taken John with them.

‘'What plot can there be?' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'In this ſituation they are tired of us, and reſolved to ſhift for themſelves: a very common reſolution for creatures of their ſtamp.'’ ‘'True,' ſaid Fig⯑gins, 'but how will you reconcile the conduct of Mr. John? I will tell you what has lately ſtruck me.'’ ‘'What?' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Why,' anſwered Figgins, 'that this ſame Madame St. Vivier is known to Mrs. O'Shockneſy, and, if ſo, there is no miſchief, however deteſtable, but you may apprehend. That woman has the hypocriſy of [...] crocodile, the heart of a tygreſs, and the malic [...] [212] of the devil. She delights in miſchief; it ſeems to be as requiſite to her exiſtence as food; there is not ſuch an infernal ſuccubus in human nature; and may I be damned'—for our friend Figgins would ſometimes ſwear—'if it were my fate to chuſe whether to encounter the anger of a hungry lion, or groan under the influence of a plot againſt me, prepared and inflicted by that ſhe fiend, if I would not truſt the claws of old Leo rather than the diabolical fangs of Mother O'Shockneſy.’

‘'Now you may remember,' continued Figgins, 'I caught Maſter John in a lie. It was this:—Kitty had told me ſhe had ſeen this gentleman of ours very buſily employed in a familiar converſa⯑tion at Liſle with that fellow of your brother's, Fluſh, whom, by the way, I never liked—indeed I know Mr. Standfaſt turned him off on account of his attachment to Mrs. O'Devil. Why Mrs. Kitty told me this I remember I thought very odd at the time, but catching from it, at the moment, an idea concerning the embezzlement of the let⯑ters, I, with more bluntneſs than wit, taxed the gentleman with his intimate acquaintance with Mr. Fluſh, which he denied, and which Kitty confirmed to his face. It was this determined me to take your letters myſelf, and this has kept me ever ſince upon my guard, as to this fellow; [213] and finding now which way he inclines, it is more than poſſible he has been a raſcal all along, and that even the half-guinea he refuſed from Sir Daniel Dogbolt was a feint, through which he acted according to his inſtructions.'’

Charles ſaid he had never correctly underſtood that buſineſs, or what it alluded to; nor had he known more than that ſome difference had happened between his father and mother, which had been happily adjuſted through the mediation of Mr. Standfaſt.

Figgins ſaid when his mind could bear the rela⯑tion he would acquaint him with all the particulars, exactly as it had been related by my lord to the ſur⯑geon, at the John of Gaunt's Head, and who he ſaid had, ſpight of all Standfaſt's care, not preſerved the ſecret ſo ſacredly as a man of his profeſſion ought. This however did not happen to be the truth, for it was through Mr. Standfaſt, and no other perſon, that Mr. Figgins came by his intelligence. ‘'But,' ſaid Figgins, 'to finiſh with this dear harmleſs lady, whom I ſo dearly love, if ſhe has any hand in your affairs, you may be aſſured it will be pro⯑ductive of miſchief to you both in England and here.'’

[214] Charles ſaid he had no doubt of the gentlewo⯑man's kind offices, but yet he ſaw no harm that could come of them, for his father was pretty well upon his guard againſt her; and as to his own con⯑duct, it was, he flattered himſelf, at leaſt in mate⯑rial points, not ſuch as to merit reproach. ‘'All I wiſh,' ſaid he, 'is to hear from my dear father; if he remain ſafe from the malice of our enemies, I will forgive every thing they can do to me.'’

This ſubject however was never out of Figgins's mouth, and indeed, though nothing could be ma⯑naged with more cautious delicacy, one would think he had an inclination to ſink his friends ſpirits till he ſhould be inclined to ſave the trouble of a public trial, by hanging himſelf in his priſon.

All this however was not ſufficient to damp the ſpirits of our hero, though I muſt own his ſituation ſeemed a good deal to tire his patience. He had ſo invariably adhered to thoſe principles which, at his outſet in life, he had ſo invariably laid down for himſelf, that, conſcious of his own innocent in⯑tentions, he did not believe it poſſible that he could ſink under the weight of injuſtice. He therefore entreated his friend—who, as the trial approached, put on looks more and more rueful—to make him⯑ſelf eaſy. ‘'How can I?' ſaid Figgins. 'All the [215] devils in hell, one would think, conſpire againſt you. I declare to God to ſee virtue like yours ſo oppreſſed is enough to make one curſe one's be⯑ing, and wiſh rather to be the vileſt reptile than a human creature.'’ And then would he enu⯑merate the damned things, as he called them, that had fallen out to thwart the good intentions of our hero; and theſe would he follow up with his ap⯑prehenſions for his ſafety; then cut a little out of the way to take a wipe at that fury in petticoats, Mrs. O'Shockneſy; then curſe, then hope, then ſhudder, then admire again the fortitude of his friend, and then exclaim that in ſuch an infernal world as this, it was not worth while to be virtuous, for that none but raſcals were happy.

It was about two days before the trial, when he had one morning wound up, or rather let down, our hero, by ſimilar remarks to theſe, that he un⯑dertook to go through the whole buſineſs of Miſs Snaffle, with all its conſequences, which really ſhocked Charles to ſuch a degree that his ſpirits were ſcarcely able to bear it. Seeing this, Figgins curſed himſelf for his inconſiderate raſhneſs. Said he, ‘'My unconquerable friendſhip makes me a fool; and, in proportion as you are oppreſſed, you ſo creep into my heart, that, out of complaiſance to your curioſity, I do the very things which un⯑man [216] you, when—if like other men I had more art than honeſty—I ſhould try to render you cal⯑lous to your fate, rather than melt you into almoſt a deſire to meet it. But come Charles,' added he, embracing him, 'I will ſtand by you nobly, and if you muſt fall, you ſhall not want a friend to revenge you.'’

In this delightful mood did this kind friend per⯑mit Charles to remain for that day. On the next he entered his friend's apartment with a moſt cheer⯑ful countenance, ſaying there was long-looked-for come at laſt, and with theſe words preſented a packet of letters, which he ſaid were juſt arrived by the poſt; but that was not all, another parcel had been left at their bankers, which he ſuppoſed con⯑tained the whole of his father's letters, ever ſince he left England.

Charles, who had haſtily catched at the firſt letter that came to his hand, opened it, and found it from Sir Sidney. He wondered to ſee it begin with Sir, but getting to the ſecond line, while Figgins was uttering thoſe laſt words, which he did not hear, he exclaimed ‘'Merciful God!'’—and fainted away.

Aſſiſtance was ſummoned, and he recovered; when, having raved himſelf almoſt into another [217] ſwoon, he became ſtupid with horror. At length he grew more calm, and being entreated by his friend to bear his fortunes like a man, he gathered compoſure enough to read the following words.

‘'Do I live? Am I awake?' cried Charles, ſtar⯑ing wildly.’ ‘'My exceſſes ſhortened my father's life! What have I done? Heavenly God I ſhall go diſtracted.'’ ‘'Mrs. O'Shockneſy,' ſaid Fig⯑gins.’ ‘'Did I not tell you ſo? She ſaw the fa⯑ther's life hung on his ſon, and, like a mercileſs damned harpy as ſhe is, ſlandered away the repu⯑tation of one, to deſtroy the exiſtence of the other. I am ſure of it: I would ſtake my ſoul that it is a fact.'’

‘'Alas, my poor father!' ſaid Charles, 'how properly is this a ſequel to the wretched buſineſs of yeſterday! But I to be the cauſe of his death! I, who would have given a thouſand lives—infa⯑mous as I am—to ſave his. Oh my forboding heart, why did I part from him? But he could [219] not believe it. What are my villanies? Is it my crime or my virtue that has brought me here? Surely, ſurely, thus attacked, Innocence may de⯑fend itſelf.'’

‘'Yours is immaculate,' ſaid Figgins, 'and I will maintain it; nor indeed will any body doubt it when we come to England. The villany has reached its conſummation: all its purpoſes are effected. It will be eaſily found a miſtake; it will be palliated, gloſſed over; but how will it bring your father from the grave? But come, we have need of all our ſenſes at this moment; let us collect them manfully; we have no guilt to ſink us, whatever our accuſers may. Come Charles, reſolution man: I have been the partner of your guilt, I will be the partner of your re⯑venge. Let us ſee what comes next: this is from Mr. Standfaſt. Shall I read it?’ Charles aſſented by a nod, and Figgins read thus:

‘—'What!' ſaid Figgins—’

‘—'Great God!' ſaid Charles;’ and after a pauſe, in which both lifted up their eyes and hands to heaven, he went on,

‘'Damnation!' ſaid Figgins, 'I have not com⯑mon patience; the people are all mad. A man would ſwear we had began, the moment we left London, by robbing upon the high way, and that as ſoon as we arrived in France, we enrolled our⯑ſelves members of a banditti.'’

Charles looked vacantly wretched, and Figgins continued.

‘'Horrid black in⯑deed,' ſaid Figgins—’

‘'Charitable creature!' ſaid Figgins. 'Where has Mr. Standfaſt picked up ſo much ſcrupulo⯑ſity? I thought his maxims were to allow a broad liberty of conſcience. Zounds, one would think he had fallen in love with Mrs. O'Shock⯑neſy. But let us come to the catalogue.'’

‘'Well, this is maſter ſtroke the firſt,' ſaid Fig⯑gins. [222] 'Why at this rate Charles your fortune, to be underſtood, muſt, like a witches ſpell, be read backwards. Poor Standfaſt! I thought he knew mankind better.'’

‘'Well argued, Maſter Standfaſt,' ſaid Figgins; 'Why he is an altered man. I am curſedly miſ⯑taken if he did not practiſe in his youth very nearly as bad actions as thoſe of which he only accuſes you; and yet I believe this is the firſt time he ever preached upon ſuch a ſubject.'’ ‘—'This is deep laid villany indeed,' ſaid Charles; 'but go on Mr. Figgins.'’

‘—'very civil, upon my ſoul,' ſaid Figgins—’

‘—'Ay,' ſaid Figgins, 'what could that be?'—’

‘—'Whew!' ſaid Figgins. 'What is our civility to honeſt Combrie ſo conſtrued? And yet dam'me if this ſame Mr. Standfaſt did not ſteal a nun upon his own account, in his youth; and, if report ſays true, ſhe broke her heart through his ill uſage. But againſt himſelf he would have you believe report tells lies. Why then is it to be believed againſt his friend? But one man may ſteal a horſe:—Never mind it Charles:—you have been raſcally treated indeed.'’

‘'Here I believe,' ſaid Charles, 'he ſpeaks truth, and had I been guilty of this crime, Sir Sidney would never have pardoned it.'’ ‘'But mark,' ſaid Figgins, 'what a curious gentleman Mr. Stand faſt is. He takes a lie, eſtabliſhes it as a fact, [224] and then argues upon it as if it were truth. But let us proceed. Oh how a man might preach upon the folly and credulity of mankind, and take his text from this letter!'’

‘—'Oh I am glad to find I am brought in at laſt. Indeed I cut as great a figure at one place as another, except in⯑deed the robbery at Calais, which this villanous Charles Hazard choſe to conceal even from me, to preſerve a falſe delicacy to a raſcally brother, who, in return for ſaving him from the gallows, has connived with his infernal mother to load him with unmerited infamy.'—’

‘'And he will anſwer you Mr. Standfaſt,' ſaid Figgins.’

‘'Why no Mr. Standfaſt,' cried Figgins, 'I do not think they could; for what ſignifies waſhing any thing white that is pure already? Damned, damned miſchievious cat,' added Figgins, and then went on.’

‘'Well ſaid!' exclaimed Figgins; 'truly parſo⯑nic. Mr. Standfaſt's belief is like his barn; it ſwallows any thing.'’

[226] ‘'This is ſaucily impudent indeed,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Damnably ſo,' ſaid Figgins, and went on.’

‘'Why then,' ſaid Figgins, 'by Mr. Standfaſt's confeſſion I am a good character, for I will never deſert you. But how did he diſcover this laſt bu⯑ſineſs of Madame St. Vivier, for even I had not the heart to tell it you. In ſhort my friend ſhe has lain her hands on every thing, which is the more unlucky, as theſe French counſellors will not—nor indeed will any others—plead without fees. But let us finiſh this letter, and talk of theſe matters afterwards.'’

‘'The date of which charitable epoch I ſuppoſe Mr. Standfaſt is to appoint' ſaid Figgins.’

‘'There is a precious raſcal for you,' ſaid Figgins. 'I can only ſay for a man that pretends to know the world, I never ſaw ſuch a dupe as Mr. Stand⯑faſt in the whole courſe of my life.'’

CHAPTER VII.

‘'WELL by heaven,' ſaid Figgins, as he folded up Mr. Standfaſt's letter, 'this is the moſt con⯑ſummate piece of cruel treachery that ſurely ever was concerted. I could gnaw my fleſh. And then this laſt buſineſs! To practiſe on the inex⯑perience of your miſtreſs! Damned mixture of ſtupid credulous folly, and ignorant obſtinate pride. I ſuppoſe they intend to marry her to your brother.'’

‘'I believe they do not know themſelves what they intend' ſaid Charles. 'This I know, that they have given me a very grounded, though a very early, conviction that there is not upon the face of nature ſo contemptible a being as a hu⯑man creature; and I am ſtrongly convinced that, ſhould the event as to my preſent ſituation turn out favourably—which I am perfectly careleſs about—though I hope I ſhall love benevolence as much as ever, I ſhall hereafter look with an eye [230] of diſtruſt on every man whom I have not proved yet not ſuperficially, but from that ſort of thorough conviction which you have given me—to be my friend.'’

‘'I thank you ſir,' ſaid Figgins, 'for a compli⯑ment which I hope I ſhall deſerve. But you will give me leave to ſay that I am aſtoniſhed at the tranquillity with which you receive all theſe un⯑merited affronts. I expected—though I rejoice to find it otherwiſe—that ſuch a complication of invidious calumny would have almoſt turned your brain'’—and in this Mr. Figgins ſpoke truth, for he did ſo expect— ‘'and eſpecially this laſt blow concerning your miſtreſs.'’

‘'The very number and weight of theſe ſlanders,' ſaid Charles, 'are what makes me ſit down per⯑fectly eaſy under them. I was in a flattering dream as to the world, and fondly fancied myſelf in the midſt of generous friends, who, till I left my native country, were willing to give me cre⯑dit for any little merit I poſſeſſed, and anxiouſly ſtudious to find a venial motive for any indiſcre⯑tion. But this preſent moment convinces me I was miſtaken; their diſcernment, as to my real character, was ſo ſhallow, that it is plain they laid up every little trait of youthful folly to ground [231] a falacious argument upon, which they now be⯑lieve to be ſolid reaſon. This, co-operating with the moſt unworthy and unheard of treachery, they have given me up as a profligate and an abandoned character, impoſſible to be reclaimed; and this calumny from a quarter they all deteſt—which common reflection muſt call impoſſible and a lie—is cheriſhed warmly, zealouſly: cheriſhed to the utter reprobation of him for whom they pre⯑tend a friendſhip. To whom then does the re⯑probation really belong? Does it not recoil on themſelves? And what compliment ſhould I pay myſelf by calling that man my friend who is ſo ready blindly, ignorantly, unfeelingly to think me the worſt villain that ever infeſted the earth? Perhaps they did not know that I do poſſeſs one quality in as ſtrong, but I hope as honeſt, a degree at leaſt as any of them. If I do not flatter my⯑ſelf, my pride is of the right ſort; and it ſhall not bend to the leaſt explanation till I have re⯑ceived a conceſſion from thoſe who have injured me. No, no, Figgins, an emperor ſhall not trample upon me; and by all that is ſacred I will ſee contrition in my enemies before I deign to communicate with them.'’

‘'My noble friend,' cried Figgins.’ ‘'Let me finiſh,' ſaid Charles. 'As to Annette, ſhe is a [232] beautiful girl, and I love her better than any wo⯑man I ever ſaw; or rather, what I feel for her is more like love than I have felt for any other; but I never could flatter myſelf we ſhould ever be united: there was always a ſomething about my mind that forbade me to think of it. As matters are I will forget her; for though I am convinced this prohibition—ſo perverſe is human nature—would ſoon, were I to give way to it, make a fool of me, yet it ſhall not be; for I will not love her diſhonourably, and as to marriage, I do not love the world ſo well as to bring its cares upon my head.'’

Figgins expreſſed more amazement at this calm, eaſy, reſolute good ſenſe, as he was pleaſed to call it, than at the reſt; and then they proceeded to a third letter, which proved to be from Mr. Gloſs. It contained theſe words:

‘"What ſchooled on all ſides!" ſaid Figgins.’

‘"Theſe are ſome of them I ſuppoſe," ſaid Figgins.’

‘—"Delicately announced," ſaid Figgins—’

‘"On the ſcore of all theſe conſiderations," ſaid Figgins, "you had better, upon my ſoul, Mr. Gloſs, let him command your polite, and there⯑fore unmeaning, friendſhip on the ſcore that is between you, and then he would receive about three hundred pounds, which you borrowed of him in driblets. But let us ſee further."’

‘"His influ⯑ence!" ſaid Charles.’

‘"The de⯑vil you were!" cried Figgins:’

‘"So ſo," ſaid Figgins,’

‘"Which," ſaid Figgins, "you very probably requeſted as a favour."’

‘'Here is another precious member of the human community,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Sir,' ſaid Figgins, 'what I have heard and ſeen to-day baffles my whole experience; and, for the future, I will not believe that becauſe I ſee a man do a good or a ſenſible thing, that he will not do a wicked or a ſtupid one; but, on the contrary, expect to ſee him turn about, and exhibit that various, pitiable, contemptible figure that the beſt and the wiſeſt I find are too apt to repreſent.’

‘'To be ſure there is one thing in their favour. Nobody has, it is plain, received any letters from [236] you.'’ ‘'But good God,' ſaid Charles, 'is it not very plain to be ſeen how all this has come about? Has not the very raſcal prevented it who has gone over to bear falſe witneſs againſt me?'’

‘'True,' cried Figgins, 'and then which way ſhall we reconcile to the wiſdom of Mr. Standfaſt, or the goodneſs of Sir Sidney, ſo haſty a belief of ſuch ſlander againſt one, of whom it has been their pride to have had ſuch a good opinion.'’

‘'If their conduct be goodneſs and wiſdom,' ſaid Charles, it is both ſuperficial and ſupererogate. There is not common ſenſe in it, and I am ſure there is not common good manners: for what virtue is that which condemns unheard?—and what modeſty that has the preſumption to puniſh without the right? What are my actions, after all, to theſe people? Am I dependant on them? No, I thank God, I am not; nor will I ever call one of them my friend: nay nor any man upon earth who ſhall be bold enough to ſcrutinize my intentions. No, my will, my deſires, my con⯑duct, ſhall be my own; and if I cannot make friendſhip upon any other terms, I would rather be alone in the world with integrity of heart, than give colour, by my intimacy, to their ſuſpicions who have dared to think me a villain.'’

[237] ‘'Admirably reaſoned, my friend,' ſaid Figgins, 'and I am ſorry for their ſakes to ſay too juſtly.—But let us ſee this other letter, which bears the ſame date with the reſt.'’

‘'This girl,' ſaid Figgins, 'with her whimſical ſtyle, has more good ſenſe than all of them put [243] together. Her reading has been like the pro⯑greſs of a bee; ſhe has ſelected all the ſweets, and left the poiſon behind: and it proves that her in⯑tellects are remarkably ſtrong, for ſhe ſeems to have gathered as much mundaine knowledge by inference as others from worldly commerce; and this is well exemplified in her being too cunning for Mr. Gloſs, who indeed ſeems to be the direc⯑tor of this plot. I wonder upon what terms he and the Lady Dowager are.'’

‘'She is a very good girl,' ſaid Charles, 'and I am afraid her ſolicitude for me will deprive her of her place.'’

‘'I fear ſo too,' ſaid Figgins, 'for ſhe does not diſguiſe that ſhe diſlikes Gloſs, who will take ad⯑vantage of her being upon a falſe ſcent to get rid of her; for her ſuſpicions of Mr. Standfaſt, not⯑withſtanding his ſcandalous letter, are ſurely ill grounded. This will be found out, and ſhe will be turned away as a miſchief-maker. But for this miſtake, the remarks in her letter would have been very ſhrewd and ſenſible; but her diſlike to Standfaſt is of ancient date. He made pretty briſk love to her when he was in the family of Major Malplaquet, and, upon her reſiſting his [244] inclinations, he did not place in her virtue that implicit belief that it merited.'’

‘'I ſhould think that would inſpire her con⯑tempt,' ſaid Charles, 'rather than her revenge. However, I cannot help thinking as you do that Mr. Standfaſt has given no aſſiſtance to this ſcandal but his belief of its truth, which cannot have failed to lend weight and conſequence to the opinions of the reſt, both in regard to their con⯑viction that he is a judge of mankind, and that he muſt know me better than any body. It only turns out that he does not know me at all; nay that I did not know him; for I could not have thought it poſſible he could ſo ſoon, nor with ſo much indifference, have dropt the maſk of the kind friendly adviſer, to betray the inſolent aſſuming pedagogue.'’

‘'My dear ſir,' ſaid Figgins, 'you will pleaſe to recoliect that Mr. Standfaſt gets in years, which will not leſſen his pride, of which he has poſſeſſed a pretty liberal quantity all his life, and you may be aſſured it is not diminiſhed by a recollection that he has a good five hundred a year ſettled on him for life; which he ought, by the bye, to have the gratitude to remember belongs in right to you. My two hundred a year comes from the ſame [245] ſource, and as we deprive you between us of a large unnual ſum, it is but common decency that we ſhould ſhew a wiſh, even though we have not ability, to deſerve it.'’

‘'Well,' ſaid Charles, 'God knows how long I am to live, but that I may not paſs my life in an eternal warfare, I will not inveſtigate any thing: Time ſhall do it for me. There is but one in⯑ducement to my giving the matter a ſingle thought, which is the ſituation of Annette. How⯑ever, all I can do actively in relation to her will not only operate more to her diſadvantage, but plunge me into real wretchedneſs, which is a thing, I thank them all, full unpleaſant enough when one only poſſeſſes it in imagination. When my mind is more at eaſe I may perhaps anſwer Emma's letter, but it will be only ſtrenuouſly to requeſt ſhe will not concern herſelf in my affairs at all, and to make the poor creature eaſy, by tell⯑ing her that I can ſmile with contempt on all the malice of my enemies.'’

‘'And yet,' ſaid Figgins, 'I cannot methinks help wiſhing you would anſwer all the letters in the terms they deſerve.'’ ‘'Mr. Figgins,' inter⯑rupted Charles, 'though, if I know my heart, I ſhould deteſt myſelf could I indulge for two mi⯑nutes [246] together an unjuſt or an ungenerous reſo⯑lution, yet I am ſo well convinced that which I have at preſent made is founded on reaſon and propriety, that I would loſe my life rather than relinquiſh it. No; they ſhall ſeek me, or they ſhall loſe me. Let them take their choice; and, if they do not care which, it would ſurely be greatly beneath me not to be as indifferent as they are.'’

A ſummons to dinner put an end to this long converſation, after which Figgins left his friend, in his miſerable apartment, to go and prepare the aw⯑ful buſineſs of the next day. He was no ſooner gone than our hero began to pervade the contents of thoſe letters which Figgins had brought him from the bankers. Firſt he ſelected thoſe from his father, which were filled with ſuch tenderneſs, ſuch diſtreſs of heart, ſuch ſenſibility, yet unmixed with a ſingle reproach, that all poor Charles's fortitude was nearly exhauſted. He ſighed, wrung his hands, and cried like a child, which his gaoler—as he en⯑tered his apartment to examine if the rivets of his fetters were faſt—miſtaking for apprehenſion on ac⯑count of his approaching trial, begged he would make himſelf eaſy, for he had nothing worſe to apprehend than hanging!

[247] If this fate really awaits him, the reader and I may hereafter make ſome enquiry concerning his behaviour; for, as we have already examined toge⯑ther his life and character, that ſame behaviour and his laſt dying ſpeech ſeems all that is wanting to wind up his ſtory. At preſent we are going into happier company, and if it be objected againſt us that in ſo doing we are deſerters to his cauſe under whoſe banner we have inliſted, we muſt even excuſe ourſelves by ſaying that we are not the only friends who have left a hero in priſon, to go over to his enemies.

CHAPTER VIII.

RETROSPECTION is a very good and a very neceſ⯑ſary thing. If one's actions appear worthy upon a review, they will be a ſort of ſecurity for the future; if otherwiſe, their deformity being an unpleaſant object of contemplation, we may perhaps wiſh to replace it with ſomething of a more lovely appear⯑ance: at leaſt this will be the caſe with good minds. Some men love ſingularity, others uglineſs, and I ſincerely believe it is in ſome men's nature to love wickedneſs, and even wickedneſs in which no plea⯑ſure can be enjoyed but the mere exerciſe of it. For my part, however, I ſhall not here treat of ſuch innate, undeducible affections, but endeavour to give to a poſitive cauſe every little freak of fancy that the perſonages in this hiſtory chuſe to occupy their attention with.

A very extraordinary conduct has been lately ob⯑ſerved to govern all the good people on this ſide of the water, ever ſince the reader and I took leave of [249] them, in order to accompany our hero to France. What appears leaſt reconcileable to credibility, is the alteration of Sir Sidney, who, being a man of reaſon, of the world, of experience, of conſide⯑ration, and of uncommon benevolence, one would naturally ſuppoſe muſt, in a moſt extraordinary manner, have been tampered with before he could have been induced to give up a young man in whoſe dawnings of maturity he had taken abundant plea⯑ſure, whoſe father he had loved and honoured, and of whoſe happineſs he had hoped to have been the guardian.

Indeed when our hero left England Sir Sidney contemplated with great pleaſure when he ſhould return, in the bloom of manhood, with all thoſe confirmed accompliſhments ſo conſonant to his rank and talents, the reaſonable delight with which he ſhould witneſs an union between him and his daughter, and as no one ſpoke of Charles but in a ſtyle of the moſt exalted panegyric, no wonder if he was charmed at ſeeing every thing and every body confirm ſuch honeſt and legitimate ſenti⯑ments. But, when a week, then a fortnight, then a month, then two, then four, elapſed without a ſingle line from Charles to either his father, his miſtreſs, or any other friend, what could Sir Sid⯑ney [250] think? What judgment could he form of thoſe reports which continually aſſailed his ears, and which ſeemed gradually to turn all his friends againſt him?

It may not be amiſs to watch the progreſs of this buſineſs. Zekiel, as the reader was long ago in⯑formed, when he left Eaton went to France. There being in very ſtraitened circumſtances, and totally under the direction of Mr. Fluſh, he was obliged to practiſe many tricks and ſhifts to get on, eſpecially as Kiddy, who ſeems as a manooverer—his own word—to be a twin-born with Standfaſt, very carefully threw certain gentlemen depredators in his way, who are, as every body knows, pretty plentiful in France, and who took care—his own language again—to keep the purſe, by ſweating it, in good running order.

Being very cloſely driven at Calais, and not hav⯑ing enough of Kiddy about him to diſtinguiſh be⯑tween what the law calls theft, from that which is ſo denominated by reaſon, he did that through in⯑experience for which he might have been hanged, when, in fact, his mode of policy ſhould have made him do only that for which he ought to have been hanged.

[251] Mr. Deſſein, however, who had his policy too, as we have ſeen, did not chuſe to expoſe him, and, by the advice of his principal, he took care after⯑wards, however he offended againſt juſtice in a re⯑ligious ſenſe, not to ſin againſt law.

From a variety of ſources which Fluſh contrived to get opened for him, Mr. Zekiel, together with his own income and what he could drain from his mother, and indeed from Mr. Standfaſt, contrived to cut a very capital daſh at Paris. He ſet very large ſums chez les compteſſes, and he betted larger upon the courſe of Fontainebleau. In ſhort, in ſpight of all he could amaſs together, honeſtly or diſhoneſtly, he would have found himſelf not only aground, but ſurrounded with ſome very marked diſgrace, if he had not met with a gentleman who was ſo kind as to adminiſter very largely to his wants; and who, not contented with ſuch liberal in⯑ſtances of kindneſs to a perfect ſtranger, gave evi⯑dent tokens of ſatisfaction when the young lord in expectation informed him he had a very tender af⯑fection for his ſiſter.

This gentleman, the reader ſees, was Mr. Tad⯑pole. He had, it ſeems, in company with the young lady we ſaw at Liſle, who was, to ſay truth, not his ſiſter—which circumſtance indeed Mr. Fig⯑gins's [252] ſagacity taught us to ſuſpect before—deter⯑mined to make one bold puſh to render himſelf in⯑dependant. He had amaſſed at the gaming table in England about nine hundred pounds, to which his reputed ſiſter added thirteen hundred, which ſhe had won at a different game. Their plan was to ſnap up ſome young man of good expectations, firſt ſupplying him with money, and afterwards with a wife.

Tadpole, who was originally a lawyer's clerk, carefully ſecured every ſtep he took, and, by the time he reached England, had Zekiel ſo completely in his power, that, being then of age, he ſcrupled not to make over to his friend the reverſion of a part of his father's terra firma.

Coming ſo unexpectedly to his title and fortune, advantage was taken of this power over him, and a marriage ſuddenly clapt up; not out of fear of any reluctance in the young lord, but leſt an old lady, one Mrs. O'Shockneſy, ſhould not only deſtroy the hopes of the young lady, by the exerciſe of her power over him, but alſo thoſe of the gentleman, by fur⯑niſhing him with the money to pay off the mort⯑gage.

This marriage, which Emma gave us a hint of, [253] operated as we ſhall hereafter have occaſion to no⯑tice, in a moſt extraordinary manner; but the bu⯑ſineſs at preſent being to account for the reports againſt our hero, I ſhall go back to Liſle, where the reader will recollect I entreated his particular at⯑tention to all that paſſed.

Our hero had never ſeen Fluſh, and the two bro⯑thers were ſo grown out of each other's remem⯑brance, that it is not wonderful they ſhould remain in mutual ignorance till an accident unravelled the myſtery. After Zekiel had retired, vowing re⯑venge, and left his brother maſter of the field of battle, Kiddy, as we have ſeen, told him that re⯑venge was very eaſily in his power. He then in⯑formed him of Madame St. Vivier's intention to complete the happineſs of Charles that evening, and ſhewed him a chamber which he ſaid and believed was hers. Zekiel, following the direction of his truſty valet, was admitted to Kitty's bed room, and, in the full belief that he was deceiving his brother, made as happy as he could wiſh.

The queſtion here is, how came Fluſh, who was juſt arrived, to know ſo well all theſe private mat⯑ters? The anſwer is, by Mrs. Kitty, who, toge⯑ther with her miſtreſs, had been as well inſtructed [254] upon this occaſion by Mrs. O'Shockneſy, as Miſs Snaffle had upon a former one.

Fluſh, having the honour to know both the ladies, did not ſcruple, when the ſquabble began between our hero and his brother, to interrogate the waiting maid as to ‘'how the cat jumped,'’ as he called it, and, having learnt from her the parti⯑culars of the aſſignation, propoſed to put Zekiel in the place of Charles, which ſhe promiſed, without intention to perform; for ſhe knew if it were de⯑tected all their other deſigns on our hero would be at an end; and, at the ſame time, ſhe feared a diſcovery from Fluſh, for indeed he menaced it, if ſhe refuſed. She therefore directed him to conduct Zekiel to her bed chamber, where he paſſed the night, and the perſon who tapped at the door was Mr. Tadpole, who having firſt knocked at his ſoidiſante ſiſter's, thought he had miſtaken the room, and afterwards went to his own bed, for fear of fur⯑ther miſtakes.

So completely however were all theſe croſs pur⯑poſes acted, that Kitty believed the perſon who knocked at the door to be no other than Mr. Fig⯑gins, who, in his turn, as has been ſhewn, was otherwiſe employed. Kitty, however, having given [255] Madame St. Vivier a hint of this buſineſs, ſhe burnt a light in her chamber, by which means Charles came, as he informed Figgins, at the certainty of his not being miſtaken.

The moſt awkward circumſtance in this affair was the ſcene which paſſed the next day in the poſt chaiſe between Zekiel and his two companions.—Tadpole had taxed the young lady in the morning as to what perſon was in her bed chamber; ſhe aſ⯑ſured him it was the young lord; they were there⯑fore aſtoniſhed that he himſelf dropt no hint of it, while, on his ſide, he trembled for fear any one ſhould have maliciouſly diſcovered to them what he thought had really happened.

This doubtful taciturnity gave Tadpole a notion that he was inwardly hugging himſelf at his ſucceſs, and that probably having ſtolen the poſſeſſion of the young lady, he might, for ſome reaſon or other, ſlacken in his devoirs for the future. Miſs alſo had ſuſpicions akin to theſe, and ſhe had once an idea of throwing herſelf at her brother's feet, and mak⯑ing uſe of this opportunity, through his authority, of exacting from Zekiel a written promiſe of mar⯑riage. She refrained however, and it was well ſhe did. Tadpole ventured a few hints. He ſaid he believed the devil had been let looſe the night be⯑fore [256] in the inn, for he had heard ſuch running about and knocking at doors, that he could not get a wink of ſleep. Zekiel blundered out an awkward remark or two, Miſs ventured at a few leading queſtions, and, in ſhort, they were all three on the verge of a diſcovery, which would probably have overturned their reſpective intentions.

It happened however that but one diſcovery came of it, and that was confined to the knowledge of Tadpole and the young lady. It was, that ſome⯑body had been in bed with Miſs, which ſomebody was neither Zekiel nor Tadpole. They therefore, for they had not an idea of Figgins, concluded it to be Charles, and this thought dwelling in their imagination, preſented itſelf as a bar to their ſcheme. Upon a conſultation on this ſubject after⯑wards, however, they reſolved it ſhould make no difference as to their future meaſures, and their minds being thus made up—which the reader will allow to be a pretty ſtrong inſtance of delicacy—all matters went in their former channel.

When they came to England it was agreed, on all hands, that Mrs. O'Shockneſy and Standfaſt ſhould know no more of Mr. and Miſs Tadpole than if there had been no ſuch perſons in the world.

[257] And now came, as Figgins called it, maſter⯑ſtroke the firſt. This gentleman correſponded with Mr. Standfaſt, as did alſo Madame St. Vivier, whoſe real name was Jenny Singleton, with Mrs. O'Shock⯑neſy. From their accounts they had began to frame an accuſation, which the arrival of Zekiel greatly improved, and which, with its amendments, ſtood as in Standfaſt's letter.

Theſe tidings were conveyed to Mr. Gloſs, who inſinuated them into Sir Sidney's family as oppor⯑tunity ſerved; and, as faſt as one rumour died away, he broached another, that the good baronet might not be ſuffered to cool.

In this worthy buſineſs he found three very uſeful tools in Muſquito, Ego, and Toogood; who remem⯑bering, as Emma has told us, their old grudge—eſ⯑pecially when revived in its worſt lights by Gloſs—were continually throwing out ſome hint to Charles's diſadvantage. Muſquito ſaid the young fellow was mad, and becauſe he had been tolerably educated, and puffed up with falſe applauſe, had, like other ſpoilt children, thought he could carry all the world before him. Toogood ſaid that he could not have believed a young man of ſuch pro⯑miſing parts would ſo diſgrace all his friends, while [258] Ego declared that if he had been a young fellow bleſt with ſo many advantages, he would have turned out the beſt creature in the world. In ſhort, Gloſs made them play faſt and looſe, as he pleaſed, and when they talked in exaggerating terms of his former pranks, he once ventured in a mild way to reprobate the part Sir Sidney had taken in the buſi⯑neſs of Swaſh and the taylor, ſaying he ſhould not wonder to hear his acquieſcence upon that occaſion quoted as an excuſe for the wretch's enormities.

Theſe meaſures, together with the interception of Charles's letters, which, by the bye, furniſhed Standfaſt, who received them, with a moſt admi⯑rable guide to the execution of his ſchemes, and now and then ſome curſory intelligence from gen⯑glemen juſt arrived from France, who ſaw our hero drunk at an inn, or quarrelling in a coffee-houſe, where he refuſed, notwithſtanding their earneſt ſolicita⯑tion, to ſend any letter or meſſage to England. All theſe I ſay worked his utter ruin in the opinion of his friends; and yet, I muſt do Sir Sidney the juſ⯑tice to ſay he heſitated againſt what appeared to be poſitive conviction till one morning news was brought that Lord Hazard was found ſhot through the head, and that the act was certainly committed by himſelf, for one piſtol lay cloſe by him, and [259] another was found loaded in his pocket; and they were the ſame pair he had bought when he was laſt in town.

Two days after this melancholy accident John ar⯑rived, who wept over his old maſter's corpſe, ſaid he did not wonder at what had happened, after⯑wards corroborated all that had been reported, did not ſpare Figgins, and concluded with an account of Charles's being impriſoned at Lyons for murder, producing, at the ſame time, a French Gazette, which gave the particulars of the whole tranſaction. Under theſe appearances, with Gloſs at his elbow, Sir Sidney wrote the letter we have ſeen.

CHAPTER IX.

HAVING formerly hinted that Mr. Gloſs was ſe⯑lected by Standfaſt as a huſband for Annette, and again in the laſt chapter ſhewn that theſe two gen⯑tlemen acted in concert in a fraud of no leſs conſe⯑quence than what SHAKESPEARE, who well knew human nature, calls the worſt of injuries—the tak⯑ing away a man's good name—I feel it incumbent on me to account for the cloſe intimacy which cer⯑tainly did ſubſiſt between them.

When Gloſs came to England from Madeira, either accident, or neceſſity, or ſomething—for it is not neceſſary now to be particular—pointed out Mr. Standfaſt as a proper perſon to aſſiſt him in his views of ſettling in this country.

That reverend gentleman, ever ready to help out [261] a genius—for this quality muſt be allowed to Mr. Gloſs—adviſed him to trump up a ſtory of going to the Cape of Good Hope, and then return, after go⯑ing only to Madeira, where he actually had yet ſome little buſineſs, and circulate a report that he had touched his father's fortune, which, being in merchandiſe, he had only to change it into money, to cut a figure.

Being introduced to a number of tradeſmen, as a young nabob, he preſently ſat himſelf down in a moſt elegant houſe, built a vis a vis, and took up large quantities of goods: Standfaſt ſupplying him with what ready money he was in abſolute neceſ⯑ſity of.

Cutting this figure, and having his pretenſions backed by Standfaſt, money was next borrowed, Snaffle and Dogbolt becoming occaſionally colla⯑teral ſecurities; and this trade went on ſo ſwim⯑mingly, that in leſs than a year and a half they found their names ſtanding out on different engagements for upwards of twenty-ſeven thouſand pounds! twelve at leaſt of which Standfaſt had converted to his own proper uſe: for the avarice of Mrs. O'Shockneſy was inſatiable, and the poor gentle⯑man doated on her to a degree of infatuation.

[262] Thus ſituated, their ruin collectively was inevi⯑table, if they could not ſtem this ſtorm, which now ſeemed to be burſting over their heads. The diffi⯑culty ſeemed to be how to manage it, but to ſuch geniuſes all dangers were ſurmountable. Some hundreds were laid out in India goods, to ſhew by way of ſample, which were bought for exportation, to ſave the drawback, and afterwards clandeſtinely relanded.

Every poſſible exertion was made to give reſpon⯑ſibility and conſequence to the appearance of Mr. Gloſs. A large eſtate was bargained for; nay he even went ſo far as to wait on the miniſter, to offer an excluſive treaty for a loan. Thus his name rang in the newſpapers, and the whole world, believing him to be in poſſeſſion of an immenſe for⯑tune, offered him any aſſiſtance he might think proper to command. Large ſums were ſoon preſſed upon him, which went to ſatisfy ſuch as would not ſhift the reſponſibility from his confederates ſhoul⯑ders to his. Others did not make any difficulty of doing this; ſo that after a variety of negociations, Mr. Gloſs's name ſtood alone for the original ſum of twenty-ſeven thouſand pounds, and ſeven added to it!

What was the next ſtep? How was he to go on [263] How ſkreen himſelf from his creditors? How in⯑deed, but by borrowing the writings of a friend's eſtate, and ſtanding for a borough! He had given proofs of his abilities as a negociator; nobody knew the theory of commerce better; who then ſo proper to fill an office under the ſtate?

He had fixed his eye on the treaſury ſhip of the navy, and I have ſaid he had a knock of getting to any ſpot that he fixed his attention on. A public acknowledgment that he was determined upon hav⯑ing this poſt, that is to ſay, whenever there ſhould be a miniſtry virtuous enough for him to mix with, gained him his election.

His ſpeech from the huſtings was very original, and therefore very taking. In all addreſſes he had hitherto noticed, there were a number of general promiſes, which were never performed. He, on the contrary, reſolved to promiſe nothing but what his conſtituents were ſure he would perform if he could.

He began with ſaying that he had an intereſt in offering himſelf for that borough, and ſo had every man living when he made a ſimilar application; for would any one preſent, or in the world, exerciſe [264] his talents for nothing? This, he ſaid, was ho⯑neſt, and, therefore, he had no doubt it would be popular. He went on with ſaying he had watched with great attention the unhappy ſituation of this country, and was ready to lend a helping hand to ſave it from impending ruin. For this however he certainly expected a reward: and it was but juſt. Would a phyſician ſave a life without a fee?—or a parſon a ſoul without his tithes? It was folly, it was nonſenſe, it was hypocriſy, for men to pre⯑tend diſintereſtedneſs and mere love of their coun⯑try. He loved his country as well as any body; was as diſintereſted as any body; but ſtill, patrio⯑tiſm and ſelf-denial could not imply, in the pre⯑ſent inſtance, more than this: that while loaves and fiſhes are going forward, a man ſhould eat only to ſatisfy nature, inſtead of guttling till he fur⯑feited himſelf.

He ſaid he would be plain, and fairly lay open all his views. The navy of this nation was its bul⯑wark, its glory. It was that which lent millions to our treaſury, magnificence to our appearance, and terror to our name. It was that which made us re⯑ſpected and admired; dreaded and envied. We made but a point on the face of the globe, but yet that point, though ſmall, was reſplendant. It was [265] gazed at with wonder by the remoteſt corners of the earth. We were the true Cynoſure of trade; the commercial pole, that, with more than mag⯑netic force, attracted the intereſts of ſurrounding nations. All this was owing to our navy: the pro⯑tection of our commerce. His ambition therefore was to be treaſurer of that navy; in the execution of which office, though he expected to be paid for his trouble, yet he would be bold to ſay his conduct would deſerve it: for he was ſure he ſhould ſave immenſe ſums to the nation!

He ſaid he deſpiſed profeſſions. They were un⯑manly, ungenerous, and an inſult to thoſe to whom they were made: he had therefore honeſtly opened his mind. That honeſty would, he doubted not, be a ſufficient ſecurity with Engliſhmen, whoſe na⯑tural character was honeſty, for his future good intentions. If he ſhould have the great honour to be returned for the borough of Bray, and a miniſter ſhould come in of ſufficient ability and integrity for him to act with, he would ſtipulate for the ſitua⯑tion he had ſet his heart upon, and they would then ſee how the money would be handled! He would be bold to ſay, though it would be for his intereſt, it ſhould alſo be for theirs: for the intereſts of the member and his conſtituents were inſeperable.

[266] He finiſhed his ſpeech with ſaying he ſcorned to appeal to their ears, he hoped he had appealed to their hearts; and as their own conviction muſt teach them that truth, and only truth, had been his guide, he hoped that honeſty, plain dealing, and unreſerved candor would mark that day as an epoch when a member of parliament was choſen who had no expectations but from honour, no views but from ſentiment.

I need not add that Mr. Gloſs carried his elec⯑tion; for notwithſtanding this florid ſpeech, which was indeed novel enough, he had bought the bo⯑rough, and the gentleman who conteſted the elec⯑tion was only a nominal antagoniſt, ſet up to ſave appearances.

This point being carried, the perſon of Mr. Gloſs was ſacred, and his creditors might go whoop for their money. Exaſperated with this treatment, his vis a vis was ſtopt in the ſtreet, and executions ſerved in his houſe. But this was as uſeleſs as the reſt; all his property was made over to Mr. Stand⯑faſt, for money lent. And now we ſee Mr. Gloſs without an inch of land he could call his own, nearly forty thouſand pounds in debt, with a houſe and an equipage made over for ſafety to another, a parlia⯑ment [267] man, a popular ſpeaker, almoſt the leader of a party, and making large ſtrides, with the princi⯑ples we have ſeen, towards a reſponſible and lucra⯑tive place under government: for the treaſurerſhip of the navy he was determined to have.

As he really began to boaſt, and not without reaſon, of his influence, he thought he could not attack Sir Sidney in a more vulnerable place than his ancient houſe, which, from a long train of col⯑lateral argument, he proved to be older than the baronet himſelf had ſuſpected.

I ſhall not go into the minutiae of this arrange⯑ment, which muſt not only be dry, but unintereſt⯑ing to the reader, who, I dare ſay, would bate a little in the article of birth to ſuch as made up the deficiency in honour—but only ſay that Mr. Gloſs made it out very clearly that Sir Sidney was the only living iſſue of the family who held the honour of the firſt Engliſh baronetcy, and offered to make a motion in the houſe, which he ſhould ſupport with many powerful arguments, that his majeſty be adviſed to grant to Sir Sidney Walter Roebuck, and his heirs for ever, an excluſive patent of baronetcy, under the title of baronet in chief, to be conſidered as an honour between that of a common baronet and a baron, in like manner as a marquis is conſidered be⯑tween [268] an earl and a duke, and the precedent to be quoted, as an illuſtration of the argument, was to be, that as there was but one real marquis—which was the caſe at that time—ſo there ſhould be but one chief baronet.

The baronet certainly liſtened to the propoſal, and turned it a good deal in his mind, and though he doubted whether he ſhould avail himſelf of ſuch an opportunity of aggrandizing his family—eſpeci⯑ally as he had no ſon—yet, as he could ſee nothing but attention to his intereſt in the conduct of Gloſs, he certainly conceived from that moment a great re⯑gard for him. This was prodigiouſly augmented by the attention this laſt mentioned gentleman paid to Caſtlewick, and the actual advantage its intereſts received from his advice, which both gave the baronet an inſight into his capacity, and confirmed his good opinion of it. All theſe circumſtances co-operating, as indeed Emma has already told us, no wonder if he had familiar entrance to his houſe, afterwards to his heart, and at length an offer of his alliance.

Mr. Gloſs took care alſo to appear the friend of Charles; but then his mediation never came with⯑out an inſinuation that he was more a friend to ho⯑nour. In ſhort the two characters were ſo ſtrik⯑ingly contraſted in the mind of the baronet, that [269] without any great ſtretch of propriety, the reader muſt allow, under theſe circumſtances, that it is not to be wondered he ſhould turn about in the manner I have deſcribed. Beſides—for I would fain ſum up every trifling figure, to make the ag⯑gregate of my reaſons upon ſo important a point convincing—Sir Sidney felt a delicate, a nice re⯑pugnance, perhaps too much ſo, at the idea of a connection with the ſon of a man who had deſtroyed himſelf, and who had, aſſuredly, borne in his youth a very bad character.

Again, he plainly foreſaw that all his benevolent attempts at Little Hockley would ſoon be fruſ⯑trated by the innovations of the young lord; for it was not yet ſo firmly rooted but that, owing to a new crew of revellers, it began already to loſe ground. This, and the recollection of the ancient feuds, which he now feared would be renewed, heartily conquered his inclination to be in any re⯑ſpect allied to the family of Lord Hazard, though he admired the talents of our hero, and really had ſuch a value for him as to wiſh his welfare, though he doubted whether he would ever deſerve it.

Mr. Standfaſt and Mrs. O'Shockneſy muſt now become a little the ſubject of our attention. That gentleman and lady had been ſometime married: [270] but it was the wiſh of both that it ſhould not be pub⯑liſhed. She brought with her a comfortable number of debts, and being now a femme couverte, very ſoon contracted a number more. In ſhort, there were no bounds to her extravagance, which Mr. Stand⯑ſaſt ſeemed as anxious to feed as ſhe to indulge.—His own income, including a living the gift of my lord, his annuity from that nobleman, the intereſt of his legacy from Major Malplaquet, and what he had beſides been able to realize—for no object upon earth, except Mrs. O'Shockneſy, had been ſixpence expence to him—was about ſeventeen hundred a year; the lady had three; yet we have lately ſeen above twelve thouſand added to their income in a year and a half! But what was this? He doated on her as implicitly, as rapturouſly, and as boyiſhly as Barn well did on Millwood, and threw large ſums into her lap as willingly, whenever he could ſteal them: for I think the means he uſed to get at them might very well be called theft. On her ſide, no dutcheſs muſt dare to vie with her in taſte and ex⯑pence. But every ſource from whence this profu⯑ſion was ſupplied at length dried up. Mr. Gloſs being in parliament, nobody would truſt him; and thus the whole credit of the confederacy was at a ſtand. Beſides, Lord Hazard, who was expected to grieve himſelf to death for the loſs of his wife and the irregularities of his ſon, was yet alive, and [271] had no diſorder but ſorrow, which, though immode⯑rate, did not ſeem likely to kill him. What joy then to the heart of this lady to hear he was no more!—to find her ſon in full poſſeſſion of more than thirteen thouſand a year, the whole of which ſhe intended to command! Her tranſport knew no bounds! She beſpoke a new carriage and new liveries, and bowled down into Warwickſhire in the moſt ſuperb and magnificent ſtyle that money could procure or faſhion invent: taking with her ſuch domeſtics for her ſon as ſhe conceived proper for his ſituation in life. In ſhort nothing could equal the triumph with which ſhe thought herſelf ſure of taking poſſeſſion of both her ſon's ſenſes and his affairs. Judge then what was her aſtoniſhment when flying to his arms he ſtopt her by introducing his wife, being no other than the very Miſs Tad⯑pole that Figgins, to uſe his own words, dubbed him with by anticipation at Liſle! What then did ſhe feel! Words are not ſtrong enough to deſcribe her ſenſations. It took her breath away. She raved, ſtampt, laughed, execrated, and would probably have died with the violence of her paſſion, had not a ſhower of tears borne away the firſt torrent of that complication of diſtreſsful feelings which aſſailed her. At length ſhe accompliſhed ſomething like ar⯑ticulate utterance, when the whole ſchool of Billingſ⯑gate, had it been preſent, might have heard and [272] edified. No opprobrious name that could be ſcan⯑dalouſly ſpoken or maliciouſly applied, was unre⯑membered. His lordſhip—ſurely no lord was ever ſo called before—was a pitiful raſcal, a nincompoop, a hop o' my thumb, a paltry puppy, and a pimp⯑ing ſcoundrel. The lady was a ſcurvy jade, a for⯑tune hunting minx, a low wretch, and a ſorry trull.

Zekiel laughed at all the abuſe on himſelf, but taking fire at the inſults offered to his wife, cried, ‘'I'll tell you what it is ma'am; I know you ſee what you'd be at, but dam'me let me tell you dam'me that I am out of my leading ſtrings, dam'me if I 'ent, and I won't no longer be ſchooled, d'ye ſee, by any old cat in England.'’ ‘'Old cat!' ſcreamed out the lady dowager.’

The young lady here interfered, and begged her huſband to conſider he was talking to his mother.— ‘'To my mother,' cried he, 'why ſo I know I am, and a pretty mother ſhe is, now is not ſhe, to a⯑buſe you and I in this here manner? Why I know'd what ſhe was upon; ſhe thought to come here and be lady paramount of every thing, and ſnub and ding me about like a lout and a ſchool boy; but dam'me if I'll have any ſuch doings: no, I won't old gentlewoman, I'll aſſure you. I know in a week, if ſhe was to be here, ſhe'd be [273] whole and fole; nay I ſhould not wonder if ſhe wanted at laſt to take my ſeat from me in the houſe of lords. But hold, now I think on't ſhe has been there once too often already.'’

‘'You brute!' exclaimed his mother. 'You wretch!—you undutiful curſed devil! Oh I could tear your eyes out!'’

‘'I dare ſay you could,' cried the young lord, 'but I'll tell you what mother, if I am ſo unduti⯑ful, you had better go away from ſuch a curſed devil, for to tell you the truth I never intended you ſhould live with my wife, ſeeing as how it was not unlikely you would adviſe her to play me a trick or ſo with my valet de chambre.'’

Mrs. O'Shockneſy could contain herſelf no lon⯑ger: ſhe ran to his ſword, and drawing it half way out of the ſcabbard, ſwore ſhe would murder him. Lady Hazard here ſcreamed ſo loud that Tadpole, who had been walking in the garden, came to their aſſiſtance, and demanded what was the matter.

‘'The matter?' cried Zekiel; 'only my old mother wants ſo ſend me poſt to the other world, [274] becauſe I reminded her a little of the follies of her youth. God bleſs the good gentlewoman,' add⯑ed he, 'do now pray go home, waſh the paint off your ſaded jaws, and chuckle to old Standfaſt.—Why do you think I have not been up to all the rum gig? Why yes I have; but it was no buſi⯑neſs of mine, you know, while I could coax you out of the ready. Now, d'ye ſee, I can ſupply myſelf, and thanks to nobody:—ſo every one for himſelf, and God for us all. Mr. Standfaſt has two or three goodiſh things: they may keep you ſnug enough, if you have a mind to live pretty and decent, as an old gentlewoman ought. As for me I intend to live nobly, and ſpend my money like a man!'’

‘'But ſtill my lord,' ſaid Tadpole—’ ‘'Brother Tadpole,' interrupted Zekiel, 'I'll be damned if I live in the ſame houſe with a wife and a mo⯑ther, and there's it d'ye ſee. That being the maxim of the thing, you had better, old lady, as I ſaid before, go back again; and it may be as well for you to keep a quiet tongue, and adviſe Maſter Standfaſt to do the ſame, or it may be the worſe for both you, d'ye ſee, and the rum duke too.’

I have neither time nor inclination, nor indeed [275] capacity to paint the fury of the lady, at her leaving the houſe, which ſhe did ſoon after. Every bitter wiſh her invention could ſupply was laviſhed on her ſon. Among the reſt, I think ſhe ſaid ſhe hoped to her ſoul he would be both a beggar and a cuck⯑old.

The lady's return to Mr. Standfaſt, who was pre⯑vented by buſineſs from accompanying her into the country, was truly a curious one. She blamed him for every thing, which was her uſual method when⯑ever any thing miſcarried; and he, as uſual, bore his jobation with aſtoniſhing coolneſs. This pro⯑voked her: her paſſion then provoked him: one epithet begat another, till he was all the old, ſap⯑leſs, doting idiots that her fertile fancy could in⯑vent; and ſhe was, by his account, the damnedeſt infernal hell-cat that ever was born to curſe an un⯑happy raſcal like him.

From ſtorming they went to upbraiding then they proceeded to the ſituation of their affairs, which were found to be plunged over head and ears in difficul⯑ties. This, in ſpight of them, brought on re⯑flexion, and that upbraided them with the infamous practices they had been guilty of to ſerve an un⯑grateful wretch, who, after he had mounted to af⯑fluence by their means, had kicked down the p [...] [276] that raiſed him! And here I cannot help remark⯑ing that the very devil for whom they had been ſo long toiling, his ends accompliſhed, ſpit in their faces, and forſook them.

CHAPTER X.

THE reader will judge right if he fancies this re⯑ception of Mrs. O'Shockneſy was a concerted thing between my lord and his brother in law, who was now his ſteward, as was Fluſh his butler. Indeed, as every ſervant formerly in the houſe was by this time replaced by others, brought in at the inſtance of theſe two friends, his lordſhip was doomed to be as much in leading ſtrings as ever his mother could have held him for the life of her; but as he was ſuffered in every thing to have his own way, he did not concern himſelf with what they did privately, but let them feather their neſts in quiet, under the idea of taking all his affairs off his hands, becauſe he was a man of rank, in whom it was vulgar to let buſineſs interfere with pleaſure.

Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Kiddy underſtood one another very well, for the latter had, while they were in France, made a diſcovery, of which the reader ſhall ſome time hence participate.

[278] A ſecret to a miniſter of ſtate, or his type, a great man's butler, is a matter of ſome conſequence.—Here then Fluſh ſet up his reſt. It is true he ba⯑lanced, when he firſt came to England, and was within a hair's breadth of deſtroying all Tadpole's hopes, by making the above diſcovery to his old maſter Standfaſt; but that gentleman making him ſome propoſal or other that he did not like, he re⯑tracted before he had ſo explained himſelf as to betray Tadpole, and matters having ſince turned out ſo much to his advantage, he thanked his ſtars that he had now ſat himſelf down comfortably for life.

Whether Kiddy was tired of his youthful follies, or whether his whirligig inclinations had wearied themſelves with turning round, I know not, but he ſeemed like a worn-out weathercock to be glad to ruſt where he had ſtopt: and this choice was ma⯑nifeſt in a total alteration in his manners. He went to church, nay more, he was very often cloſeted with a methodiſt preacher, with whom he got drunk, and ſang pſalms.

The young lord uſed to ſmoke this, as he called it, and gave him many a dry rub, to one of which ſallies he one day replied, ‘'Why Lord love your [279] lordſhip, my lord, when you come to repent, as I do, of all your worldly gig, and are down upon the heavenly comfort of a religious life, you may tell the old rum codger with his hour glaſs, come when he will, you are up to all he knows, and in⯑different, as ſome old learned gentleman ſays, whether you cloſe your peepers in ſleep or in death.'’

Emma, who, as ſhe informed our hero, was up on the watch, no ſooner heard of Kiddy's conver⯑ſion, but knowing he muſt be full of good intelli⯑gence for her, determined to tamper with him: not that ſhe had any expectation of finding him leſs a hypocrite in his new calling than in his old one. She therefore ſaw there might be danger in putting her deſigns in execution perſonally. In fact Emma ſaw herſelf of conſequence in the very way ſhe had all her life wiſhed to be; for ſhe was convinced ſhe ſhould have it in her power, in the language of thoſe romances ſhe ſo dearly loved, to conduct two con⯑ſtant lovers to the temple of Felicity, through all the briars and bogs that impeded their paſſage.—Fluſh ſhe pitched upon as the vehicle in this trou⯑bleſome journey, which Swaſh and his daughter were to guide, while ſhe herſelf, like ſome tutelary genius, ſhould watch their motions, inſpire them [280] with courage on the road, and remove all difficulties in their paſſage to this deſirable goal.

In leſs figurative language, ſhe ſet Swaſh, who with good reaſon loved Charles moſt ſincerely, to inſinuate himſelf into Fluſh's good graces, who, I can tell you, had already began to love homage, ſo little had the ſpirit mended his humility.

It was in the miller's inſtructions never to mention a word of our hero, or, if he found that unavoida⯑ble, to cover any ſuſpicion of his friendſhip, by railing againſt him, but at the ſame time to cheriſh all that dropt from Fluſh—who now, for diſtinc⯑tion, began to be called Canting Kiddy—that could in the remoteſt degree lead to any circumſtance that implied a plot having been formed againſt him.

As to Jude, her part was a capital one, and had ſhe not been perfected in it by a very capable in⯑ſtructreſs, ſhe might have ſpoilt all.

Kiddy, it was notorious, loved a pretty girl; Judy was inſtructed to throw herſelf in his way, to give an account of his behaviour, and proceed ſtep by ſtep as ſhe ſhould be directed by Emma. It was foreſeen her virtue would be attacked, but this was [281] the very cunning of the ſcene. Whenever this ſhould happen to be the caſe, ſhe was directed to draw, in her ſimple way, a pathetic picture of the wickedneſs of mankind, and lament the blindneſs of the world, who could load the preſerver of her innocence with unmerited reproaches, while he who was ſeeking to deſtroy it had the character of ſanc⯑tity and penitence. They were not ſo mad how⯑ever as to truſt to Judy's prudence alone, nor her rhetoric, for force might overcome both: Swaſh therefore was to be at hand upon any trying occa⯑ſion, to reſcue her, which being romantic, was ſtill more to Emma's taſte.

If ſhe ſhould get at any material evidence, her next ſtep was to ſtrengthen her own weak force by the alliance, as ſhe ſhould think fit, of either Mr: Friend or Mr. Balance, or both; and as ſhe ſaw many obſtacles would lie in the way, particularly the buſineſs of Gloſs, ſhe adviſed Annette to avow implicitly her affection for Charles, which her fa⯑ther had formerly authoriſed, and who would not ſo far contradict his own excellent character as to in⯑ſiſt on her marrying one man before ſhe had forgot⯑ten the other. Beſides Mr. Gloſs was not yet trea⯑ſurer of the navy, and therefore could not make thoſe offers as to fortune which a man of Sir Sid⯑ney's [282] rank and poſſeſſions would of courſe expect, eſpecially when he became chief baronet; which circumſtance, ridiculous as it was, really at times occupied his reflections: for what man is there, let him be ever ſo good or ever ſo wiſe, but has his weak ſide.

All this jumble or chaos of circumſtances were fluctuating at this time in Emma's head, out of which ſhe had no doubt but ſhe ſhould form a world of happineſs for the young couple.

Matters being in this ſtate as to our hero in En⯑gland, the reader and I will once more take a trip to the continent, in which journey we cannot do better than follow the ſteps of Madame St. Vivier and her handmaid Kitty, whoſe private motives being made clearer—which ſeems very neceſ⯑ſary—this hiſtory will ſtand as diſentangled as any one could reaſonably deſire who wiſhes things to be brought forward in their natural order.

It has been ſeen that I am not very fond of dwelling upon trifling circumſtances, I ſhall there⯑fore, without mentioning a word of theſe ladies bringing up, ſay that Madame St. Vivier was a faſhionable woman of the town, and that Miſs Kitty, [283] though her handmaid, had been in no leſs a ſphere of life than herſelf. Indeed, but a very few years before, ſhe had cut a figure little leſs brilliant than Mrs. O'Shockneſy, but falling in love with either the beauty or the brogue of Mr. Ireland, ſhe had really attached herſelf to him with a ſingu⯑lar degree of conſtancy for a lady of her pro⯑feſſion.

When this gentleman was obliged to abſcond, in conſequence of his duel, he left his affairs in the hands of an intimate friend, who thought proper to take no other notice of the truſt, than by appro⯑priating every thing to his own uſe, without remitt⯑ing his friend abroad, or allowing the lady at home, a ſingle ſixpence: ſo that in this caſe Kiddy's re⯑mark of honour among thieves did not apply.

Mrs. Kitty having been ſometime out of the way of practice—for faſhion has as much to do in theſe caſes as beauty—had recourſe to her old friend Jenny Singleton, who began juſt then alſo to be on the decline, and propoſed a viſit to Sedan, where Mr. Ireland then was, with a view to conſult him on their future operations.

This expedition was lucky enough, for Mr. Gloſſ [284] coming acroſs them, they were tutored by Mrs. O'Shockneſy how to make their journey worth while.

Figgins gave them intelligence concerning the departure of Charles; and, as it had been concerted, they met him at Dover.

The ladies however, determined to make all ſure, had privately agreed to act in the very manner Figgins has deſcribed; for their experience gave them reaſon to believe that it was not impoſſible but Mr. Ireland might forget to give them the meeting. They therefore were in appearance to be alternately miſtreſs and maid, both to ſave ex⯑pence, to keep their ſecrets to themſelves, and alſo to avail themſelves of any opportunity that might happen of ſnapping up any Engliſh booby, by way of completing his tour for improvement.

Matters turned out however very much to their ſatisfaction. They met with Mr. Ireland at Se⯑dan; he attended them to Nancy, where, as it has been ſeen, he plundered our hero of a tolerable ſupply. Nor did he abſolutely part with them, but hovered about as it were, till his affairs called him into Italy, to which place—after robbing our hero [285] of every thing they could lay their hands on, as we heard Figgins inform him—theſe two kind ladies followed him.

CHAPTER XI.

IF the reader and I were unfeeling enough to leave Charles in ſuch a ſituation that death ſeemed almoſt deſirable to him, Mr. Figgins appears to have been more ſolicitous about him, for in leſs than half an hour after the melancholy moment wherein I deſcribe him reading his father's letters, he re⯑turned with great pleaſure in his countenance, took his friend by the hand, and giving him joy, told him he was liberated!

Charles, going from one extreme to the other, was enraptured at the news, and requeſted to be in⯑formed how ſo unexpected an event had been brought about. Figgins anſwered him that they were in no place to ſatisfy his curioſity. They were then joined by their attorney, who had ſtayed be⯑hind to pay the fees of the priſon; and now the jailor, who a little before had earneſtly examined [287] our hero's chains, to ſee if they were faſt enough, came with great ceremony to unfaſten them.

This and all other punctilios over, they ſallied forth, and Charles and Figgins being arrived at their inn, the latter thus accounted for his friend's enlargement.

Mr. Figgins ſaid that no ſingle day had paſt ſince his friend's impriſonment but ſome ſtep had been taken to get at the truth of the unhappy buſineſs, which had been the means of his ſuffering in ſo worthy a cauſe. The accounts had been for a good while various and unſatisfactory, and therefore he determined, as he had enough in all conſcience to vex him without being eternally tortured with ſuch ſuſpenſe, not to ſay a word till ſome certain intel⯑ligence ſhould arrive. He ſaid the firſt clue he had of any thing like a chance of ſucceſs, though he took no notice of it at the time, was his friend's ſaying he was ſure he had ſomewhere ſeen the murderer. This put it into his head—though he owned it was a conjecture greatly at random. ‘'But.' added he 'I would catch as much at a ſtraw for my friend's ſafety as my own. That Ireland, who was a great duelliſt, was probably the man.'’

‘'And by heaven,' ſaid Charles, 'I do believe [288] he was; though it never ſtruck me ſo till this moment.'’

‘'You ſhall hear,' ſaid Figgins.’ ‘'I was inclined the more to believe this on hearing his name men⯑tioned in an odd way by Madame St. Vivier, with whom I now began to think he had maintained ſome intelligence all along; for I recollected that it dropt from her at Nancy that ſhe had ſeen him in England. This ſet me upon interrogating Kitty, who confeſſed his having been at Lyons, and that very probably he was the guilty per⯑ſon.'’

‘'I was now convinced they knew it. Thinking therefore to practiſe the trick your brother taught us at Liſle, I ordered John to enquire every day at the poſt-office, and to bring me any letters di⯑rected to Madame St. Vivier. He, I ſuppoſe, made them acquainted with theſe inſtructions, for after waiting till about three weeks ago, to no purpoſe, I was juſt thinking what other method I could hit upon, when, all on a ſudden, the la⯑dies and Mr. John decamped, as I imagined, to⯑gether, but we have ſince learnt he went to En⯑gland.'’

‘'Women cannot ſo eaſily travel ſecretly in France [289] as men. I therefore ſoon found out their route, which, as I ſuſpected, led to where Mr. Ireland was waiting for them. My firſt intention was to have purſued them myſelf, but reflecting I ſhould be of more uſe to you upon the ſpot, I got, by the interference of our banker, a very intelligent young man to go in my ſtead.’

‘'The inſtructions given to this young man were not to act ſo as to endanger Mr. Ireland—for that I knew you did not wiſh—but only to get from him ſuch ſort of ſatisfaction as ſhould acquit you.—The firſt part of this injunction was unneceſſary, for though he overtook the ladies in the kingdom of France, the gentleman was ſafe in the confines of Savoy. They however, fearing for themſelves, ſerved him as a guide, and coming at length to where Mr. Ireland had appointed them, he did you ample juſtice, making voluntary oath that you had no part in the fray, but that of a mediator, and that ſo far from having any malice, you could not poſſibly know either the quarrel or its cauſe; for that all you did was merely the effect of acci⯑dent, and entirely with a view to prevent miſ⯑chief.'’

‘'This confeſſion, ſo ſworn—which is now lodged [290] to ground your diſcharge upon—he accompanied with this letter, which you will find attributes the duel to the haſtineſs of the gentleman who unfor⯑tunately fell. He talks of unhandſome reflections againſt Engliſhmen in general, and him in parti⯑cular. In ſhort, be the cauſe of quarrel what it may, he had it in his power to palliate the matter as he thought proper, for there are no witneſſes to contradict him.’

‘'Thus,' added he, 'my noble friend, you are at liberty, and I offer myſelf to avenge you on your enemies in any way you may think proper to point out for me.'’

Charles thanked him heartily, but ſaid his only revenge would be contemptuous indifference.

In ſome parts of this account Mr. Figgins ex⯑ceeded the truth, and in others fell ſhort of it. He had not ſet John to enquire about letters; he had not taken a hint from our hero as to Ireland; he had not wormed the matter out of the ladies. On the contrary, a note had been received explanatory of Ireland's flight on the very morning it happened, and the intelligence had not been protracted out of tenderneſs to Charles, but to cover the ſafety of the ſugitive; for though a gentleman was ſent, as [291] our hero was informed, and did actually return with the letter and oath already mentioned, yet Madame St. Vivier, who, to do her juſtice, was as willing as any body to ſave Charles, ſtipulated however that no arrangement ſhould take place till Mr. Ire⯑land ſhould be fully out of danger. Then again there was no part of the conduct of theſe ladies un⯑known to him. He knew why they went to Sedan; he was acceſſary to the loſs of the money at Nancy; he even learnt that Kitty and Ireland were upon the beſt terms; he conſented when they went away to their taking that money of which he pretended to have been robbed; and, laſtly, ſo far from not be⯑ing acquainted with John's departure for England, he ſent him there, and—not to hide the truth—with proper inſtructions how our hero ſhould be written to: ſo that he knew every word of Mr. Standfaſt's letter before Charles received it.

Mr. Figgins now began to be very inquiſitive as to our hero's future plan. Charles ſaid he ſhould immediately write to Mr. Balance, and if he found him willing to ſupply him without the ceremony of going to England, he ſhould continue his tour as he originally intended; ‘'for,' ſaid he, 'I ſee nothing in my native country that ſhould make me deſirous of returning to it.'’

[292] ‘'Nor I either,' ſaid Figgins, 'except it were to curſe them all round.'’

‘'Pretty advice indeed,' ſaid Charles, with a laugh: 'want a man deliberately to go ſeven hun⯑dred miles for no better purpoſe than to put him⯑ſelf in a paſſion.'’

‘'Well then may I be damned,' ſaid Figgins, 'if I think there is your fellow upon the face of the earth. Such prudence and diſcernment at your age is truly aſtoniſhing.'’

The reader ſees that Figgins did not want Charles to go to England, but as he well knew the right kind of argument to hold with mankind, the ſtronger Charles's obſtinacy appeared, the more he argued againſt it. He ſhewed how eaſy it would be to un⯑deceive Sir Sidney. He painted the beauties of Annette; the danger of loſing her; the triumph of obtaining her from his rival; till at length, being highly exhilirated with wine, he had reaſon to re⯑pent of his warmth, for Charles, in the heat of his vivacity, ſaid ſomething that implied a determina⯑tion to return.

Fortune however, envious perhaps of his having ſo narrowly eſcaped an untimely end, or thinking [293] the hero of ſuch a hiſtory as this had not been long enough upon his probation, or bent upon bringing about his cataſtrophe, whatever it be, by the means of Mrs. Emma, her agent, or for ſome other equally wiſe and conſiderate motive, determined to give Charles good time to deliberate, before he ſhould come to any reſolution; for he was that night taken with a violent fever, which laſting him ſeveral days without the ſmalleſt intermiſſion, and ſeveral weeks with but very little, he was at length left in a moſt emaciated condition, with all the ſymptoms of a gradual decline.

The moment he was able he wrote to Mr. Ba⯑lance, without however dropping a hint of his ill⯑neſs, which precaution he enjoined Figgins alſo to obſerve, thinking, probably, it would look like an overture to a reconciliation, which, had he even wiſhed, his pride would have forbid him to ac⯑knowledge.

Indeed he was pretty reſolute as to his future in⯑tentions; for though his bodily ſtrength was greatly impaired, his mental faculties were at leaſt as ſtrong as ever.

This was the only ſerious illneſs he had ever had in his life. It had given him excellent time for re⯑flection, [294] and the more he reflected the leſs he ſaw to be aſhamed of. In proportion therefore as he found himſelf wronged, he perſiſted in his firm de⯑termination to conſider himſelf independant, and accountable to no man for his actions: and, as to enjoy the full poſſeſſion of ſuch principles he muſt not have many friendſhips, he reſolved to continue his tour, that, by gathering a plentiful ſtock of ac⯑compliſhments, he might be the better qualified to find a friend in himſelf.

This ſcheme he was alſo determined to purſue after his own fancy, which part he digeſted as de⯑liberately as the reſt. Taking therefore an oppor⯑tunity one day, when the phyſician adviſed him to try the air of Montpelier, he thus opened his mind to his friend Figgins.

‘'My dear ſir, it would be but a poor return to your warm and unſhaken friendſhip, merely to ſay it will ever be remembered by me with that ſort of heart-felt pleaſure every thing gives me that originates from ſuch handſome and liberal principles. It would however be taking a very unfriendly advantage of you if I could be ſo un⯑reaſonable as to requite ſo much generoſity by ſuf⯑fering you to neglect and injure your affairs on my account.’

[295] ‘'My father has ſettled on you an annuity, to which is now annexed no conditions on your ſide of attention to me; for he being dead, his kind⯑neſs muſt naturally be conſidered as a remem⯑brance of paſt, inſtead of a reward for preſent, ſervices: but as I know your worthy heart will not let you regard yourſelf as entitled to this eſ⯑teem, unleſs you acquit your conſcience of re⯑ceiving it upon any other principle than that of deſert, inſtead of throwing away your time on me—time which, at your ſeaſon of life, muſt be very precious to you, and which you can without doubt employ to greater advantage in the boſom of your family and affairs—you ſhall keep a con⯑ſtant correſpondence with me, and I will promiſe to profit by that advantage as much as my capacity and abilities permit me: ſo now do not take it unkind that I ſhould have reſolved to purſue my travels alone, but rather let me have your excuſe that I have already taken up ſo much of your time, to your prejudice.'’

It happened luckily for Mr. Figgins, that this was the very ſubject he had himſelf been two or three times on the point of broaching, but he felt ſo awkward about it that he could not for the ſoul of him tell how to begin. Having however the ice broken for him, he did not ſcruple to acknowledge [296] that his affairs at home were rather in a diſordered condition, and that he ſincerely believed, were he on the ſpot, a certain biſhop would at that time have an opportunity of promoting him: but yet he could not think of leaving his dear, his honoured friend; it would look as if he was of a piece with the reſt of the world, and had baſely deſerted his cauſe.

‘'Your own heart and my experience of your ge⯑nerous friendſhip will, my dear Figgins,' ſaid Charles, 'acquit you; for, after all, what ſignifies what all the world ſays abroad, when you have a cheerful monitor at home that approves your ac⯑tions. Beſide, in the opinion of thoſe who take the freedom ſo very liberally to talk of me, you will retrieve your character inſtead of injure it, by quitting a man ſo unworthy to be ſpoken well of.'’

‘'Rather,' ſaid Figgins, if I am induced to leave you, let it be with a view to confound any raſcal who ſhall dare to uſe you ill. Now I think of it, you have need of a friend there to ſilence your calumniators, and I aſſure you neither Mr. Stand⯑faſt, whoſe friendſhip it is my intention to re⯑nounce, Mr. Gloſs, your brother, nor even Sir Sidney, ſhall dare to traduce your character with [297] impunity.'’ To which Charles ſaid, ‘'Figgins, if you would have me believe you value either my friendſhip or peace of mind, imitate what I ſhould do in the ſame ſituation. When you hear any one vilify me, laugh in his face, without lifting him into conſequence enough to think him worthy an anſwer.'’

After a great deal of perſuaſion on one ſide, and much apparent reluctance on the other, it was a⯑greed upon that our hero and Mr. Figgins ſhould part. This they did with many warm proteſtations of friendſhip, and future attention to each other's intereſt—on one ſide I am ſure very ſincere—and a firm promiſe to keep up a regular correſpon⯑dence.

Not two days after the departure of Mr. Fig⯑gins, Charles wrote to Mr. Balance, by whom he had been treated, as to his money, in a very gen⯑tlemanly manner, deſiring, without giving a ſingle reaſon, that he would immediately grant out of his fortune a hundred a year to Mr. Figgins for life; and about four hours after this letter was diſpatched, he received one from Emma, informing him of his brother's actual marriage—and alſo that Lady Ha⯑zard was in a way to bleſs him with a ſon and heir—the diſcomfiture of the Lady Dowager; the unal⯑tered [298] inflexibility of Sir Sidney; the neutrality of Lady Roebuck; the conſtancy of Annette; a con⯑gratulation on his releaſe, which they had all heard from ſome ſpy in the camp; to which ſhe added, pray God Mr. Figgins prove not rather an Euriſ⯑teus than a Pylades; a gentle reproach for his ſi⯑lence; an exhortation to return; ‘'but indeed,' ſaid ſhe, 'to what purpoſe? Juſtice, come as am⯑ply as it may, can now ſcarcely make you amends. Of what uſe was the pyramid to Aeſop after they had hurled him from the rock?'’—and laſtly, ſhe informed him that ſhe had a moſt formidable plot, which had already taken root, and when it ſhould have grown, bloſſomed, and borne fruit, ſhe doubted not but ſhe ſhould gather a plentiful crop of juſtice to him, credit to herſelf, conviction to the abuſed, and confuſion to his enemies.

Charles had not anſwered Emma's former letter, it is true, but he was determined now to do ſo once for all. This was his letter.

CHAPTER XII.

CHARLES continued in a very weak ſtate. As ſoon therefore as he had received from Mr. Balance ſuch kind of authority as enabled him to find him⯑ſelf in caſh, travel where he might, he complied with his phyſician's advice, and removed, by ſhort ſtages, to Montpelier, with only a valet de chambre and a laquais, both Frenchmen: his intention be⯑ing to ſhun the Engliſh as much as poſſible.

His diſorder for ſome time gave every appear⯑ance that if the malignity of his friends went ſo far as to wiſh him in the other world, they would ſoon be ſatisfied. Perhaps ſome of them might have been happy to have contemplated his ſituation.—Their charitable expectations however would have been diſappointed, for his youth and conſtitution triumphed over the conſumption, and, what per⯑haps was a greater victory, over the united efforts of the phyſicians; and at length—but not in leſs [303] than ſeven months—his recovery was pronounced to be certain.

I might here draw a ſtriking picture enough of a young man of rank and fortune, with excellent talents, an admirable heart, young, handſome, and ſweet tempered, without a ſingle fault that might not be defended upon principles of reaſon, hemmed in by an hoſt of enemies, and apparently dying by himſelf in a remote corner of a ſtrange kingdom. All this interſperſed with apt obſervation, and em⯑belliſhed with proper reflections, would indeed make up good moral matter in this place, and give me an opportunity of finiſhing the ſecond volume with ſome very pretty, round, well-turned reading:—but the buſineſs of this hiſtory is—as indeed I think every other ought to be—action, which I give the reader warning will be more and more rapid as we go on. I therefore beg, that whoever ſhall wiſh I had pauſed at ſuch and ſuch a place, and given my muſe a bait, cramming down every mouthful with a moral ſentence, will ſupply that ſentence them⯑ſelves, which will be more than one advantage to me: it will ſave me the trouble; it will be more to the taſte of every reader; and it will give free ſcope to all thoſe who think with me, to go on without ſkipping.

[304] Charles did not want company at Montpelier, for he did not want money. He had officers and abbes out of number, and ſometimes ladies, and now and then an Engliſh gentleman in misfortunes, who was not the worſe for his trouble in viſiting him. At other times he read the beſt authors, and never loſt any opportunity of ſpeaking French, which he at laſt accompliſhed correctly and elegantly.

His health was re-eſtabliſhed ſooner than his ſtrength. On this account he ſlowly viſited moſt of the towns in the ſouth of France, where he met with a variety of characters, with whoſe hiſtories, were I ſo diſpoſed, I could interlard my book, till, as I once heard an Iriſhman ſay of a bad play, the main plot would be all epiſode. I ſhall however, which is modeſt enough, chuſe but one, and now we are talking of Iriſhmen, it ſhall be a gentleman of that country; he ſhall be a monk, called Father Fitzgibbon, and member of a convent of Benedic⯑tines.

Our hero, becauſe perhaps he was in a wine country—for ſick people are very whimſical—took it in his head to long for ſome beer; an inclination however he did not ſeem likely to gratify, for en⯑quiry had been repeatedly made for that beverage to [305] purpoſe. His valet, who had a moſt indulgent maſter—and they ſay a good maſter makes a good ſervant—determining not to give the matter up quietly, procured intelligence that about two leagues off there was a convent of Engliſh, Iriſh, and Scotch, where, for their own uſe, they brewed excellent beer. To this convent, without ſaying a word to Charles, he poſted. Having told his ſtory, he re⯑ceived for anſwer, that they brewed the beer for their own uſe, as he had heard, but, nevertheleſs, if upon paying them a viſit they ſhould like the gentleman, they would ſupply him with as much as he could drink. A card to this effect was diſ⯑patched, inviting Charles to dine with them the next day. He obeyed that ſummons and ſeveral others, till, what with the beer, the good company, and the ride, which I believe had moſt merit—as the air in Wales performs that cure which the phy⯑ſicians attribute to the goat's milk—in a ſhort time he found himſelf in perfect health.

I ſhould not have mentioned this circumſtance ſo minutely had I not deſigned to introduce Father Fitzgibbon, who was ſuperior of this convent, to the reader, and I ſhould not have introduced Fa⯑ther Fitzgibbon to the reader if I had not had a material reaſon for it.

[306] This friar was, as I have ſaid, a native of Ireland. He was of a good family, but being a younger bro⯑ther, he quitted Dublin and went to Bath—the uſual market—in ſearch of a fortune. There he contrived to lodge in the ſame houſe, where lodged alſo an ancient lady and her daughter, the widow and heireſs of an old hunks, who had amaſſed a large fortune by boiling blubber at Deptford. It was immaterial to him which he married, but he was determined upon one of them, and that one ſhould be her who was richeſt. This his intelligencers in⯑formed him was the daughter, who being very ig⯑norant and conceited, and beſides beſet hard, yielded upon eaſier terms than marriage, which conditions the Iriſhman did not boggle about, becauſe for why, ſaid he, ‘'ſure can't I make you very happy after I have ruined you for ever.'’

The appointment being made when and where this forward young lady, for the firſt time, was to yield up the poſſeſſion of her perſon to her intended huſband, Fitzgibbon, which is not extraordinary in an Iriſhman, made a blunder; for, miſtaking his way, inſtead of Miſs's room, he got into her mam⯑ma's, who expected a gallant likewiſe.

Before the morning they diſcovered their mutual miſtake, and before the next morning Fitgibbon, [307] prevailed on the old lady to rob the young lady of her fortune, with which they ſet off for France, and of which money, three years after, when this antiquated Venus died, he had juſt enough left to purchaſe a commiſſion in the Iriſh brigades. To be brief: After much riotous conduct, and many miſdemeanours, he was broken, when the church,—which is in France ſomething like what we ſay in England of the ſea and the gallows—received him.

He had been ſuperior of this convent of Benedic⯑tines four years, and at the end of three more he was to viſit his own country for a twelvemonth, when he aſſured our hero he would ſpend a month with him in England.

For a few hours, at a time of vacant hilarity, Charles could not be in more agreeable company. He laid himſelf out for their convenience, ſent them ſeveral deſirable preſents, and left, at his departure, a handſome donation, which Fitzgibbon did not ſcruple to tell him, in a whiſper, ſhould be laid out in excellent claret.

Charles had ſtayed ſo long in France that the time was now nearly arrived which he had intended to have apportioned to his whole tour: for his promiſe to his father had been to return in time to paſs his birth⯑day [308] with him, when he ſhould have attained his one and twentieth year. He therefore determined to go back to England, in order to take his affairs into his own hands, after which, if he ſhould feel himſelf ſo diſpoſed, he might then be in time to make his tour of Italy; for ſo far from having any body to con⯑trol him, he did not think there were ſix perſons upon the face of the earth who cared three-pence about him. In this mind he ſet out, with a view to ſtay a month at Paris, and then jog on leiſurely for England. He arrived at Aix la Chapelle late in the evening, where he ſupped, and then ordered poſt horſes to be ready the next morning. The houſe ſeemed to be very full of gueſts, and juſt as our hero got into bed, they were reinforced by a compa⯑ny from the play. Charles had been dropt aſleep about an hour, when he was, all on a ſudden, awoke by a violent ſcreaming. For a moment—which is very natural in a ſtrange bed—he knew not where he was. Recollecting himſelf however, he hurried on his breeches and ſlippers, and throwing a morning gown over him, took his ſword, and darted from his own chamber to that from whence the noiſe iſſued. The door was locked, but he burſt it open with his foot, and immediately ſaw a French officer ſtrug⯑gling with a young lady, who ſtill ſhrieked with all her force. With the hilt of his ſword he ſtruck the raviſher in a moment to the ground, then placing [309] himſelf between him and the young lady, he ſtood ready for him, in a poſture of defence, againſt he ſhould attempt to riſe. At the moment he placed himſelf in this attitude, rouſe reader your whole at⯑tention!—exert your whole ſtock of penetration!—prepare for a moſt unlooked-for ſurpriſe!—yet, let it be ever ſo great, it cannot be any thing equal to that of our hero, when, on looking towards the door, he ſaw ſeveral perſons enter the chamber, and, among the foremoſt, Sir Sidney, Lady Roebuck, and Emma!

Reader, it was Annette herſelf whom Charles had reſcued from a raviſher!—who having in the fifteen months that he had been abſent ripened into wo⯑man, and improved in every limb and feature into more perfection than ever was deſcribed by the ableſt pen or correcteſt pencil; nay had the beſt poet or painter that ever wrote or drew ſeen her, like our hero, at that moment, and even felt the ſame cap⯑tivating ſenſation from the aſtoniſhing power of her irreſiſtable charms, then ſo greatly heightened, ſtill muſt a deſcription of them have been incomplete: for neither are there words nor colours ſtrong enough for the taſk. Charles, though he had but a mo⯑ment, which was imperfectly lent him by the rela⯑tive intelligence received from ſeeing who entered the room, in that moment gazed away his ſoul; [310] his very brain received the whole force of her in⯑comparable attractions, and love took triumphant poſſeſſion of him.

During this interval, ſhort as it was, the officer had got up, unſeen by our hero, and was coming to⯑wards him. This conſtrained him to transfer his attention from the lady to the gentleman. He aſked, in a firm voice if he dared juſtify his conduct; to which he was anſwered, ‘'No ſir; it was unpardona⯑ble. It was wine, it was diſtraction! I have ſuf⯑fered an ignominious blow, but I deſerved it, and you are a ſtranger. No ſir, I ſhall aſk for no ſa⯑tisfaction; for light and blameable as I may have behaved, though my exiſtence depends on my courage, and the ſword is my profeſſion, I dare not draw it in a diſhonourable cauſe.'’

Sir Sidney, who at firſt thought very differently of this buſineſs, eſpecially when he heard Emma exclaim as they approached the chamber, ‘'Oh Chriſt, there is Mr. Hazard!'’ felt, from the ſtrongeſt conviction, a warm glow of gratitude to⯑wards our hero. This however was a little checked by reflection, as well as a contemplation of what Charles was then doing, who, forgetting there were a number of ſpectators preſent, ſtood like a ſtatue, devouring with his eyes the beauty of Annette, [311] which was now heightened by conſcious innocence and thankful pleaſure. In this ſhort interval, dur⯑ing which Sir Sidney deliberated, Annette was mo⯑deſtly delighted, Emma hugged herſelf, and our hero was faſcinated, in came to their relief Mr. Gloſs, who being in a few words informed of the buſineſs, went up in a ſtyle of the greateſt familia⯑rity to Charles, and ſeizing him by the hand, cried out, ‘'My dear ſir, how do you do? I thought you were in Italy. For God's ſake why don't you let your friends hear from you?'’ Charles flung from him in great indignation, ſaying, ‘'I don't know you ſir,'’ and was making towards the door, but Sir Sidney, who could not bear to receive a ſervice of ſuch magnitude without noticing it, ſtopt him, ſaying, ‘'I cannot refrain from warmly acknow⯑ledging this unexpected kindneſs, which has been as bravely and gallantly, as diſintereſtedly, ſhewn me. You know Mr. Hazard I have a warm heart, and a generous action touches it; therefore, this of yours, which has probably ſaved my honour, I ſhall not, you may be aſſured, think lightly of; and if—'’

‘'Surely,' ſaid Charles, recovering himſelf into a complacent, yet erect dignity, 'you jeſt Sir Sid⯑ney! What I have done is at beſt but a common duty, which requires no partial thanks, becauſe [312] the greateſt ſtranger would have been equally en⯑titled to it. But how do you know it was not the act of one raviſher anxious to defeat the de⯑ſigns of another? I dare ſay it will have that colour by to-morrow morning. In the mean time you ſhall be aſſured I am honeſt in ſomething, nor will you doubt it when I tell you that what⯑ever motive induced me to that which has pre⯑ſerved Miſs Roebuck's honour to her family, it was not friendſhip to her father: and ſo ſir, good night to you.'’ So ſaying, he bowed reſpectfully to the ladies, and left the room.