CHAP. XXV. THE PENSIONERS ARE NOT PERFECTLY HAPPY IN SHENSTONE-GREEN.

IN proceſs of a little time, the in⯑habitants of Shenſtone-Green began to be weary of looking on the ſame objects. They had examined the woods, the walks, the fields, and the flowers, till all theſe became tireſome. The praiſe of their patron, Sir Ben⯑jamin, indeed, was ſtill echoed from lip to lip, but ſomewhat more faintly than at firſt. At length, they found [2]ſo few charms in vegetable nature and ſtill life, that they caſt about for new ſources of entertainment. The firſt ſymptom of inquietude which I perceived, was by means of the following letter that was put into my hands by the ſteward, to whom it was directed at the lodge.

This propoſal was inſtantly laid before Mr. Seabrooke, who ſet up a long whiſtle, and ſaid, he had a great mind to laugh at human nature.

For my part, ſir, ſaid the ſteward, I think one has more reaſon to cry at human nature than to laugh, for [6]I never yet found her four and twenty hours in the ſame mind in my life.

But what is to be done, my dear Seabrooke? ſaid I,—what is to be done?

Whew—cried this ſingular man, catching up his hat and ſtick, and walking off—Whew.

Lord, papa, ſaid Matilda, I can⯑not ſee any harm in the gentlemen's amuſing themſelves with a few horſes; beſides which, it will be ſo charming to have Shenſtone-Green Races. It will be ſuch an amuſement for all the ladies and gentlemen, who may ſee the whole courſe from beginning to end. Then it will bring ſuch a [7]world of good company. Who will not go to Shenſtone-Green Races? Oh, heavens! I like the idea of all things. Pray, papa, ſay yes. Let us have a race by all manner of means.

Well, well, my dear, ſaid I, go and join Mr. Seabrooke (who, I perceive, is whiſtling away in the court), and I ſhall conſider of it. When I had the ſteward alone, I ſhut the door, and ſeizing him by the hand, ſpoke thus: My old friend, I do not well know why, but I tremble upon this ſub⯑ject. Theſe four gentlemen are, I fear, going to introduce upon us a dangerous entertainment.—Pray what are their particular circumſtances; that is, how are they ſituated?

[8]On my private penſioners-liſt, ſir, they cut rather a queer figure of four. Let me ſee—I have the catalogue about me, I think—Aye; here they are. They come under the letter J—jockies—jockies, where are you—Oh, here we have them.

SPUR—Alexander. Beat out of New-market eight times—a good⯑natured man, very honeſt; but, a lover of the ſport.

SLAP-DASH—Simon. A good ſon and a tender huſband (while horſes are kept out of his ſight) would merit the pen⯑ſion, if he were not to meet on the Green any gentlemen ſportſmen.

[9]CUTCORD—Chriſtopher. Thought to be as knowing a one as ever was —taken in. In other reſpects, a harmleſs gentleman. Is ſaid to be the beſt ſhot, alſo, in England. Made a point of ſhoeing his own horſes, and always rode himſelf.

WHIPWELL—William. Is ſo broken to the bit, that when he had ruined himſelf, and, literally, RUN himſelf into jail, he had the bridle and ſaddle of his bay colt, Zephyr, impriſoned to keep him company. Otherwiſe, juſt, generous, and even moral.

Oh Samuel! Samuel! ſaid I, at the bottom of this account, what is to be done?

[10]It does not admit of a queſtion, ſir—I wiſh it did.

What do you mean, Samuel?

I mean, ſir, that if you think proper to ſet beggars on borſeback, they will ride to the Devil. I know, an't pleaſe your Honour, both man and beaſt.

But the peril of this project, Samuel?

We have only to guard againſt the effects, ſir. You had better ſubmit, with a good grace, to what you have no power to prevent.

But one might expoſtulate, Samuel, in a tender manner, obliquely, deli⯑cately, like a friend.

[11]What, ſir, expoſtulate with four young fellows, whoſe blood is now galloping through every vein of their bodies, and newly put into poſſeſſion of two hundred pounds a-year for life!—ſir, it would be atrocious.

I would not wiſh any coercive power to remain with me; but, ſurely, Samuel, if I were to ſubmit my apprehenſion of conſequences to their judgements.

The judgement of a ſet of jockies, ſir—your honour makes me ſmile.

Well, then, Samuel, you ſhall carry them my anſwer to-morrow.

It is enough, anſwered Samuel.

CHAP. XXVI. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF SHEN⯑STONE-GREEN RACES.

SHENSTONE-GREEN RACES! ſaid I, when I found myſelf alone—it has an ugly ſound. I could have wiſhed, that—but—no matter. One muſt expect men will have ſome amuſements; and, indeed, on ſecond thoughts, if they had not, how could they diſpoſe of their annuity, or of what ſervice would it be to them?

Theſe reflexions determined me to ſend my reply without delay. Sub⯑joined, reader, you have a correct copy:

[15] Juſt as I was ſealing this letter, Matilda and Mr. Seabrooke returned, and the former was made happy for the night, on hearing there would ſpeedily be races on Shenſtone-Green.

CHAP. XXVII. SHENSTONE-GREEN RACES CONTINUED.

A FEW days after this permiſſion was given, I happened to be croſſing The Green, where I per⯑ceived theſe four worthy gentlemen of the whip in cloſe conſultation; the ſubject of which was, whether the ſtarting-poſt ſhould be fixed on the eaſt or the weſt ſide, or whether the ladies booth, or gentlemen's, ſhould be firſt erected. One ſaid, as the houſes were in a circle that commanded the courſe, booths of any ſort were unneceſſary.

I can ſee from my dining-room window every inch of ground, ſaid Mr. Spur.

[17]I will hold you five to four of that, anſwered Mr. Cutcord.

And I will go your halves, ſaid Mr. Whipwell.

Double it, and ſay done, cried Mr. Slapdaſh.

I left them to ſettle this intereſting diſpute, and walked on.

Ah SHENSTONE! ſaid I ſoftly, this is but a bad beginning. The figure of my friend being full in the centre, I went up to it, and was almoſt pe⯑trified to ſee the very Founder of the feaſt plaiſtered all over with printed advertiſements. On examining theſe more narrowly, I found a formal annunciation of matters intended by the jockey-party, who had ſtuck and [18]billed my beloved Shenſtone from the crown of his head to the ſole of his foot. One of the advertiſements ran thus: SHENSTONE-GREEN RACES.

MONDAY, May the 1ſt, the Patron's plate of twenty guineas will be run for by ſix year olds. (They took this purſe for granted.)

A ſweepſtakes of a hundred guineas.

A private match for fifty pounds.

And ſeveral other by-ſtrokes.

The horſes, intended to ſtart on the firſt day, are Mr. Spur's Shenſtone.

Mr. Cutcord's cheſnut gelding, Annuity; got by Orpheus, who came [19]out of Eurydice, who was got by Pyrrhus.

Mr. Slapdaſh's bay filly Rent-free, who came of Good-nature, who was from that famous horſe Liberal.

Mr. Whipwell's grey colt Beau⯑champ.

I went home very much mortified at having ſeen the ſacred marble of my friend polluted, and was juſt going to expreſs my diſpleaſure, when a ſervant brought me a card and ſaid it waited an anſwer. I both read and replied to it almo [...] in the ſame inſtant.

In an hour after this was ſent off, I underſtood by Mr. Seabrooke, that ample juſtice had been done by the jockies to Shenſtone's ſtatue, which was not only cleared of its incum⯑brances, but waſhed and rubbed into the bargain.

I walked out to ſee the alteration, and felt my heart ſo elated, that I told Mr. Seabrooke I could not but [22]conſider this ſudden reverence to our poetical friend's pedeſtal, as a good ſymptom. It is reſpectful, Mr. Seabrooke, ſaid I.

I like it, ſaid Mr. Seabrooke: I like it.

CHAP. XXVIII. MR. HENRY HEWIT HAS A BAD PEN AND A FINE HEART.

BUT the adoption of errour is eaſy and imperceptible: and the races were not run before poor Sarcaſm, who was obliged to wade through all the ſlavery of his office, came charged with other petitions.

A little matter from half a dozen of your honeſt tradeſmen, ſir, ſaid Sa⯑muel, as he came into the room, where were ſeated Mr. Seabrooke and Matilda.

Let us ſee, Samuel: Pray is it good or bad news?

It is human infirmity, ſir.

[24]Then I muſt pity it, ſaid Sea⯑brooke, and whiſtle.

Ihheartily pity it too, ſaid Matilda.

The paper being laid open, pre⯑ſented to me the ſubſequent compo⯑ſition, of which I ſhall not even alter the orthography.

I had not time to read the names of the people concerned in this letter, before Matilda cried out, Gracious god, is it poſſible! and juſt as ſhe had uttered that exclamation, in came a man in a violent hurry whom the reader will recollect as a penſioner under the name of Henry Hewit.

Sir, ſir, Sir Benjamin, ſaid Hen⯑ry, quite out of breath, I have [26]heard of another plot againſt your honour, but it won't take; I'll be your friend yet; I am Henry Hewit.

What's the matter, Henry?

The cocks, ſir, and the cock⯑fighters. If you let ſuch a bloody piece of buſineſs as that come upon your Green, you may look for mur⯑der and all manner of ſins after. Here I am, ſir, that never killed a creature, to my knowledge, in the way of ſport, in my life. And if I do but catch a ſpider (which I hate more than any thing elſe) I break his web to pieces, only to ſave him from doing his miſchief, for his web, ſir, is his net, and there it is he hampers his prey. No, ſir, don't, pray don't [27]let cockfighters come amongſt us. Tell the folks, they may have cricket or fives. If a child of mine was to love cockfighting—I—I—I don't know what I ſhould do to him—I—I⯑—I verily think I ſhould not bear the ſight of him again for ten minutes. Let me beg of you, ſir, to conſider of it.

Whew—ſaid Mr. Seabrooke, riſing up out of his chair, the world, which the boy Alexander won, ought to be given to that man. He would make it happy.

Mr. Henry, ſaid Matilda, you are always giving me a pain in the head, I think. I proteſt I have ſuch a ſtroke here that I muſt take the air a little.

[28]Better the head ache than the heart ache, Miſs Matilda; and God knows you'd think of me if you were to ſee the poor dears go to mangle and murder themſelves for nothing.

Inſufferable—inſufferable, the fel⯑low's inſufferable, ſaid Mr. Seabrooke. I muſt follow Matilda.

When the wind is in this corner, I have always weak eyes, cried Samuel Sarcaſm, blowing his noſe.

Then don't go to the cockfighting, Maſter Sarcaſm, rejoined Hewit, for that will make 'em worſe, I promiſe thee.

Whew—cried Seabrooke, running out of the room.

Well. ſir, added Henry, what may I ſay!

[29]Alas! honeſt Hewit, ſaid I, at the time of providing a town, I did not provide againſt the follies nor the vices of its inhabitants, whom, in⯑deed, I took care to have ſuch as were leaſt ſubject, in my opinion, to either vice or folly.

Then, ſir, I am ſorry for it, and will take care to be out of the way when the fighting bouts come on. Your Honour's humble ſervant.

He went away.

But you have yet ſome authority over your tradeſmen, ſir, ſaid the good ſteward, and, I think, might take upon you to forbid a thing of this nature. Suppoſe we go down together to the tradeſmen's-corner and argue the point perſonally. Cock-fighting, [30]ſir, is really atrocious: the idea hath made me ſick.

Pleaſed with the propoſal, we ſet off for Tradeſmen's-corner, where a croud was juſt at that inſtant collected, to ſee a pitched battle between a Shen⯑ſtone-Green butcher and a Shenſtone-Green baker. The blows that re⯑bounded on their naked bodies were heard at a conſiderable diſtance, and the cries of ſtrike him, ſtrike him, at him Tom, at him Dick, echoed from men, women, and children, who all ſeemed to be highly delighted with the entertainment.

Sarcaſm prudently ſtopped ſhort, and aſked me, if I did not think we might find a leſs bloody opportunity for an humane buſineſs?

[31]O Samuel, ſaid I, it in is vain to forbid thoſe to fight cocks, who have a paſſion for ſlaughtering one another.

The ſooner we go home to bed, ſir, the better, ſaid Samuel. Let us ſhut our eyes for a few hours—againſt the ſpecies.

CHAP. XXIX. A VERY BLOODY CHAPTER, AND A VERY HARD CRUST FOR THE PRO⯑PRIETOR OF SHENSTONE-GREEN.

IN due time, reader, the races were run, and the cocks were fought. Would to heaven the worſt misfortune attending theſe amuſements had been the disfiguration of the beautiful graſs-plats of Shenſtone-Green, and throwing idly into the air a large ſum of money! This, however, was but a part: For the days of the race and of the cock-fight were diſtinguiſhed by many other more memorable cir⯑cumſtances. The bills of both the diverſions being aſſiduouſly diſtri⯑buted, we had an inundation of [33]ſtrangers pouring in from all quarters, under pretence of ſeeing Shenſtone-Sports. Amongſt others, came pad⯑ding into our territory, ſome of thoſe ſhameleſs women who always attend every diſſipated exhibition; and I abſolutely heard a hawker, crying out, while he was running through the ranks between the heats, ‘A Liſt of the Sporting Ladies, Gentlemen. A true Liſt of the Sporting Ladies on Shenſtone-Green.’

Turning, with rapid indignation, from this unforeſeen misfortune, I went to another part of the race ground, and came full in the face of an out⯑rage ſtill more fatal. Exalted above the heads of the people were a mountebank and his men exerting all the ruinous chicane of their itine⯑racy. [34]The chief of theſe vagabonds harangued the multitude on the in⯑eſtimable virtues of his univerſal noſtrum, and I could ſee plainly his eloquence was but too palatable. Many bottles of a precious drop, and many boxes of an invaluable powder, were bought of theſe em⯑pericks then, which are lying in the bones of the ſilly purchaſers at this moment.

Seabrooke ſet up a whiſtle on ſeeing the quacks, and, jumping up on the ſcaffold, offered to buy their whole ſtock in trade.

That will be impoſſible, ſir, replied one of the fellows, for any man in this or in a much richer nation to compaſs. For I have phials, that [35]ſcarce hold a thimble full of liquid, which are worth a world each.—Buy our ſtock in trade, indeed!

Could I have bought them, ſaid Mr. Seabrooke to me in a whiſper, I would certainly have chucked the whole purchaſe into one of the baſons of water; and, by poiſoning all your fiſh, Benjamin, convince the people what they were at. After which, the vender might have been led out of The Green victoriouſly by the noſe. As it is, my friend, added he, you muſt not be ſurprized that the ſer⯑pents creep out in the ſun-ſhine of Shenſtone-Green. It is a fine baſking place for them to—caſt their ſkins.

Bending my courſe forward, I came at laſt to the cock-pit, where [36]two animals were at that moment engaged in all the ardour of natural animoſity. I had ſcarce time to re⯑flect how it was poſſible for rational beings to find any pleaſure in bring⯑ing creatures together to kill or be killed, when the exclamations of, ſix to two on the Sable, and forty to four on the Ginger, drove me from the ſcene of horrour. But the violence of the ſhout ſtill purſued me; and I heard, diſtinctly, that Ginger was ſtruck through the brain, and Sable came off conqueror, with only the loſs of an eye.

But, by this time, the grand run⯑ning match, which was to finiſh the evening, came on. I looked round the circle of houſes, and beheld [37]every window ſtuck full with caps and curioſity. Dogs, men, women, and children, were driven from the courſe, and all was clear within the ropes. Shenſtone-Green breathed ex⯑pectation. Every heart panted, every eye was open. In about a quarter of an hour, four horſes were led along The Green by four boys, who were followed by four men. Theſe were Meſſieurs Spur, Slapdaſh, Cut⯑cord and Whipwell; but he who had ſeen theſe gentlemen a fortnight before, muſt have looked very ſtea⯑dily to recognize them. Beſides that they were totally altered in point of dreſs, they were totally altered likewiſe in point of bodily dimenſions. Perhaps there never was naturally, four human beings whoſe ſize ſo [38]little reſembled each other; and yet they appeared now brought to the ſame ſtandard, yea, to the delicacy of half a dram weight. The truth is, Mr. Slapdaſh and Mr. Spur (who were both brawny) had been ſome time reducing themſelves to match Meſſieurs Cutcord and Whipwell, who were, happily, as much like ſkeletons and ſcarecrows as they ought to be. But how ſuch a corporeal reduction could have been performed upon the carcaſe of Slap⯑daſh is to this moment a myſtery. Surely, reader, it will be ſuch to thee, when thou art told, that Mr. Slapdaſh was one of thoſe ſquabby men whoſe necks are of the ſame breadth with the ſhoulders. His cheeks were inflated with ſolid fat, [39]and his belly held forth that burſt⯑ing plenitude which is ſo remarkably apt to collect in a Britiſh ſubject. But Mr. Slapdaſh had, it ſeems, made his very perſon the object of a wager; and there were very conſi⯑ſiderable betts depending on his ſuc⯑ceſs or miſcarriage. In a point of ſuch importance, Mr. Slapdaſh, willing to increaſe his fame, by diminiſhing his fleſh, ſhut himſelf up in a dark room, on the fifteenth of April, and ſweated himſelf near diſſolution. None but the perſons who had laid on his ſide of the queſtion were per⯑mitted to ſee him; and ſome of theſe (fearing his fleſh would too obſti⯑nately cling to his bones) played upon him ſeveral little tricks, that might tend to his diminution. At one time [40]they contrived, juſt when the ſweat⯑ing draught was operating, to intro⯑duce into his room a large cat ſhod with walnut-ſhells; at another, one of the wags aſſumed the ſhape of a ſpectre in a white ſheet, and clanged a chain in the dead of night at his bed ſide. At other times, they en⯑velloped him head over heels in ſo many blankets, that he could ſcarce breathe under them. By ſuch kind of ſudorifics he had the good luck, at laſt, to melt down all that ſuper⯑fluous health and force which ſtood betwixt him and glory; and to the diſmay of thoſe who had betted on the continuity of his corpulence, he came out of his flannels, on the firſt of May, as meagre and as miſerable a looking mortal, as ever diſgraced [41]that noble animal which he was to beſtride.

As you, my good reader, did not ſee the exact copy of the laſt bill, which deſcribed the ſeveral dreſſes of the gentlemen-jockies, I ſhall juſt acquaint you, that Mr. Cutcord's jacket was blue; Mr. Whipwell's, yellow and white; Mr. Spur's, crim⯑ſon; and Mr. Slapdaſhes, morone. They walked their ſteeds to the ſtarting-poſt; they were ſeparately weighed in the ſcales, and ſet off. What a thrilling moment!

I looked with all my might for the pleaſure which is ſaid to lie full in the view, when four men on horſe⯑back are reſolved to outſtrip one ano⯑ther in ſpeed, as much and as far as [42]poſſible. I am almoſt afraid, leſt I ſhould ruin the credit of my book with all jockies, ſhould I confeſs, (which, were I not perſuaded thoſe gentlemen never read, I ſhould not venture) that I could not work my⯑ſelf up to one poor ſenſation of ſatis⯑faction. The whole appeared to me ſo perfectly a matter of the ſame conſequence, that I did not care one farthing about it. To be the firſt I could not think any honour, and to be laſt I could not imagine any ſhame. I aſked Mr. Seabrooke's opinion of this. Have you any warm feelings, my good friend?

Whew—anſwered Mr. Seabrooke, wheeling away to another part of the ground.—Feelings—Whew.—

[43]Not ſo the ſpectators. No ſooner did the jockies come to the puſhing-place, than the confuſion of the chace began; and, as the horſes ap⯑proached that part of the courſe where the grand trials were to be made, where the whip was to be cut into the flank, and the ſpur dug into the ſide, the loudeſt acclama⯑tions of paſſion and of pleaſure re⯑echoed to the ſhore. What that could agonize my heart did I not hear! fifty guineas to five (cried one) on the Crimſon. An hundred to a China orange on the blue. Morone againſt the field, ſaid a third. Shillings againſt guineas to any amount that yellow is diſtanced, hollowed a fourth. My penſion againſt yours, ſir, cried two others, [44]who were clattering their ſticks and clapping their hands, what ſay you? My penſion to yours? Say done if you dare.

Done, ſir, done, anſwered the other.

In the midſt of this uproar came up to me, in a violent hurry, Mr. Edward Elixir, who was ſo pleaſed and ſo vexed, that he had alternately laughed and cried during the whole courſe; but there is no ſtaying long in one place to-day, ſir, ſaid he, and away he bounded from ſide to ſide as rapid as a roebuck.

Mr. Seabrooke buſied himſelf in driving off a parcel of brats who had taken poſſeſſion of Shenſtone's-ſtatue, [45]from the top of whoſe pe⯑deſtal they had, it ſeems, a full view of the ſport. I incontinently begged pardon, ſir, ſaid Seabrooke, of the figure; and talked to it on the un⯑gentle doings of the day, as if it had life.

But the honours of the courſe were much divided, and much ob⯑ſtructed. In turning a difficult cor⯑ner, Beauchamp ran butt againſt Shenſtone, and had well-nigh foun⯑dered the former; after that, Beau⯑champ, having too much rein, ran on the wrong ſide the poſt, and ſtumbled on the fetlocks of Annuity, which Rent-free perceiving, whipped up and was ſcouring away on the ſtretch of victory (which he would certainly [46]have gained) had not Annuity that moment got upon his legs, paſſed Rent-free like lightning, and carried off the prize. Shenſtone was brought in, dead lame; and Beauchamp was beat hollow.

CHAP. XXX. THE PROPRIETOR EXERTS HIMSELF; AND IS SO MUCH INSULTED, THAT HE PUTS AN END TO THE CHAPTER ABRUPTLY.

I RETIRED from the courſe in ſome confuſion, and ſecretly re⯑ſolved to attempt ſome preventative againſt the further increaſe of theſe diſorders. In the mean time, the night was paſſed by the Shenſtonians in riot and revelry, in the fury of planning new follies, and in the triumph of relating the paſt. Upon ſurveying the ſcene the next morn⯑ing, it is difficult to deſcribe the ap⯑pearance of a change ſo perfect. The ſoft carpet of verdure that be⯑fore [48]covered the plain, was torn into raggedneſs by the trampling of beaſts and the buſtlings of men. The ten⯑der vegetable fences, which before ſeparated one man's portion from that of a neighbour, were gapped and broken. The flowers lay ſcattered about their beds in fragments, and the whole ſcene was diſemparadiſed. As I caſt my eye forlornly over the proſpect, it brought to my mind theſe verſes of Milton.

But my anger increaſed as I con⯑tinued to view the ravages; and in [49]order to check ſuch violent amuſe⯑ments for the time to come, I im⯑mediate iſſued forth the following edict:

[50] This notice was no ſooner gone abroad, than it produced very dif⯑ferent conſequences. Firſt came a card, written by the parſon of my village.

The pleaſure I felt on the receipt of this note was great; but it was effaced by the next.

As this was, formerly, a pretty hard morſel for me to digeſt, ſo, I conceive, it may be for the reader. I do not ſee, therefore, how I can ſo properly ſhow my reſpect for him, as to end the Chapter at this criſis; in which, my gentlemen of the whip and ſhort waiſtcoat figure ſo much—LIKE THEMSELVES.

CHAP. XXXI. THE SPORTS OF FALSE DELICACY.

IT was by ſetting the politeneſs of the one againſt the rudeneſs of the other, that I was able to ſtrike the balance without any conſiderable de⯑preſſion of ſpirits. We muſt always agree to a compromiſe between good and evil fortune. If, ſaid I, weigh⯑ing two circumſtances, a few unruly and uncultured characters riſe up againſt the very ſhadow of govern⯑ment, there are other minds ſo much better diſpoſed, that pain and pleaſure are at leaſt equipoiſed. Nay, the latter is, in the preſent caſe predomi⯑nant: For who will compare five or ſix cockfighters and jockies, who have [54]returned to their old infirmities, to upwards of thirty regular perſons whoſe gratitude is ever warm, and whoſe love of order will continue to increaſe the felicity of our ſociety? Perhaps my laſt injunctions might, after all, be carrying my wiſhes be⯑yond my power. I may, perhaps, have ſtepped over the decent limits of that ſacred law which every man ſhould tremble to violate while he is conferring a benefit. The rights of hoſpitality are ſo extremely delicate, that while diſtreſs or poverty is under its protection, the greateſt caution ſhould be exerted. For the future I am determined to be more circum⯑ſpect.

At the concluſion of this ſoliloquy in came Matilda, introducing to me a [55]female friend and a young penſioner. I pretended to receive them as new faces, or, at leaſt, ſuch as I had only tran⯑ſiently ſeen at the time of their initia⯑tion. But, in reality, they were that very Sidney and Eliza whoſe peculiar paſſion for each other hath been already delineated.

Mr. Seabrooke was not at home. He was hunting May-ladies in the wood.

Amongſt many intricate ſcenes which I have ſeen paſs in the company of four people, that which was in this interview acted by our extraordi⯑nary lovers, was not the leaſt.

I, who was in the ſecret, ſoon found out that there was a double plot [56]to be ſuſtained, for Mr. Sidney was to paſs as a caſual acquaintance, and Eliza was not to betray the leaſt traits of her affection even to her friend Matilda. Let us ſee how this was performed. Nature hath not often aſſumed a more delicate diſguiſe.

In compliment, perhaps, to me, the converſation turned—notwith⯑ſtanding we were then at the tea-table —upon the pleaſures of pure bene⯑volence; and upon Shenſtone-Green.

It warms the heart in ſuch a manner, ſaid Eliza: It ſo anticipates the elyſium we are to expect hereafter— It brings ſo much of heaven down upon earth—Then it gives ſuch op⯑portunities of bringing old friends together. (Here ſhe glanced her eye towards Sidney.)

[57]Madam, ſaid Sidney—a little diſ⯑concerted—is there any thing amiſs about my perſon that you are pleaſed to honour it with ſo particular an attention?

No! ſaid Eliza (rather bluſhing).

Is your tea made to your liking, dear Eliza? ſaid Matilda.

Perfectly, replied Eliza (willing to turn the converſation by adverting to trifles), I lately take a great deal of ſugar.

Indeed, cried Sidney, you are much changed then; for I remember—formerly—

What do you remember, Mr. Sid⯑ney? ſaid Eliza (interrupting him for [58]fear he ſhould finiſh his blunder) What do you remember?

I think, ſaid I, (willing to give a good-natured lift) we are quite ſtill after the hurry of our laſt week's amuſements.

Amuſements! do you call them, Sir Benjamin? ſaid Eliza. If I had any of my family who could en⯑courage; or, if there was any per⯑ſon whom I reſpected that did not re⯑verence you, ſir, for the manner in which you expreſſed your diſpleaſure on that occaſion, I ſhould hate him.

As I hope to be ſaved (exclaimed Mr. Sidney with uncommon earneſt⯑neſs) I could never bear the idea, Eliza. You know it.

[59] You, Mr. Sidney—what right had I to ſuppoſe—that you, Mr. Sidney.—

It was the gentleman's humanity that gave him ſo much emotion, madam, ſaid I, and I am perſuaded, he will rather be applauded than cenſured, for the exertion of ſuch a virtue by Miſs Elliot.

But Mr. Sidney's virtues, ſir, are always ſo much of the violent kind, anſwered the lady.

Always, madam, ſaid the gentleman?

How can Mr. Seabrooke, poſ⯑ſibly be in that filthy wood, ſaid Matilda, when he might be ſo much more agreeably engaged.

Filthy wood, Miſs Beauchamp, cried Sidney—ſilthy wood, do you [60]call it.—Oh! my God! Eliza, I believe, will not ſubſcribe to the pro⯑priety of that epithet! Filthy wood!

Why ſhould you ſuppoſe ſo, Mr. Sidney, ſaid Eliza. I ſee nothing very remarkable that—that.—

Not remarkable—Oh! Miſs Elliot—how you talk!—Was it not in that bleſſed wood.—

Bleſſed wood, Mr. Sidney!—

That—that the birds, and—and—

Pray Mr. Sidney, ſaid I, do you not think the walks are tolerably laid out, and the benches well fixed upon the whole?

Admirably ſir, replied Sidney; but we ſhall know more of it to night, for—

[61]Mr. Sidney, ſaid Eliza. Mr. Sidney!

For I intend to walk in it.—Sir Benjamin, that's all.

What, alone, ſaid Matilda?

Unleſs, madam, Sir Beauchamp would permit me the honour—the honour—

Hem—hem, coughed Eliza with all her force. The honour of—of your.—The poor fellow had got into a miſtake, of which he could by no means clear himſelf.

No, ſaid I, touching Matilda gent⯑ly on the cheek; my little friend here, ſeldom goes out of an evening.

Mr. Seabrooke and I, are to play at cheſs, papa—anſwered Matilda, ſmiling.

[62]The eyes of Eliza were lighted up in a moment. Sidney ſeemed as if a load was taken from his heart; and in a few minutes, after Sidney had formally invited Eliza to honour him with her hand home, the viſitors departed.

No ſooner were they gone, than Matilda obſerved, with great ſimpli⯑city, that Mr. Sidney was a mighty pretty man, if he had not got ſuch a trick of ſtammering; and that, as to Eliza, ſhe ſaid, ſhe never ſaw her in ſuch a peeviſh temper before.

Mr. Seabrooke now coming in, I pretended ſome buſineſs on the Green, and left them together.

CHAP. XXXII. THE SAME SUBJECT.

I WENT immediately to the wood, where, after hunting through many mazes, and ſtopping to liſten at every five paces, I both heard and ſaw the perſons I ſought. I had an opportunity to conceal myſelf behind a cluſter of elms, where, I could ſo ſhift about as occaſion might require, that, had the ſun, inſtead of the moon, been ſhining, I might have carried on my little ſtratagem undiſcovered. To this manoeuvre, it is reader, that I am able to give you the following dialogue.

It does not ſignify talking, Miſs Elliot, you have fairly betrayed it.

No, ſir, it is through your means that Sir Benjamin and his daughter know the whole matter.

The delicacy of my paſſion, Miſs Elliot, is—

Neither prudent nor conſiſtent, ſir. Had your paſſion been truly deli⯑cate—

Had it been. Heavens, madam, am I doubted.

Mr. Sidney, Mr. Sidney, you have done very ill: We ſhall be the talk or [65] Shenſtone-Green. Our paſſion will be as public—

As Eliza has made it. Sir Ben⯑jamin has a right to laugh at the hobble—the hobble which—

You have brought yourſelf into.—It would have been ſome conſolation indeed, had our affection been diſ⯑covered properly. But as you think we have both bungled—

No, madam; not both, my heart dictated every word.

Sir, my tenderneſs was to the full as apparent as yours.

Mine, madam, betrayed itſelf in every trifle; our patron ſaw it as plain—

Not to ſee mine, ſir, would argue blindneſs and want of underſtanding. When I talked of old friends being brought together, I looked at you in ſuch a manner, that it would be im⯑poſſible to miſtake my meaning.

My tenderneſs, Miſs Elliot, was ſtill more conſpicuous in the way that I took notice of yours.

But I have better demonſtrations, ſir. Think about the affair of the wood.

In that madam, I expoſed my paſ⯑ſion infinitely beyond Eliza.

Tis falſe, you did not, Mr. Sid⯑ney.

I did. Think too of my embar⯑raſſment about the birds.

Rather remember the delicate con⯑fuſion of my cough, when you im⯑prudently invited Matilda to walk with you.

That completes my victory, Miſs Elliot, for in that half-uttered in⯑vitation, I laid open my tender ſoul to the whole view of the com⯑pany.

You are a very unjuſt man, and I have a great mind to ſubmit it to Sir Benjamin himſelf.

Rather, madam, let us part for ever; it is but too clear we ſhall [68]never agree. You never loved me.

Not love you, Sidney?

Oh! Heavens what is the matter Eliza!

Nothing—Mr. Sidney.

Your dear eyes are wet—Oh! heavens, forgive me; forgive me thou beſt of women!

Ah! Sidney—Sidney!

This kiſs is the ſeal of our eternal reconciliation—come my beſt love— the dew falls—you may catch cold— let me conduct you home.

[69] Theſe two ſenſitive ſouls now em⯑braced with the fondeſt affection, and going home, lingered a few minutes at the door of the lady, and then parted.

CHAP. XXX. HUMAN NATURE SHOWS OFF ON SHENSTONE-GREEN.

FOR two or three days after my edict about the impropriety of racing and cock [...]ting, the Shen⯑ſtonians were remarkably tranquil; and I was juſt on the brink of felici⯑tating myſelf hereupon, when the ſteward came to the Manſion-houſe with a bundle of papers, whoſe very ſize threatened an invaſion of the peace.

What have you got there, Samuel? ſaid I. As much as I can well carry ſir, replied Samuel, laying down his load, and adjuſting his grey locks.

[71]But of what kind Mr. Sarcaſm?

Of poor human nature, an't pleaſe your honour. She is always ailing ſir, and, like a ſick man afflicted with a complication, one diſorder is no ſooner cured than twenty more make their appearance.

While the ſteward was making this phyſical remark, he looſened the red tape which was tied round the papers, and preſented them to me in the following order. To begin with trifles, ſir, amuſe yourſelf with N^o. 7.

N^o. 7. was directed—To the knight of the noble ſoul, Sir Ben⯑jamin Beauchamp.

[76]The names of my moſt obedient humble ſervants were incloſed in the following

• SPLITCLOTH againſt FREDERICK FLASH, Eſq.

  FOR cloth furniſhed and clothes made, as by bill delivered — 700£. 17s. 7½d.

  N. B. This debt was not more than ſeven months ſtanding, and F. Flaſh was eſteemed the beſt dreſſed man in England all that time. Split⯑cloth has declared he will take the odd 17s. and 7d½. and F. Flaſh to pay original coſt of writ, and priſon fees.

• [77] PERSIAN againſt GAYMAN,

  FOR one thouſand pounds worth of mercery, ſent by ſaid Gayman's order, to the lodgings of Miſs Snoozle, N^o. 11, Bond-ſtreet.

  N. B. Snoozle ſet the faſhions for three parts of the ſummer. The vogue was nothing but Snoozle⯑caps, Snoozle-hats, Snoozle-hoods and Snoozle-ſacks; it was even a faſhion to ſay ſuch or ſuch a thing that had any pretenſions to air, was à la Snoozle. The laſt time Mr. Gay⯑man ſaw this lady, was juſt when Perſian's writ was ſerved upon the ſaid Gayman, at her apartment.

• [78] POLICY againſt HAZARD.

  Mr. Hazard though originally in, at the ſuit of Policy, a broker, hath twenty-eight detainers, amounting in the whole to a ſum not exceeding thirty thouſand pounds; and if Sir B. B. does not ſtand his friend, muſt lie for life. Mr. Hazard's caſe is particularly hard. He was the man who, ſome years ago, rendered him⯑ſelf famous by inſuring tickets in the lottery, and bought up as many wholes, as would have made him the richeſt commoner in England, had his purchaſes conſiſted of prizes in⯑ſtead of blanks. Mr. Hazard is ſtill more to be pitied, in conſideration that he, in conjunction with ſome others, ruined himſelf by playing at [79]puſh-pin one rainy evening, when they nor he had any other intention than to paſs the time betwixt tea and ſupper. But men of real ſpirit can never anſwer for themſelves when ſet in for it.

As I ſaw the liſt was made out wholly on the ſame principle, I did not think it neceſſary to go on, but, with great marks of amazement in my countenance, aſked the ſteward, if he ſuppoſed this letter was ſent in the way of waggery or ſeriouſneſs?

Bleſs me, anſwered Samuel, your honour ſeems to know but little of things terreſtrial. This is to me atrocious. Are you to be told, ſir, that the paſſions can make us believe any thing; and while the miſer is [80]priding himſelf upon the propriety of putting a thouſand pounds into his cheſt, the prodigal thinks he is doing as meritorious an action in throwing double that ſum away? You and I, ſir, (who are neither miſer nor prodigal) can ſay this is wrong; but if we were engaged in the ſchemes, either of amaſſing or diſſipating, we ſhould applaud ourſelves as well as the worſt of them.

That proves, Samuel, ſaid I, that thou art thyſelf a little near-ſighted.

How doth your honour make that out! Have not I always ſaid, you were a little bit of a miſer, Samuel?

But your honour knows I would never allow it. Upon the ſame prin⯑ciple, [81]I have now and then ſaid, ſince the building of Shenſtone-Green that—

I was a prodigal, hey?

But your honour would never ad⯑mit it. In ſhort, ſir, the man who commits an errour, and the man who criticizes it, have each of them dif⯑ferent words to expreſs the ſame thing. What I call profuſion, you call gene⯑roſity; what you call avarice, I call diſcretion. So that you may depend on the ſincerity of the priſoners in his majeſty's Fleet. But lay them by as a foreign matter, and let us come nearer your honour.

He now gave me N^o. 6.

Why this is going backwards ſaid I.

[82]No matter, anſwered the ſteward, for the order of numbers; I offer them to your honour in the order of importance; beginning with the leaſt atrocious, and ſo going regularly on to the greater.

Though Samuel ſaid this very coolly, it ſet me on the tremble. After the petition of the priſoners, I did not expect the matter to ſoar higher. But you ſhall judge, reader, how far I was miſtaken, when you are in the humour to amuſe yourſelf with the next chapter.

CHAP. XXXIV. THE PENSIONERS ARE POLITE.

N^O. 6. was addreſſed to Mr. Sar⯑caſm.

Pray Mr. Sarcaſm ſignify to our patron, that a very modeſt family upon the Green, are conſtantly inſult⯑ed by one of the penſioners who hath the next houſe; in which he keeps an infamous madam, within ear-ſhot of us. On the firſt day of the races, we ſaw her trolloping about the courſe in a faded ſilk gown, and a dirty fringed petticoat; on the ſecond day, ſhe appeared in the ſame dreſs, walking arm in arm with the above penſioner, and, ſince that time, ſhe [84]has been introduced into the man's houſe, where ſhe ſings and ſwears in ſuch a manner that we are both ſhock⯑ed, and diſturbed. Theſe two ſit up beſt part of the night; and about twelve o'clock this morning, a very ſplendid vis a vis, entirely new, and conſtructed on a French model; made its appearance at madam's door. The family who complain of this grievance have no carriage at all; nor do they think it conſiſtent with the modeſty they ought to maintain under preſent circumſtances; but, they cannot with patience bear to ſee a vile creature exalted above women of virtue. To make the matter ſtill worſe, there are four more dreſſed up huſſeys of this wretch's acquaintance, who are come down in a phaeton and four horſes, [85]which are driven by a great gauky maſculine ſhe-thing, who gathers up the reins, and ſmacks the long whip like a ſtage coachman. Suggeſt, therefore, we beg of you Mr. Sar⯑caſm to the moſt amiable Sir B. Beauchamp, how much the purity of his charming Paradiſe muſt ſuffer by the introduction of theſe harlots, who will not only ruin all the Shenſtonian batchelors, but throw out all their lures to alienate every huſband from the arms of his honourable wife. The extirpation, therefore, of this evil, while it is yet in the bud, is ſubmitted to our patron, whoſe virtuous heart, will, we are aſſured, adopt ſuch mea⯑ſures as may moſt effectually ſerve the female innocence and fidelity, [86]which he hath ſo kindly taken in charge.

Signed by the above family, and all the other ladies of Shenſtone-Green.

This letter made ſo ſtrong an im⯑preſſion, that I deſired Samuel to lay the reſt of the papers by, till ſome other time; for this is an affair, Samuel, ſaid I, which muſt be taken into immediate conſideration.

Sir, replied the ſteward, the name of the penſioner who has been guilty of the crime in queſtion is Danby; a young gentleman who ſtands in my book of anecdotes, as the beſt hearted young man in the world. The cha⯑racter I have had of him, previous to his being marked for the Green is this, [87]"Danvers Danby, Eſq. a perſon of fine genius, unbounded generoſity, tender feelings, lively paſſions, and adored by the ladies."

And is Mr. Danby, ſaid I, the author of ſuch an indelicate action?

Why your honour ſhould conſider that all the qualities which conſtitute his fine character, lean, as I may ſay, wholly to ſpirited things.

Spirited things quotha; do you conſider what may be the effect of theſe ſpirited things?—May I not have a brothel brought upon my Green; and inſtead of conjugal har⯑mony and continency, may not my dear Shenſtone's ſyſtem—

[88]Suppoſe ſir, your honour was to tell the Shenſtonians, once for all, a piece of your mind. I think ſome⯑thing might be done yet.

If thou canſt adviſe any thing to give my perplexed head and heart a little eaſe, pray, good fellow, loſe no time: let me know it. I thought I ſhould both give and receive hap⯑pineſs, but I am horridly miſtaken; upon my ſoul I am, Mr. Sarcaſm.

Here this ludicrous Mr. Sarcaſm, in whom a dry kind of rigid remark was conſtitutional, ſat down at a deſk which ſtood in the room, and wrote as follows:

Pſhaw, Mr. Sarcaſm, ſaid I (pee⯑viſhly interrupting him), do you ima⯑gine I am in a temper to be trifled with?

Scarce had theſe words paſſed my lips, before a fine, elegant, ſplendid, and prepoſſeſſing young man came into the room with an air of in⯑genuous diſtreſs.

It was Mr. Danby. He fell upon his knee. My dear ſir, ſaid he, my [91]worthy protector, I am this inſtant informed of the offence I have given to ſome of the perſons in our neigh⯑bourhood. I have done wrong, ſir.— I feel.— I repent. Had I reflected but a moment it would have been impoſſible.—The woman ſtruck my fancy.—I am too apt to follow my feelings, and my ſenſibility is gene⯑rally wounded too late.

After ſuch language, Mr. Danby, what can I ſay? I am diſarmed.

The woman is no longer under my roof, ſir. Upon my honour I have diſmiſſed her.

It is ſufficient, Mr. Danby; I hope there will be no further bad conſe⯑quence. I ſee your forgetfulneſs in the true light, and I do not doubt—

[92]Matilda, who had been ſitting to embroider in the next room, now opened the glaſs door which looked into the apartment where we were talking, and ruſhed in with a coun⯑tenance like the paleneſs of death.

Mr. Danby's confuſion was viſible in every feature: He re-aſſured me that every thing ſhould be done to my utmoſt ſatisfaction, and abruptly withdrew.

I was ſenſibly alarmed; and deſiring the ſteward to poſtpone the reſt of the buſineſs till the next morning, my daughter and I were left together.

She was ſtill labouring with ſome concealed anxiety, and after fixing her eyes on me very tenderly for ſome minutes, ſhe fell at my feet, and bathed my hand with her tears.

[93]Matilda, ſaid I, for God's ſake, conſider your poor father.

I am very young, papa; perhaps very fooliſh; and am now kneeling for my father's inſtruction.—That— that young gentleman who is juſt gone out, ſir—that young gentle⯑man —ſir—

Hah!—go on, Matilda.

Has given me the greateſt miſery ever ſince he has been at the Green.

How ſo, Matilda?

Don't be angry with me, dear papa,—but even if you are, I muſt ſpeak out my whole heart. I have met him at Miſs Elliot's. His figure— His converſation—His manner—I am [95]afraid I love him, ſir. Indeed I am afraid of it.

Love him, did you ſay, Matilda?

But he is a libertine—he is a rake. I have heard his whole ſtory.—Yet, ſir, he confeſſed his errour—he is not a ſhameleſs man—he—Pray, ſir, did he not ſay, the woman who had ſeduced him was diſmiſſed?

Ah! Matilda—you are the dear and darling comfort of my life. Heaven knows how long this project of hap⯑pineſs, which I have put into execution upon this Green, may be depended on. The edifice was flattering and fair, but, perhaps, it may not prove ſolid. The guſt of ingratitude may weaken, and the tempeſt of contrary paſſions may deſtroy it. It is poſſible [94]that this little paradiſe, which I have raiſed, like a ſecond Eden, around me, may, like the firſt, which was regu⯑lated by more powerful patronage, be equally loſt. In that caſe, my Matilda will be the only flower that will remain of all my garden. Her ſweetneſs and beauty muſt ſoothe me in every diſappointmeet, and ſupply the place of the angel who gave her being.—Alas! Matilda—I am even jealous of your affections; but I would not keep them all, when your tender heart diſpoſes you to divide them. Of Mr. Danby we know a little. His qualities are fine but they are dangerous. Yet we will enquire. I will, for your ſake, have over him the eye of a father, and if it can poſ⯑ſibly be you ſhall not want—

[96]Before I could end the ſentence ſhe was weeping upon my neck.—Ah! my dear papa, ſaid ſhe, but this is not all. My heart will burſt if you are not acquainted with every thing. I cannot ſupport the burden of hypo⯑criſy.

Not all, Matilda!—In heaven's name, what do you mean? Speak this moment.

He hath been in diſtreſs—I myſelf ſaw him ſend all he could command in the world to a poor family to which he hath obligations. I myſelf, too, ſaw the piercing letter, in which the application was made, and —and—

Speak, child. Conceal nothing.

[97]As he had not enough to ſatisfy his heart, or do them the full ſervice he deſired—I gave him my little new-year's purſe, and—

What more?

Borrowed twenty guineas of a friend.

What friend, child?

Mr. Seabrooke, ſir.—But I did not mention names—Pray don't hate me—I never concealed any thing before.

Matilda, Matilda, (ſaid I, taking her in my arms,) I am not angry; I am both afflicted and rejoiced. Leave the management of this buſineſs to me. Act as before, and all may be well. One truth, however, is [98]clear. Let us eſtabliſh what ſyſtems or what ſocieties we pleaſe, joy and ſorrow ſhall be for ever mixed, and, whereſoever we fix our dwelling, whether, in a great city, or on Shen⯑ſtone-Green, they will purſue us cloſe, and command alternately our ſmiles and tears.

Huſh! ſaid Matilda; Mr. Sea⯑brooke is coming to the door. Not a word of Mr. Danby.

CHAP. XXXV. WHICH INTRODUCES AN OLD SOLDIER.

MR. Seabrooke had no ſooner entered, than he preſented to me a letter which, he ſaid, he had juſt before taken from the poſtman, whom he ſaw on his return from walking.

As I knew the delicacy of my poor girl's affection, I gave her this letter to read when ſhe was at leiſure, pre⯑tending that it was a matter of no conſequence, but might, perhaps, amuſe her a little. I could ſee the idea of Mr. Danby mount into her eyes as I gave it.

[104]She put the letter into her pocket, from which moment ſhe was ſo anxi⯑ous and uneaſy, that ſhe pretended a ſudden indiſpoſition as an excuſe for retiring early to her chamber.

In leſs than half an hour, ſhe re⯑turned, declaring that her illneſs was gone, and ſhe never was ſo well or ſo happy in her life; though it appeared plainly, by a redneſs that remained about her eyes, ſhe had been weep⯑ing. What a paradox is pleaſure!

The truth is, I was little leſs affect⯑ed or leſs pleaſed than herſelf at this new trait we had diſcovered in young Danby, and I reſolved, if poſſible, to make him every way worthy my Matilda. I hope reader, ſhe is by this time thy favourite.

CHAP. XXXVI. HUMAN NATURE LOOKED AT IN AN EXTRAORDINARY SITUATION.

PRETTY early the next morning, my daughter was beſtirring her⯑ſelf in the pantry; and, juſt as I came down ſtairs, had thrown a white nap⯑kin over a little wicker baſket, which ſhe ſaid, was deſtined for Maſter Hackney Oldblade. Give him this new guinea too, Matilda, ſaid I, and tell him, it is the lateſt that has been ſtruck of his ſovereign. I ſend it as a token, that I think him no nuiſance upon Shenſtone-Green, where he may ſtay and ſettle.

[106]Matilda tripped away with her pro⯑viſions without waiting to hear more; and juſt as ſhe was gone, one of Maſ⯑ter Oldblade's friends, Henry Hewit, made his appearance.

Though the converſation which enſued at this interview is very extra⯑ordinary, I hope, honeſt reader, thou haſt heart enough to ſuppoſe it not ſo far out of nature as to be impoſſible. If I ſhow thee conduct in a poor un⯑lettered peaſant, which diſcovers an excellence in humanity, which thou didſt not before ſuſpect belonged there⯑to; be grateful for the pleaſure I ſhall give thee, and do not ſay, that is unnatural which may only be uncommon.

Sir, ſaid Henry, pulling off his hat with great reverence, I have been [107]ſome days a miſerable fellow, and as I look upon your honour to be my father, I want to tell you why and wherefore I am thus wretched.

Henry, ſpeak?

Your honour has, as I may ſay, almoſt killed me with kindneſs. Pray do not think me wicked if I ſay how much happier I was, when Shenſtone⯑Green was building, than I am now it is finiſhed. Ever ſince I had ſtrength in my arms—and you ſee, ſir, I am built almoſt like a church— I have been uſed to labour. I have worked, dear, good ſir, till work is my play, and play is my work: yes, your honour, I have found it harder to paſs my time ſince I had nothing to do, than ever it was for me to get-up [108]and go to bed with the ſun. I will tell your honour why.

Do ſo, honeſt Henry.

When I was a labouring man, I knew that I muſt not eat nor drink till I had done ſo much for bread and ſo much for bed. When that ſo much was finiſh⯑ed, I ſat me down to a repaſt, which was ſo ſweetened by my hunger, that every morſel was a feaſt. Then I went hobbling home at night as weary as weary. So much the better; I made but one ſleep of it till day⯑light, and then got up as gay as a bird to weary myſelf again.

But your ſituation, Henry, is much more eaſy now on Shenſtone-Green.

[109]Too eaſy, a great deal too eaſy, ſir. I do not know that the bones are the better for ſtretching on a velvet cuſhion. Had I a good education I might, perhaps, amuſe myſelf with good books or maps, or ſuch things; but, as I can neither read or write, ſo as to make any pleaſure of it, tis but making my head ache to no purpoſe. No, ſir, here lies the miſchief; I am a man worth two hundred a year, and have got my fine houſe over my head; my old work-clothes are thrown away; I have things upon my back that do not ſit at all to my liking. I am not company for the other pen⯑ſioners who have moſt of them ſpent a good fortune before they came to the Green. I think they look too as if they laugh at me when I go by any [110]of them, as they ſtand idling at their doors. This conceit hurts my clown's pride ſo mortally, that I keep out of their ſight as much as I can; and to⯑wards the evenings give them the ſlip out of my back door. Sometimes I eſcape to the next pariſh, where my old fellow-labourers live. But even there, I do not find myſelf at home as uſual, becauſe they geer and fleer, and are jealous of my good fortune, and ſay, they cannot think what your honour could ſee in my face to ſtick me up for a gentleman? After this, I am obliged to make them all nearly drunk before they will own me for an old acquaintance. Beſides this, ſir, I ſee your honour's tradeſmen hate me, and think they have one and all a [111]better right to your bounty than Henry Hewit.

They may think as they pleaſe, but I conſider Henry Hewit as the beſt and worthieſt man upon Shenſtone-Green.

Too good, your honour is too good; for what can I do? I have no exerciſe, and ſo have no appetite. I always am feeling for my leather apron. I ſometimes catch up my old trowel and am ready to ſhed tears over it, as if it were becauſe I had thrown away with it an old friend that uſed to get me the brown bread that I bought myſelf, I cannot ſleep at nights, becauſe I am in a ſort of a doze all the day. In ſhort, ſir, I look upon it, that I am living a very wicked life, and [112]with your honour's leave, I will mend it.

Is that poſſible, friend Henry?

Very poſſible, ſir; as thus: I will return my penſion to the dear noble hand out of which I received it: I will live in a little ſnug houſe amongſt your honour's tradeſmen: I will take care the people ſhall know my mind, that there may be no envy nor heart⯑burning; and I will, if your honour thinks fit, be maſter maſon and brick⯑layer of all Shenſtone-Green. For this, your honour may pay me from time to time, but not all at once; ſo that though I ſhall return to my own track and to my own trade—which few know better—yet I ſhall never want either victuals or work; and, to a [113]poor fellow like me, to want one of theſe, is to want both.

And are you ſerious, Henry?

So ſerious, and pleaſe your honour, that I ſhall break my heart if you do not oblige me. But this is not all. I think I know whom your honour might put into the houſe and fortune which I ſhall quit.

I would gladly have a perſon of my friend Hewit's recommendation.

Then you muſt know, ſir, there is a fine old creature, mangled all over, who has ſet his face againſt our ene⯑mies, till his trade is fairly cut from him by the naked ſword. He is a very merry good ſoul, and when I ſaw him the other day walking on his [114]wooden ſtumps, I ſaid to myſelf, Oh! Henry Hewit, Henry Hewit, there is a man who ought to be in thy place! He is robbed at once of his buſineſs and his blood; be an honeſt lad and go back to thy labour, Henry, and ſpeak a good word for a gentleman-ſoldier, whoſe hairs are grey, and whoſe limbs are gone. I cried like a child as I ſaid this: but if your Honour agrees to my two propoſals, I will do nothing but work and laugh all the reſt of my life.

I do agree, Henry, and you ſhall have it juſt in your own way.

Then, ſir, if you pleaſe, I will be⯑gin to work to-morrow, for I have been ſideling backwards and forwards, and I ſee there are ſome repairs wanting [115]in the brickwork about the Manſion⯑houſe. The tiling on the left ſide is looſened, and I have ſpied out a crack or two in the back chimnies; one leans a little.

What then, Henry, your eyes have been at work already.

Uſe, you know, ſir, is ſecond na⯑ture. I never ſee a building of any kind if it is of brick, but I can tell what ſhould be done in a trice. It is in my way. Lord, your Honour, how happy you have made me! but the cement will be better if I were to mix my lime over night. I will go then and temper my mortar—Lord how happy I am—to ſay the real factotum, I never was ſo happy in [116]my life. I muſt kiſs your Honour's hand, I muſt indeed.

Here the poor excellent fellow leaped about with unaffected joy, and was carried away into many extrava⯑gant geſtures by ſenſations, which do not frequently, I fear, interrupt the tranquility of human beings.

Juſt as he was going out, he turn⯑ed round to deſire I would not men⯑tion his name in the affair of the hopping ſoldier, becauſe, ſaid Henry, it will have a better look if your Honour was to ſay, you had heard of Maſter Oldblade's great fighting feats, and made him a penſioner for the ſake of your country; that, your Honour knows would pleaſe the old fellow; for all your ſword-blade gen⯑try [117]have a ſort of pride about them— as to me, you may tell him that I am a good bricklayer and mend a crack, or lay a tile for my country as bravely as any man; but, for the matter of fighting, I am a mere meſs of milk, and never killed any thing in my life. Say I am gone to my old buſineſs, and had only Maſter Oldblade's houſe for a time.

To make any comment on this be⯑haviour on the part of our bricklayer, would be to ſuſpect the reader's ſenſe and ſenſibility.

I leave it, therefore, with his feel⯑ings.

CHAP. XXXVII. THE REVERSE OF THE PICTURE.

BUT human nature having, in the two laſt chapters, exibited her bright ſide, we muſt now be content to look on the reverſe of her picture.

Mr. Samuel Sarcaſm, who was ever ſcrupulouſly exact to his appoint⯑ments, appeared with the reſt of the papers which remained unexamined.

Now, Samuel, ſaid I, I have time to finiſh.

He gave me N^o 5, which, reader, I make thee a preſent of with all my heart.

FIRST, WE are making a purſe of a few hundreds, to eſtabliſh a ſweet little epitome of a Pantheon, where we will, though at a ſmall expence, have our vocal gods and goddeſſes, at leaſt, twice a week. And we will call it, by way of compliment, Shen⯑ſtone-Green Pantheon.

SECONDLY, WE, knowing per⯑fectly well, all the arts of ſurprize and delicate ſlight, propoſe alſo a kind [121]of Cornelys, where our lights, rooms, and partitions ſhall ſhift about at the word of command. This muſt be named The Country Cornelys on Shen⯑ſtone-Green.

THIRDLY, WE earneſtly intreat your aſſiſtance in erecting a building for Theatrical works, to be written by ourſelves and our huſbands, and to be acted by one another. Though this ſcheme will certainly be attended with ſome expence, yet it will be ſuch an encouragement to genius, as will raiſe up in the penſioners a laudable emulation; and, indeed, not to have a play-houſe upon Shenſtone-Green, (which is, as it were, poets ground, and ought to be dedicated to the muſes) would be a ſin and a [122]ſhame. Beſides, if we ſhould not be able to furniſh new pieces amongſt ourſelves, there are plenty of play-wrights who will ſend us their chef d'aeuvres from the capital, where, you know, intereſt has, now and then, the key of the ſtage-door; and where the managers themſelves gene⯑rally foreſtall the dramatick market. We have been looking about the Green, and find that our play-houſe will ſtand vaſtly well near the Church, or rather between that and Parſonage⯑place. So that the muſes will be ſup⯑ported by the temple of devotion on one hand, and a doctor of divinity on the other. This we will call Shenſtone-Green Theatre.

FOURTHLY, WE, (above all other things) have ſet our hearts upon a [123] Maſquerade, which is at once ſo inno⯑cent, ſo elegant, and ſo univerſally admired, that, not to have a monthly one on Shenſtone-Green would be ſuch an impeachment upon our want of taſte as never was heard of. This, therefore, muſt be put in hand imme⯑diately. Maſks and dominos may be had from Taviſtock-ſtreet, London. Fancy-dreſſes depend on ourſelves.

LASTLY, WE propoſe a weekly Concert of Muſick, and, for cheapneſs ſake, the ſame band may ſerve for the orcheſtra of our theatre. But as theſe dear amuſements will, under your patronage, ſir, be ours, we ſhall, by way of getting back ſome of our charges, tax all tickets taken by ſtrangers. The Shenſtonian pen⯑ſioners [124]being the only perſons to be admitted gratis, excepting our good and amiable patron, Sir Benjamin, who is, in each place, to have a lodge with a decorated canopy fitted up and properly illuminated, under the title of Beauchamp Box, or the Lord Preſident's Place on Shenſtone-Green.

Signed by all the Ladies of the Green, except Miſs Eliza El⯑liot, who obſtinately refuſes: but as we conſider that girl a particular kind of creature (too grave and too glum for her age) her ſuffrage hath not been much ſolicited.

CHAP. XXXVIII. THE WHISTLER WHISTLES LUSTILY ALL THROUGH THIS CHAPTER.

HEIGHO, Samuel! this is pro⯑miſing work. Is it not?

Since the writing hereof, ſir, there have been ſome of the fair petitioners at my office, juſt to ſtrengthen their arguments, by aſſuring your Honour that, with thoſe few diverſions men⯑tioned in their liſt, they will under⯑take to make Shenſtone-Green ſuperior either to Bath or Paris. They add, furthermore—and as all ſpoke of it together, there is the leſs doubt of their ſincerity—that, there ſhall not be a ſingle hour in the day or night, but what ſhall bear its characteriſtic [126]amuſement. Shenſtone-Green, Samuel —I believe they might ſay, old Sa⯑muel —Shenſtone-Green, old Samuel, ſhall have more ton than any ſpot in the habitable globe, and, by the crouds of faſhion which we ſhall gather about us, the jubilees of the dear poet Shenſtone, ſhall be more vivant, and more vogueiſh, than thoſe, even headed by his mirrour Mr. Garrick, of Shakeſpeare himſelf. After this, they fluttered out of my office, which was never ſo perfumed before.

And would you not prevent this inundation of luxury, which, Samuel, cannot poſſibly, be admitted without an inundation of folly alſo?

Prevent it ſir, ſaid Matilda, who was ſitting on Mr. Seabrooke's knee. [127]Why would you prevent it? What can be more harmleſs than a Pantheon?

Whew—ſaid Mr. Seabrooke.

More innocent than a Cornely's? ſaid Matilda.

Whew—ſaid Mr. Seabrooke.

More moral than a play-houſe? demanded Matilda.

Whew—Whew—replied Seabrooke.

Or more enchanting than a maſ⯑querade? aſked Matilda.

Whew—Whew—Whew, anſwered Mr. Seabrooke, lengthening and loud⯑ning his tone, and taking Matilda in his arms into the garden.

You hear Mr. Seabrooke's ſenti⯑ment of the matter, Samuel, ſaid I.

[128]I muſt own, ſir, the gentleman's whiſtle is loud againſt it. I take thoſe Whews all to be in the negative: flatly in the negative.

Shall I then forbid ſuch nonſenſes, Mr. Sarcaſm?

Your Honour half tempteth me to Whew in the manner of the merry gentleman, who is playing at romps yonder on the graſs-plats with Miſs Matilda. What ſignifies your Honour's forbidding a large party of ladies doing the things which they have ſet their hearts upon. Sure your Honour knoweth as little of women as men.

But I ſo well know the conſequence, Samuel. I am ſo well convinced, that Shenſtone-Green would be in as much [129]agitation and rattle as London, were I to ſuffer theſe nonſenſes.

And that is the very reaſon, ſir, why the ladies will certainly carry their deſigns into execution, nem. con. Rattle is the thing they admire.

Indeed, Samuel?

Beſides, ſir, they offer only to in⯑troduce things that are allowed in all genteel places, and though your ho⯑nour chooſes to run down cauſes to their effects; women ſeldom go that way to work: they ſtick firmly to the cauſe, and if that tickles, they never look far enough to pick up a naſty conſequence, that would only put the poor dears into a perſpiration. Again, ſir, have you not made them [130]independent, and the free agent, doth as he liſteth, I have heard.

There, Samuel, is the rub. I have tied my hands voluntarily behind me. I left all to the operations of grateful hearts, and imagined that ſuch liberty would be law at Shenſtone-Green.

It is plain therefore, that your Honour muſt give up this point; ſo we will go to another.

With a very bad grace I can aſſure thee, Mr. Sarcaſm.

Things not poſſible your Honour knows, ſhould not be attempted. Pleaſe to mark therefore your conſent, and I will ſignify the ſame to the ladies, who proteſted they ſhould neither eat, drink, or ſleep till I ſent [131]your anſwer. 'Tis a lady's maxim, ſir, to be reſtleſs till ſhe hath her fair longing.

I now wrote underneath this peti⯑tion, which was, by the by, abomi⯑nably ſcrawled, agreeable to Dr. Swift's obſervation, from corner to corner, the word granted; and my hand ſo trembled as I gave my ſanc⯑tion to folly, that I wrote almoſt as unintelligibly polite as the ladies.

Sarcaſm ſigned the petition, as wit⯑neſs, with a fiſt perfectly firm; and, ſaying, he imagined I had enough for one day, adjourned till another op⯑portunity, the examination of the other papers.

CHAP. XXXIX. IT BECOMES NECESSARY TO INTRO⯑DUCE A CONSTABLE ON SHEN⯑STONE-GREEN.

I HAD ſcarce time to breathe upon this circumſtance, before one of a different kind, but tending equally to ſhow me I was but a fooliſh fellow, ſtarted up in the form of the following intelligence; which, by way of deſert, was brought juſt after I had dined.

How one imprudence treads on another ſaid I, after having read this letter aloud!

But you ſee, ſaid Matilda, ſmiling, the bad women are wholly gone from Mr.—you knows who's papa.

(I concealed Mr. Danby's name at the time of reading this letter).

I begin to think, friend Beauchamp, ſaid Mr. Seabrooke, we muſt have ſuch a thing as a CONSTABLE in this [138]ſame Shenſtone-Green. Sic tranſit glo⯑ria mundi.

A conſtable, anſwered I, in great conſternation; a conſtable on Shenſtone-Green?

Faith, I begin to think ſo too, ſaid the little apothecary (who that day dined at the Manſion-houſe, and who had been thrown into an immoderate fit of laughter, by the ludicrous idea of the baldheaded prieſt when he was on the retreat). And now you talk of that, ſaid Mr. Elixer, I have a little private buſineſs to communicate.

Matilda withdrew. Mr. Seabrooke roſe up from the table. And can my dear Seabrooke think it poſſible for him to retire?

[139] Whew—replied he, wheeling off into the garden, where he would ſometimes paſs half a day upon the graſs-plats in the ſunſhine.

Look-you, my dear, cried the wor⯑thy Welchman, when we were alone. I have got a proclamation of war in my pocket. Yes, my dear, war has been declared in Shenſtone-Green for ſome time, and here is a correct liſt of the killed and wounded. Elixir Ned, muſt knock them dead yet. Read, read.

"A liſt of patients now under the cure of Edward Elixir, apothecary and ſurgeon to the Shenſtonian pen⯑ſioners."

But look you my patron ſaid the doctor, I do not let you ſee this to [140]betray the confidence which ſhould be ſacred in my profeſſion, but becauſe I am a little man who loves gratitude, and thinks he ought to have no ſecrets with a perſon like Sir Benja⯑min Beauchamp; for that Sir Benja⯑min has made me, Edward Elixir, the richeſt, and the gayeſt, and the happieſt man in Wales. Yes, I do ſay, the happieſt man in Wales. My little wife, Sir Benjamin, has got, through your kindneſs, a large eaſy chair which runs upon caſtors, and I aired her yeſterday, for the firſt time, all about the Green: Yes, and then we both laughed together at the con⯑ceit, till our mirth became, as it were, a contagious diſorder which put into convulſions all the penſioners who beheld us. If you had ſeen, ſir, [141]this ſight, how you would have laughed! Only to think of ſuch a ſlender hop-o'-my-thumb as I, har⯑neſſed to a kind of go-cart, almoſt as big as a waggon, running off at full ſpeed with ſuch an amazing fine-ſized firm-fleſhed woman as my wife! Only think of a ſkipping flea hop⯑ping away with the majeſtic elephant! Oh Jeſus! my patron, my patron, how happy you have made Teddy Elixir!

Teddy Elixir now falling into one of his pleaſure-fits, I left him to enjoy it upon a ſopha, where he rol⯑led about, while I read his liſt of killed and wounded.

D. Danby, Eſq. Attendance every day.

[142] C. Cuſheon, Vicar. Every day but Sunday.

Without going any farther, I ex⯑preſſed my hearty concern for theſe gentlemen, and deſired to know the nature of their diſorders. Are theſe penſioners wounded or killed, Mr. Elixir? It muſt be a very ſudden affair.

Alas, ſir, anſwered the apothecary, Venus wounds in a moment.

Venus, Mr. Elixir! Venus?

Lookee you, my patron, you live here at your Manſion-houſe without knowing what paſſes in your village. We have of late been viſited by four Ve⯑nuſes, who have brought more buſineſs upon my hands than I ever had on the [143] Green before. There is warm work going on, I promiſe you; but, ſir you ſtill, my patron. I will ſend Venus packing, I warrant. I will blow a little powder in her bright eyes that ſhall make her remember coming upon Shenſtone Green, never fear.

The plain truth then, Mr. Elixir, diveſted of your embelliſhment, is, that the unhappy women, who were attracted to the Green by thoſe con⯑founded races, have—

Yes, yes, my patron, exactly that, my patron. Exactly that.

And, amongſt other victims leſs diſtinguiſhed, are, I preſume, theſe gentlemen.

[144]Jeſus, my patron, how well you gueſs. If I could have gueſſed half ſo well, I wiſh I may never laugh again.

And do you think this a laughing matter, Mr. Elixir?

My patron, it is no more than this ſkip. Our methods of treating that affair are now ſo infallible, that—

But the wickedneſs, and the im⯑propriety of the affair; how will you cure that, Mr. Apothecary? That is ſomething more than your ſkip, I hope, is it not?

Look-you, my dear patron, Ed⯑ward Elixir never meddles with other men's buſineſs. I ſtick cloſe to the carcaſe, which I know how to manage [145]tolerably well. But as for the mind, that is clean out of my way. That is a branch belonging to Mr. Cuſheon the vicar. I can only maſter Death; it is the parſon, who ſhould ſtruggle with the Devil. Ha! ha! ha!

But I am aſtoniſhed, Mr. Elixir, that ſo ſober, diſcreet and claſſical a man as Mr. Cuſheon ſhould—

Why ſhould my patron be aſtoniſh⯑ed, that aſober, diſcreet, claſſical man ſhould catch one of the commoneſt diſtempers now in the world? We are all liable to accidents. Alas! the claſſics are not exempt from the ſtrokes of the female gender.

But his profeſſion Mr. Elixir—Ha! ha! ha!

[146]Lack a day, if you think the worſe of him for what I have told you, my patron, I ſhall be the moſt miſerable man in the world—There is my blind ſide. I am ſo uſed to run about with what I hear in order to tell it, which is the way I worked myſelf firſt into any practiſe; for one cannot take a pint of blood from a country patient, but he will have from me a pound of news into the bargain, ſo that I cannot help chattering, let the conſequence be what it will. This is the complaint that every body makes againſt me, while almoſt every body tempts me to ſin. Oh! how I do hate Mr. Edward Elixir! how I do hate Mr. Edward Elixir!

But hear me, Mr. Apothecary— hear me—it is an affair of moment. I am hurt. I am ſtung.

[147]Oh! my patron, tell me, I pray you, what can make me ſuch a little infamous apothecary as I am? Why ſhould I cure my patient with my hand, only to wound him again, worſe than ever, with my tongue! Curſe my tongue, how dare it jab⯑ber out things ſacred and profane in this manner! You ought to diſcard me, my patron—for Mr. Cuſheon is a ſoft, ſleek, gentle gentleman, as ever put on a caſſock; and Mr. Danby is the beſt and moſt generous eſquire that ever came into Wales. What things do I know of his doing? and have I blabbed the only thing that could injure him in the eſteem of my patron? Oh! what a complete lit⯑tle villain I am? Oh! Elixir! Elixir! ſkilled as thou art in ſimples, thou [148]art the moſt atrocious raſcal, of a ſmall man, that ever breathed a vein. Look-you, my patron, look-you, if it was not for my poor little wife, who would die if ſhe loſt her trund⯑ler, I would deliver myſelf into the hands of juſtice and be hanged direct⯑ly. Edward—Edward. Teddy, Ted⯑dy, Elixir, Elixir. Fie! fie! fie!

While our medical phaenomenon was uttering this rhapſody, he ſome⯑times addreſſed me, then himſelf; ſometimes ſtood ſo as to obſerve his figure in the glaſs, as if willing to have his own image in view, while he loaded it with abuſe; and ſome⯑times, he pranced about the room in an agony of rage, twitching his wig from ſide to ſide, and leaping from chair to chair. But, at length, the [149]vociferation with which he mentioned his being hanged, &c. brought Sea⯑brooke and Matilda into the room, where they apprehended ſomething was the matter. Seeing them advance, the wretched apothecary (imagin⯑ing they were come to hear his dif⯑grace) caught up his hat, as was always his cuſtom; and after aſſuring us once more, that he was a moſt in⯑famous little raſcal, ran out of doors.

CHAP. XXXX. A DISCOVERY WHICH NONE COULD HAVE EXPECTED.

I WAS contriving how to conceal the circumſtance of Mr. Danby from my poor panting Matilda, who always ſuſpected the converſation turned upon him, though ſhe even had diſcretion enough to conceal his very name from Seabrooke. Juſt as I had hit off an excuſe, which I ima⯑gined plauſible, a moſt violent thun⯑dering at the front door announced four viſitors, who were never in the Manſion-houſe before. They were of the female kind, and three of them ſo ridiculouſly diſcoloured by [151]paint, and ſo burnt with flaming robes and ornaments, that the gentle Matilda, who was habited ſimply in an unpretending tender-looking luſ⯑tring, and a white ſtraw hat bound with a ſingle pea-green band, looked like the angel of peace by the ſide of the furies. She hurried into Sea⯑brooke's arms; and, from that ſanc⯑turary, beheld the ſcene.

Sir, ſaid one of the women, cock⯑ing up the corner of her hat, I ſup⯑poſe you are the proprietor of this Shenſtone-Green.

I am, madam.

If you are then, ſir, I ſhould be glad to know how a gentleman, plum⯑ing himſelf upon his generoſity, can ſuffer four unhappy women, who are [152]obliged to attend publick places, to be inſulted?

I really do not underſtand you, madam.

Let me ſpeak, Nancy, to him, (ſaid a ſecond woman, more furiouſly cap⯑ped and hatted than the other). I think your name is Sir Benjamin Beauchamp?

I am ſo called, madam.

Pray then, Sir Benjamin Beauchamp, what right have your virtuous b—h—s of the Green—

Whew— cried Mr. Seabrooke, giv⯑ing a louder whiſtle than I ever before heard, and running out of the room with the ever-delicate Matilda.

[153]So much the better, ſaid the wo⯑man, reſuming the converſation. Now Miſs Mock Modeſty is gone, I can ſpeak my mind plainer. I was going to aſk, ſir, why you permit ſuch vir⯑tuous b—h—s, as ſome of your pen⯑ſioners to ſneer at us as we paſs their doors?

I ſuppoſe you are the ladies who have created ſuch diſturbances then in the village; if ſo, you cannot wonder at any ſlights you may have received for the irregularity of your conduct.

Pray, Sir Benjamin, let me ſpeak: (ſaid a third woman of a leſs bold ap⯑pearance, more decently dreſſed, and extremely fine featured) Theſe ladies, ſir, are apt to be warm in their tem⯑pers; [154]I have ſeen more misfortunes, and am more tranquil. Have I leave to ſpeak ſir?

You have, madam.

The four women, Sir Benjamin, who are now before you, have been all ruined by your ſex. We had once the innocence of your own daugh⯑ter. Each had too tender a heart, and threw away its nobleſt affections upon a villain who deceived it. Our parents thruſt us from their protec⯑tion, and the door of every friend was ſhut againſt us. The women of virtue, who, perhaps, have given few real proofs of it, often told us, we might honeſtly work for a ſubſiſtence. But, this is only one of the many pre⯑tences of goodluck, when it wants an apology for inſulting diſtreſs. [155]Who will employ an handſome young woman diſcarded by her natural friends, and left ſtruggling in the ſtreets. We have found no ſuch pro⯑tectors. What remained after ſuch un⯑happy experience? To put ourſelves into eternity, would have added the crime of murder to the misfortune of violation. To expect aſſiſtance from men, on any pure or diſintereſted prin⯑ciple, was abſurdity. Our youth, our beauty, our forlorn ſituation, were all arguments againſt ſuch pro⯑tection. Which is it, ſir, of your ſex, that will honourably ſhelter our's un⯑der ſuch circumſtances; or which is it, that does not rejoice to ſee a lovely form reduced to purchaſe?

To exiſt, ſir, is the natural effort of an human being; and you know [156]the terms on which our bread was to be procured. Why then ſhould we be inſulted? Why ſhould complaints be formally lodged againſt us, as we un⯑derſtand they are, by perſons who have better luck than ourſelves? With regard to our coming to this village, we have, alas! but too ſolid an apology for it. We are the ſlaves of publick events, and always obliged to have a look out for novelties; we are compelled to take advantage of any thing that may promiſe a proſ⯑pect of ſupport. We ſhift our habi⯑tations as men ſhift theirs; and when⯑ever any place is celebrated as the reſort of much company, there, alas! it is our fatal lot to go and partake the tranſient popularity without the joy. It was told to us by thoſe whom [157]we employed for ſuch purpoſes, that a perſon of fortune had erected a new town for the uſe of thoſe whom mis⯑chance had brought into decay. We dared not propoſe ourſelves as candi⯑dates; but we thought that thoſe who leaped ſuddenly into proſperity from the loweſt ſtate of indigence or oppreſſion, were the proper objects to relieve us. Lightly come, lightly go, you know, ſir. It was probable that the paſſions would lead to diſſi⯑pation ſuch as became all at once maſters of a good fortune. Upon the faith of this expectation, we ſet off for Shenſtone-Green, where, we thought we had as natural a right to try our fortune as any other vaga⯑bonds. As to your principle of building this town upon the baſis of [158] purity, we are, unhappily, not in ſituations to pay much regard to ſuch ideas. Delicacy is obliged to yield to neceſſity in our unfortunate caſe; perhaps, ſir, we might, in luckier ſitua⯑tions, have contributed as much to the glory of Shenſtone Green, and merited as much the bounty of Sir Benjamin Beau⯑champ, as thoſe who now treat us with indignity. Nay, ſir, I even think that, hard as it is with us, you might have founded your village upon a baſis of juſter and truer benignity.

How ſo, madam, ſaid I, not a little affected by her diſcourſe, or with the firm, yet gentle, manner in which it was delivered—In what particulars, could I have improved the plan of Shenſtone-Green?

[159]Pardon me, ſir, reſumed the young woman, if I ſay your bounty might, at the ſame expence, have been led through more beneficent channels; ſome of its ſtreams, might, ſurely, have extended to US.—

I ſtarted.

Yes, ſir, continued the lady, you may ſtart; but believe me, Shenſtone-Green, hath not included the moſt pitiable part of the creation, nor in⯑deed, that part, which, under pro⯑per regulation, have the moſt pathetic claim upon the proprietor's attention. Cuſtom, it is true, may deaden the delicacy of thoſe feelings, which are the diſtinguiſhing ornaments of the female, and habit, may aſſiſt extreme indigence in conquering our natural decency; but it is not always a ſign [160]that we are irreclaimable, when we yield ourſelves up to the only alter⯑native that is left. Even the unwar⯑rantable language we ſometimes make uſe of, may find a palliative in the extremities to which we are driven. Thoſe, ſir, who live in a more ele⯑vated ſtate of misfortune, as they are liable to the brutality only of one man, ſo are they leſs excuſeable, if they commit thoſe crimes which it is in their power to prevent. For, in my opinion, errours are pardonable and puniſhable in proportion, as the ſitu⯑ation of the culprit renders them more neceſſary.

Crimes neceſſary! madam, ſaid I.

It is very poſſible, ſir, for certain faults to be if not neceſſary at leaſt [161] inevitable. They are annexed to a condition, which can neither be pre⯑vented by the perſon who is reduced, any more than the faults which reſult from—

This doctrine I fear, madam, cri⯑ed I, interfering—This doctrine will not—

Sir, ſaid the lady, interrupting in her turn: I advance only what I know to be fatally true. My igno⯑rance in the arts of argument, may, perhaps, involve the fact, I deſire to explain, in ſome obſcurity, or in too many words; but I am, nevertheleſs, convinced of the fact itſelf. How, for inſtance, is it poſſible to prevent the effects of our diſtreſs? We are [162]obliged to the dreadful drudgery of ſuiting ourſelves to publick caprice. We are obliged to conſult every man's particular mode of gratification. Na⯑ture, I believe, ſir, leads to a decent behaviour; but there are, I fear, five perverted appetites, which lean to the groſſeſt pleaſure, to one that is deli⯑cate or true to the original bias of the human feelings. I myſelf, Sir Benja⯑min, am an example of the truth I would illuſtrate. I remember the time when the exceſs of my timidity was imputed to me, by my relations, as a fault. I bluſhed almoſt at myſelf. In this ſtate of my innocence, when all the affections were fair and impreſ⯑ſive, a man pretended a generous paſſion, and, when he had thoroughly [163]made it reciprocal, by breathing a real ardour into a guiltleſs heart, he abuſed it. The old ſtory was again repeated. I was treated as the toy which could pleaſe no longer, and bequeathed by this barbarous betrayer to his brother-rakes.

Theſe, were all in the higher ranks of libertiniſm, and for that reaſon I heard leſs vulgar language, and ſaw fewer examples of vice. So that, though it would be abſurd to repre⯑ſent myſelf as a virtuous woman, I ſhould have been left wholly without an apology had I been plunged ſo deep as my companions.

What are not you as wicked a wretch as us, Fanny? cried all the other women.

[164]Give me leave reſumed the young creature—I did not mean to inſinuate that as my praiſe, but as your excuſe. If you now and then yield to words that might be better not ſpoken; it is, I know, becauſe you have had few advantages. Conſidering the cruel⯑ties which you have undergone; the company you have been obliged to keep in order to humour the whim of your friends, and the neceſſities you had on all hands to encounter, it would be very extraordinary if you had not picked up ſome habits which you are far from admiring, even in yourſelves. I very well know, Sir Benjamin, that good hearts beat in the boſoms of theſe my forlorn aſſo⯑ciates. I have ſeen them ſhare their [165]hard-earned profits with thoſe who have appealed to their bounty. I have ſeen alſo the tears drop from their eyes at the agony of that rigid virtue, which would not eaſily have been perſuaded to feel as ſoftly for them. They riot, it is true, but it is to drown the ſenſe of the moſt poignant reflection, which would otherwiſe obtrude to their diſtrac⯑tion. They diſſipate it muſt be confeſſed, but it is in compliance with the wanton taſte of their viſitors. I own even that an oath may occaſionally paſs their lips; but it is the effect of unhappy practice, and never comes delibe⯑rately from the mind.

[166]Ah! madam, ſaid I, you touch me too, too tenderly.

All the other poor creatures drop⯑ped the air of audacity, and held down their heads to conceal at once their ſhame and their diſtreſs.

If, ſir, added the lady, it is yet neceſſary to enlarge the features of this horrid picture, that I have taken from the life; ſuffer me to obſerve, that, we are often beaten for an air of modeſty, and rewarded for an ap⯑pearance of wantonneſs; we are equally the ſport of the brute, and of the bailiff. We are ſhut out of ſociety that might revive our morals, and we are driven to ſuch as, of neceſſity, muſt make us worſe. Now then tell [167]me, ſir, if we are not, in ſome ſort, juſtifiable for ſeeking a ſhelter where, at leaſt, our diſgrace was not ſo pub⯑lick, and where were, in hope, that benevolence was the ſame in the pen⯑ſioners of Shenſtone-Green, as in the boſom of the proprietor. We came hither with ſuch ideas, and yet, if my companions would condeſcend to take council from my example, they would retire from the neighbourhood and try again their fortune in the buſtles and beatings of the world. For my own part, ſir, I will delay my departure hence, no longer than while I obſerve, that, if Sir Benjamin Beau⯑champ had contrived ſome quiet aſy⯑lum, where the bluſhes of the moſt [168]unhappy women might have been concealed from—

While the beautiful and abuſed Fanny was proceeding in her ſentence, a perſon tapped at the door of the apartment, and, when it was opened, there came hobbling in a large lame man whom I had never ſeen.

Before the ſtranger entered, the women had all turned their faces from the door, as if unwilling to be caught in tears.

I come on my ſtumps to your Honour, (ſaid the man) to thank you for your kind intentions in favour of an old battered fellow, who is proud of his ſcars. Heaven always raiſes up a friend to the brave. I am juſt [169]told by your Honour's ſteward, that, after tugging about the globe, and ſuſtaining many ſtrokes of the body abroad, and more of the heart at home, poor old Hackney Oldblade—

No ſooner was this name pro⯑nounced than, the moſt piercing ſhriek, that, ſurely ever was uttered, came from the very ſoul of the young creature who had been ſo pathetically pleading for herſelf and her com⯑panions.

This ſhriek burſt from the afflicted Fanny; the man no ſooner heard the voice of a woman in diſtreſs, than he forgot the want of his limbs, and ran upon his ſtumps to offer aſſiſtance; but the moment he caſt his eye on the [170]ſufferer, whoſe agonies increaſed, the crutches dropped from his hands, and he fell lifeleſs on the floor.

Mr. Seabrooke and Matilda came hurrying in: and juſt as they appear⯑ed, the other three women were ſo agitated, that they retreated in the utmoſt confuſion.

CHAP. XLI. HUMANITY AGAIN LOOKS EAIR, AND SHINES THROUGH HER TEARS.

ISTOOD fixed in amazement; while Matilda was aſſiduouſly ap⯑plying her ſmelling bottle to Fanny, and Seabrooke was rubbing the tem⯑ples of Oldblade.

Oh! Fanny, Fanny, (cried the latter recovering) ſee to what you have brought your miſerable father.

Father! ſaid Matilda—Oh poor, poor dear!

It is you, Fanny, who are the author of all theſe broken limbs, and of all theſe deep furrows, in the [172]front of poor Oldblade. Your mo⯑ther's heart broke the year after you left us, and then I did not care what be⯑came of me. I waſted the good fortune which uncle Tibbs left me, becauſe I wanted to waſh away the thought of ever having had a daughter. After this, Fan, I went to ſea a ſecond time, ſpent all the profits of my firſt voyage, (near five hundred pounds) got my legs knocked off, all theſe ſcars in my poor breaſt, and then came home to find all my old friends dead, and beg my bread on his majeſty's highway.

All the time the poor fellow was uttering theſe ſentiments he was en⯑deavouring, by every means in his power, to revive and comfort the unhappy Fanny, who was diſſolved [173]in the tears of penitence and deſpair. She drew her hand over her eyes and was by no means able to ſpeak.

Touched at this, the parent aſ⯑ſumed its irreſiſtible authority in the boſom of the ſoldier ſo abſolutely, that he cried out, Well, well, Fan⯑ny, don't cry, child, don't take on. I forgive thee all my wounds, and all my ſorrows. Thee haſt, perhaps, had enough of thy own. But, why didſt thou ſuffer poor Hackney to hunt town and country after thee ſo long? Where didſt thee hide thy miſery all that time?

Indeed, ſir—(ſaid Fanny, raiſing her head but ſtill ſhutting her eyes) indeed, I was not quite abandoned. I was a ſolitary wretch who wept in [174]ſecret. Even now, though poverty drove me to ſeek ſhelter in this place, I have never been able to adopt the example of my aſſociates; and, had it not been for the diſintereſted bounty of one good gentleman on the Green, I muſt certainly have ſtarved.

Of one gentleman (cried Matilda, in great confuſion). Pray what is his name?

Mr. Henry Hewit, madam, an⯑ſwered Fanny. This good man it was who ſaw me unable to purſue the uſual practiſes of my condition, and took care to provide me with the neceſſa⯑ries of life ever ſince my ſickneſs, and I have been very ill—indeed I have.

[175]I am eaſy, ſaid Matilda; Mr. Henry Hewit is an angel. I, I thought it was him.

But art ſick now, naughty Fan, (ſaid Oldblade, drawing up gently the head of her cloak round her neck.) Well, well, but are you ſure it was Mr. Henry Hewit that—

Here Henry himſelf came into the room to ſhow me how well he looked in his old working clothes. He was juſt beginning to ſhake his trowel and flouriſh his apron, when Fanny ſtarted up and exclaimed—Good God! my benefactor is here. Bleſs him! bleſs him!

Lookee, Maſter Henry, ſaid the ſoldier, I have no knees, and ſo I [176]can't cleverly come down upon them; but, with all the ſmall ſhot which have paſſed through and through theſe arms, I can, with ſome pain, (which I don't heed) lift them up to you, as I have often lifted them up to God Almighty, to thank you for the care you have taken of my poor ſtray daughter.

Daughter! (exclaimed Henry, throwing his trowel on the floor) and have I been all this time protecting the daughter of my friend and ſupe⯑rior, Maſter Oldblade, without knowing it? Ah! Miſs Fanny, did not I tell you things would turn out better than you imagined? Poor ſoul, your Honour, ſhe ſaid, ſhe wanted to be a good girl but nobody would give [177]her the means, however, ſaid ſhe to me, I have broke my mother and father's heart, and ſo what becomes of me does not ſignify.

My ſplinter of a ſhoulder muſt hurt thy naughty face, Fan; ſtay, huſſey, and let me make thee a bit of a pil⯑low thus, ſaid the father, who took off an old ſilk handkerchief from his neck, and ſpread it for the cheek of his daughter.

Not give thee the means to be a good girl, ſays I—(continued Hewit). What! and are you obliged to be wicked againſt your will? Here's a world for you, ſaid I.—So upon this, your Honour, I gave her a little of that which was of no uſe to me, and [178]ſhe promiſed me ſhe would live in my houſe when I got into the Tradeſ⯑man's-Corner, and keep me tight and clean—but, don't you ſuppoſe, Maſter Oldblade, that, becauſe of this, and becauſe I am not quite an old fellow, that—that I—

Stop, ſtop, Henry, ſtop, (hol⯑lowed, with all his force, Mr. Old⯑blade)—don't ſay a word more. Don't ſay any thing that muſt make me cut your throat. If you could ſuppoſe I thought Henry Hewit capable—

Capable, father—Oh! he is—the moſt—

I won't be praiſed, I won't have fooliſh fancies ſaid to me, Miſs Fan⯑ny—Give [179]me your hand—If your father ſays I may kiſs your lips, why I'll kiſs them in the face of his Honour and the company, and there's an end on't. Here's a noiſe, indeed, about nothing.

Kiſs the naughty huſſey, if thee wilt, Henry, anſwered Oldblade, but I wiſh I may be damned if the pain of a cannon ball made ſuch a pul⯑ing baby of me as I am at this minute. I wiſh I may be damned if it did.

Henry was advancing to Fanny, who, bluſhing ten thouſand graces, lifted up her head and looked at the company, as if ſhe begged us not to think of her too hardly.

[180]Good as you are, Maſter Hewit, (cried Oldblade, in an extacy) ſhe is my daughter, ſhe is my own dear naughty Fanny, and I have a right to have the firſt kiſs. Huffey (con⯑tinued he almoſt ſobbing) how dare you lift your head from my neck till I bid you?

Don't, don't, don't be ſo kind, ſir. You will kill me, ſaid Fanny. You will break my heart.

And mine too, I proteſt, ſaid Matilda.

I will go ſtop the crack in your Honour's chimnies, ſaid Henry (who kiſſed Fanny's hand as it lay on her father's boſom and then went out.)

[181]Will your Honour permit, ſaid Oldblade, this naughty girl to have a little room in the houſe which your kind heart is about to give an old ſoldier? She ſhan't ſtay, I promiſe you, if—if—if—

Oh Father—Father! ſaid Fanny. Spare, ſpare me.

Go together, honeſt fellow, ſaid I, and take thy daughter not only to thy houſe but to thy heart. I will be with thee preſently.

Maſter Oldblade, (ſaid Mr. Sea⯑brooke, who had been all the time in great agitation) you and your daughter Fanny, and your friend Hewit, have given me ſome pretty ſevere pangs, for which I ſhall love [182]all three of you while I have breath in my body.

While Seabrooke was ſaying this, Matilda was buſy in adjuſting the diſcompoſed cheeks, hair, and hood of Fanny. She wiped the tears from her eyes with her own handkerchief. She ſmoothed the locks that hung diſordered, and then ſaid to me, in a whiſper, that ſhe thought it would look like a little ſanction which the poor dear ſeemed to deſerve, if I would permit her to go acroſs the Green with Fanny. Then, you know, papa, ſaid ſhe, none of the people will dare to think ill of her.

Charmed with ſo exquiſite, and, alas! ſo uncommon a mark of female [183]humanity, I left my permiſſion with a kiſs upon the mouth that graced the propoſal. Upon which Matilda ran to the glaſs to put on her little ſtraw hat, and then ſaid, now Captain Oldblade, I am ready to conduct you and Fanny to your new houſe. I know the neareſt way.

The father of Fanny ſtood amazed, and Fanny herſelf was covered with crimſon. Such was the wonderful effect of that great ſurprize—the ſeeing one woman truly feel for another. With much intreaty, Fan⯑ny was perſuaded to lay her trembling arm within that of Matilda's, who ſeemed to be oſtentatious of her ac⯑quaintance, and in that manner they left the Manſion-houſe.

[184]What an adventure hath here been; and how are the events of this life brought to paſs, my friend, ſaid I to Mr. Seabrooke!

Good evening to you, Sir Benja⯑min, anſwered Seabrooke, I am go⯑ing to bed.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, my friend?

As every thing I can poſſibly ſee, betwixt this and bed-time, ſaid Sea⯑brooke, muſt be poor in the com⯑pariſon, I ſhall only blunt the divine edge of my preſent ſenſations, by ſtaring at ordinary occurrences, and ſo I am reſolved to ſhut myſelf up [185]from further interruption till a new day.

I humoured his characteriſtick pe⯑culiarity, and we parted.

CHAP. XLII. CONTAINING A DUEL WHICH FEW READERS COULD FORESEE.

FINDING myſelf left alone in the midſt of ſuch voluptuous reflec⯑tions, I walked forth to meet my daughter on her return, that we might ſhare them together: I found her within a few yards of the Manſion-houſe, coming to me with full ſpeed to tell me, that ſhe left Oldblade and Fanny in the arms of each other. Yes, papa, ſaid ſhe, and there the poor dear lies bluſhing, while the ſoldier chides and kiſſes her; at part⯑ing, Fanny lifted up her ſtreaming eyes, and cried out in ſuch a voice as made me weep too—Oh! Miſs Ma⯑tilda, Miſs Matilda, were there many [187]women like you, there would be more female virtue, and fewer guilty wretches like Fanny Oldblade. Lord, papa, is it ſo very extraordinary to behave kind to one's own ſex?

What right have you to call your⯑ſelf names huſſey, there are worſe than you yet, ſaid her father? So, ſeeing the old fellow going to warm ſomething in a little ſauce-pan on the fire, which, he ſaid, was a cordial to him in the worſt of times, and would be ſo to the naughty huſſey, who was nevertheleſs, he ſaid, his own fleſh and blood. Then I came away, papa, to make you and Mr. Seabrooke happy.

Mr. Seabrooke, my dear, ſaid I, is ſo happy already that he is gone to bed.

"To eat in dreams the cuſtard of the day,"

[188]I ſuppoſe, replied Matilda in the livelieſt manner, applying a line from her favourite poet.

Then let us eat ours, my dear, ſaid I, in the wood, broad awake; it is, you ſee, one of the fineſt evenings we could wiſh, and "ſeems as it were "ſent to invite the world abroad," anſwered Matilda, uſing another quo⯑tation from a different author.

Heighty, toity, child you are quite poetical to night.

Quite poetical, papa, Lord who can help it? Poetry, I have heard ſay, was firſt invented when the heart was too happy to be contented with proſe. I declare I could now repeat half the verſes of Pope and Shenſtone, till the [189]village ſhould re-echo with beautiful verſes.

Oh! brave! Why then you are in the beſt humour in the world for an evening's walk in the wood? Every leaf and flower will, at this time of the night, furniſh a gay heart with a rhyme, a ſimile, or a ſentiment.

Yes, papa, but I have prettier things than leaves and flowers to make me poetical at preſent. Fanny Oldblade, never ſaw Mr. Danby. There, papa, is news for you, Fanny Oldblade never ſaw Mr. Danby.

How have you found that out, Matilda? Oh! oh! let girls alone to find out ſecrets, papa. But I will tell you all about it; you muſt know that, when the women came firſt to town, [190]poor Fanny was ſo ill as ſcarce to hold her head up, and was obliged to keep in bed while the other women went about. One of them, told Mr. Danby, they had a ſick friend at home who could not ſtir out, upon which, Mr. Danby put his hand into his pocket and gave them five guineas —only think, papa, of five guineas— to buy proper comforting things for her; but the cruel creatures kept all the money, and Fanny never knew at all of the affair till her father, who was preſent at the time, aſked her, if ſhe was not the perſon who received five guineas from Mr. Danby. I have received no money, ſaid ſhe, father, ſince I have been in this part of the world, except from Mr. Hewit, who totally ſupported me, and—Fan⯑ny, [191]papa, was going on with her ſpeech when I ran up to her and kiſſed her cheek ten times over.

But why, Matilda, did you take that fit of fondneſs in your head, juſt at that criſis?

Why, juſt then? Oh! Heavens, papa! How can you aſk ſuch a queſ⯑tion? I will aſſure you, papa, I loved her from that moment better than ever; ſo, without talking any more, let us liſten to the muſick of the groves:

Upon my word, Matilda, you tag every tenth word with a rhyme.

[192]We were by this time wandering arm and arm in Shenſtone-Wood, and, propenſely, deviated into ſuch paths as were leaſt frequented; but one would think, that this foreſt was fated to produce an adventure as often as ever I entered it. The curfew was juſt flinging its ſound through the trees, when all of a ſudden, we diſ⯑tinctly heard a voice coming from the left, pronouncing theſe words. Sir, the clock ſtrikes, it is the moment promiſed; I am glad to ſee you ſo exact. The next moment, we heard a reply to this, in the claſhing of ſwords, which denoted a very obſti⯑nate engagement. I am a bad ſwordſ⯑man, ſir, cried ſome one; then make uſe of your piſtols, ſir, replied another. In a minute after, two piſtols were [191]diſcharged—Mr. Danby! exclaimed ſome perſon, you are wounded, the blood is upon your ſhirt. I feel it not, replied Danby, load again, ſir.

To prevent any further miſchief, I would now have ruſhed forwards, but my poor child had fainted at my feet, and I was ſtruggling to get her up into my arms. Meanwhile the com⯑batants again fired, and a voice direct⯑ly exclaimed, My God! he drops; Deſiſt, ſir, deſiſt, he is at the point of death.

The ſhriek, which the wretched Matilda now gave, went at once through her father's heart, and alarm⯑ed the perſons who occaſioned it. Two of them came ruſhing through the buſhes, and one, whoſe name the [192]reader need ſcarce be told, fell down at the feet of Matilda, and curſed himſelf as the cauſe.

As if ſenſible to his touch, ſhe opened her eyes, and cried out—Ah! Danby, what have you been doing? But you are ſafe, and I am happy. Here ſhe dropped ſuddenly on her knee, and remained in that poſture ſome time without ſpeaking.

Though I dared not intimate my fears, I ſaw Mr. Danby's danger, againſt whoſe boſom I preſſed my handkerchief to ſtop the blood, which, in deſpite of all my efforts, was flow⯑ing over his ſhirt. But, juſt as I was going to whiſper my apprehenſions to a man who thus forgot his wounds in the embraces of his miſtreſs—em⯑braces [193]which I did not attempt to hinder—another perſon came for⯑ward, who ſaid he had extracted the ball from the ſide and groin of Mr. Sidney.

Mr. Sidney, exclaimed I, and was Mr. Sidney the antagoniſt of Mr. Danby!

Look-you, my patron, replied Mr. Elixir—for it was he who attended as ſurgeon—neither Mr. Sidney, nor Mr. Danby, can poſſibly die while they are under my care, and as to the reſt, though I do not know what they fought upon, I know they fought like two eagles.

Mr. Danby now began to feel his loſs of blood, and I made ſhift to give Elixir the cue to lead him off [194]to examine his wound, without its being ſuſpected by Matilda. Danby had already buttoned up his coat and waiſtcoat to prevent ſuſpicion; but the livid paleneſs, which came ſud⯑denly over his countenance, warned him it was time to get away. Yet, even in the midſt of his agony, his principal care was how to do this, ſo as not too much to alarm Matilda: aſſuming therefore a chearful coun⯑tenance, and calling into it a ſmile, he cried—Well, Sir Benjamin, we have had our frolick, and can only ſay, that it is to you and your fair daughter, to whom we are indebted for the life of one or both of us; for Mr. Sidney and I were both ſo full of our diverſion, that we ſhould cer⯑tainly have gone on to the end of the [195]chapter had not your interruption ſaved us. The cauſe of the quarrel you ſhall hear, ſir, to-morrow. In the mean time it is unneceſſary to enjoin ſilence, leſt we ſhould give to the idlers of Shenſtone-Green too delicate a ſubject for conver⯑ſation.

At the end of this ſpeech he took off his hat with a trembling hand, and walked out of the wood very ſlowly, under the ſupport of his two ſeconds. Mr. Elixir followed him by another path, telling us that Mr. Sidney was carried off by his friends, and would run no riſque of a diſcovery. Elixir ſkipped about in triumph.

[196]Perceiving Matilda on the edge of a relapſe, I took her in my arms, and bleſſed the duſk of the night which enabled me to conceal the whole matter.

CHAP. XLIII. WHICH IS NECESSARY TO THE NARRATIVE.

IT is not eaſy to conceive the terrour in the alteration of my poor daugh⯑ter's ſpirits from their late elevation; and as I was obliged to ſit up with her the whole night, I congratulated myſelf in the midſt of my grief, that Seabrooke was in bed; for Matilda was ſo confident that her friend and inſtructor, Seabrooke, would diſap⯑prove her paſſion for Danby, ſhe had never once ſuffered his name to be hinted, and it had always fallen out, hitherto, that when the young man came to the Manſion-houſe, Seabrooke [198]was abſent. Early the next morning Mr. Elixir came to inform us, that both the combatants were in a fair way, and that Mr. Danby had been to viſit Mr. Sidney, when the quarrel had like to have been renewed for a very trifling reaſon, namely, by a diſ⯑pute which aroſe about the propriety of Mr. Danby, or Mr. Sidney's be⯑ginning the explanation which each eſteemed due to their patron. It is right, ſaid Mr. Sidney, that Sir Ben⯑jamin ſhould be fully informed of our miſtake, leſt he ſhould ſuppoſe we were wantonly invading the tran⯑quillity of his village; but for me to tell the ſtory would be—

And if you do not tell it, Mr. Sidney, replied Danby, we muſt [199]have another meeting, for, on my part, ſituated as I am in the family, it would be groſs indelicacy to ſpeak firſt.

But how did it end, Mr. Apothe⯑cary, ſaid Matilda, riſing up in her bed—How did it end?

It ended, madam, (replied Elixir) giving a ſkip, and ſnapping his ſingers —juſt as it ſhould do; for a lady at that time coming into the cham⯑ber—

A lady! ſaids Matilda, agitated— into whoſe chamber did that lady—

Mr. Sidney's, to be ſure, madam, anſwered Elixir—a lady, I ſay, at that time entering the chamber, ran to the bed-ſide, and cried out, Oh! [200]Sidney, I heard of your ſituation not⯑withſtanding all your caution!

And knowing, madam, as you do the nice feelings of Sidney (ſaid this gentleman) how have you had the imprudence to make the matter ſtill more myſterious by this extraordinary viſit?

Extraordinary viſit, Mr. Sidney, what, when I did not know but you were breathing your laſt?

And if I had your delicate circum⯑ſpection ſhould have ſurvived the very life of Sidney, Miſs Elliot.

Miſs Elliot, did you ſay, cried Ma⯑tilda, was that the lady—Oh! hea⯑vens! go on, dear Mr. Elixir, go on.

[201]Matilda took hold of the apothe⯑cary's hand, and ſmiled. I ſmiled too perhaps from a very different idea. Mr. Elixir proceeded.

A ſhort altercation enſued between all parties, and when Miſs Elliot un⯑derſtood the whole ſtory, ſhe adviſed, that Mr. Sidney ſhould, dictate while ſhe wrote, and that Mr. Danby and he ſhould mutually ſign the paper, which was then to be ſent by me, as ſurgeon, confident, and witneſs.

And where is that paper, ſaid I, Mr. Elixir? There, ſir, it is, ſaid the apothecary. I will leave it with you, and give the finiſhing ſtroke to the recovery of my patients.

Loſe no time, cried Matilda; and pray, Mr. Elixir, do you know that, [202]if you cut acroſs Pleaſant-Paſtures, and leave the Tradeſman's-Corner as much as poſſible to the left, you will get there in a trice; and ſave near a quarter of a mile by it. But, "Still your ſinger on your lips I pray.

I was very glad to hear poetry re⯑turning upon Matilda.

As to that, madam, anſwered Elixir, I have been too infamous a little vil⯑lain already not to take care of my tongue for the future.

Saying this, he ſet off, with one of his bounds, for the houſe of Mr. Sid⯑ney; and, as Mr. Seabrooke had not yet come from his chamber, I gave Matilda an opportunity to riſe, which ſhe did almoſt in a moment; and [203]then ſhe ran to a little ſummer-houſe at the bottom of the garden, where we opened the paper of ex⯑planation.

CHAP. XLIV. THE PARTICULARS OF THE DUEL EXPLAINED.

THE ſubſtance of this was, that Meſſrs. Danby and Sidney, be⯑ing in company together, the con⯑verſation turned upon the beauties of Shenſtone-Green, the principal and the moſt accompliſhed of whom, Mr. Sidney inſiſted, was the object of his affections. Mr. Danby hereupon aſſerted with equal fervour, that as he did not conceive there was more than one unmarried lady in the vil⯑lage, [205]who could be eſteemed perfect, he imagined he had a right to aſk the name of the other's favourite? Sidney's ſcrupulous delicacy, being hurt at this idea, he proteſted that none but his Maker and himſelf ſhould ever know the leaſt ſyllable that might lead to the detection of ſo ſacred a circumſtance; ſuffice it to ſay, added he, that it is impoſſible for Mr. Dan⯑by to miſtake the perſon, who main⯑tains her ſuperiority over every other work of animated nature. Mr. Dan⯑by immediately caught fire, and warned Sidney to take care how any paſſion, be might indulge, met a powerful rival in a man, who was not any more than himſelf able to bear a [206]divided affection. It appears then, ſaid Mr. Sidney, that we love the ſame perſon. It is impoſſible that it ſhould be otherwiſe, replied Danby, for you frankly confeſs there is no ſecond perſon whoſe comparative at⯑tractions can—

No, ſir, replied Sidney, the object of my affections as much ſurpaſſes every other on the Green, as—

Then there is no occaſion for ſimiles or alluſions, ſir, rejoined Danby; it is clear we have the misfortune to love the ſame lady; it only remains to examine the pro⯑greſs of our reſpective paſſions, and to ſettle accordingly. My paſſion, ſir, continued Danby, has been touched [207]with the utmoſt delicacy, ſo as not to diſtreſs the innocent heart of my miſtreſs.

As to delicacy, Mr. Danby, ſaid the other, I believe it will be allow⯑ed, by the lady herſelf, that mine not only exceeds that of Mr. Danby, but even her own.

Sir, I ſhall not admit your opinion in either inſtance, and, I have reaſon to think my delicacy, and my appli⯑cation, more agreeable to the lady than thoſe of Mr. Sidney.

Piqued at this, Sidney demanded of his friend, if he would quit his pretenſions without further expoſtu⯑lation?

[208]Never, never, ſir, anſwered Danby, while I have the power of theſe arms to defend them.

Then, ſir, cried Sidney, ſuch de⯑fence will be neceſſary directly. We muſt ſettle it without delay.

The paper of explanation acquaint⯑ed us further, that, after Mr. Sidney had uttered this ſentence, Mr. Danby and he called on Mr. Elixir, and one or two more friends, to ſettle the diſpute in the wood. Matilda and I got there ſoon after, and from our arrival, to the time of the ſeparation of the whole party, particulars have been already deſcribed to the reader.

It was not till after the diſcharge of their piſtols, that they came to [209]the ſimple truth of the whole matter; namely, that they had fought very bravely to no purpoſe, and that the fair picture, which each had drawn of his miſtreſs, did not belong to one woman, but equally to Eliza and Ma⯑tilda. The whole only ſerved to prove, that

Well, Matilda, ſaid I (when we had ſeen this account) what do you think of this buſineſs?

Shall I be ingenuous, papa, replied ſhe? As ingenuous as is convenient, my dear. Why then, papa, ſince all the danger is over, and both are in a very fair way, I own I ſhall not be ſorry at this new inſtance of Mr. Danby's affection, when I know he [210]is no longer in pain. But only think of my ſly friend, Eliza, papa; I will be whipped if I ever ſuſ⯑pected the matter, and yet now I think of it, her queerneſs about Mr. Sidney—

Come, come, Matilda, ſaid I, you are as ſly as your friend Eliza. Here are you, every hour almoſt, with that ſagacious whiſtler, Mr. Seabrooke, and he does not ſo much as ſuſpect that—

Huſh, huſh, cried Matilda—Mr. Seabrooke is now juſt coming to us. Look, how he ſtrides along the graſs-plat, flouriſhing his garters, and look⯑ing to ſee how much ſun he ſhall have to day!

Thus terminated an unpromiſing ſcene very pleaſingly.