[]HENRY.

CHAPTER I. The high Dignity, Powers, and Prerogatives of the Novel Writer.

ALL the world will acknowledge the ſupe⯑riority of works of invention over thoſe of compilation. The writer of novels, there⯑fore, will take rank before the writer of mat⯑ter of fact, and reſt his title to precedence upon his proofs of originality. Poſſibly this may be ill reliſhed by the hiſtorian, who holds himſelf as an author of a high claſs; and, indeed, it ſeems to bear a little hard upon his prero⯑gatives, who, generally ſpeaking, can boaſt as good a ſhare of invention as thoſe who more immediately profeſs it.

The accounts which hiſtorians favour us with of the early ages and origin of nations would be novels, if fiction alone could make them ſuch; but having only the improbabili⯑ties, without the amuſing properties, of Fairy [2] Tales and Arabian Nights, they cannot rank even with the loweſt works of fancy.

The hiſtories of the heroic ages are better entitled to be conſidered as romances: the ad⯑ventures of a Hercules, a Theſeus and a Ja⯑ſon, afford ſome little entertainment to the reader, but it is a compliment to call them the Quixotes of antiquity.

The writers of the lives of illuſtrious per⯑ſons, like the noveliſts, generally make their own hero; but not often with the ſame atten⯑tion to nature: the lying legends of Pythago⯑ras, Abaris and Apollonius would not paſs upon the world in any fiction, that did not avowedly bid defiance to credibility.

The liberty ſome writers take of embelliſh⯑ing their hiſtories with florid ſpeeches and de⯑clamations, put into the mouths of people who, probably, never uttered a ſingle ſen⯑tence as it is ſet down in their parts, is a palpable intruſion on the province of the dra⯑matiſt or noveliſt, who, building fables upon old foundations, with the help of a few hiſtoric characters and facts, give an air of truth to fiction. Here I might inſtance thoſe amuſing fabrications in our own times, entitled Par⯑liamentary Debates, where truth and ſhort⯑hand [3] have no ſhare with invention, and the ſenator's beſt hiſtorian is he that is leaſt faithful to his words.

In ſhort, there have been, and ſtill are, many more noveliſts in the world of letters, than have taken credit to themſelves for it, or perhaps ever ſuſpected they were entitled ſo to do.

After all, it is only in the profeſſed depart⯑ment of the novel that true and abſolute li⯑berty is enjoyed. If I was now writing the hiſtory of Alexander the Great, who, as every body believes, died of a drunken fit, let me do what I will with him in the career of his victories, drunk he muſt be at laſt, and drunk he muſt die. With the hero of my novel it is otherwiſe: over him I have deſpotic power; his fate and fortune, life or death, depend on my will; and whether I ſhall crown him with length of days and proſperity, or cut ſhort his thread by an untimely ſtroke, is a queſtion within my own choice to determine; and though I muſt account to nature and probabi⯑lity for the regularity of my proceedings, no appeal lies to truth and matter of fact againſt my poſitive deciſion in the caſe. I have thoſe powers in my hand which the hiſtorian, pro⯑perly [4] ſo called, hath not; I am not tied down to any incidents and events which I cannot over-rule; I may deal puniſhment to the evil, and reward to the good, which he whoſe pen muſt record the diſpenſations of Providence rarely hath in his power to do: for the moral of my ſtory, therefore, I am fairly reſponſible, and no leſs for the purity of the narrative; for though the real ſcenes of life can hardly fail to contaminate the page that records them, the writer who invents impurities is without ex⯑cuſe.

I know that the privileges of the noveliſt are more than can well be defined, and his range wider than that portion of created nature which is known to us; yet I do not meditate to ſtretch my rights ſo far, nor ſhall put my pri⯑vileges to their full exertion: it is not my ambition to run truth out of ſight, or put credulity out of breath by following me; I do not propoſe to make any demands upon my hero that he cannot reaſonably fulfil, or preſs him into ſtreights from which virtue, by its native energy, cannot extricate herſelf with eaſe; I ſhall require of him no ſacrifices for the ſake of public fame, no pedantic, oſtenta⯑tious apathy, for his lot is humble, and his [5] feelings natural; I ſhall let him ſwim with the current, and not ſtrive to tow him againſt the ſtream of probability.

I know that I could play my puppets after my own fancy, for the wires are in my hand; that I could make them declaim like heroes in a tragedy, or gabble like a gang of gypſies under a hedge; that I could weave my fable, as the Turks do carpets, without counterfeit⯑ing the likeneſs of any one thing in earth, ſea, or air; produce beings out of nature, that no ſober author ever dreamt of, and force be⯑ings into nature, that no well-bred reader ever met with: but I have lived long enough to ſee wonderful revolutions effected by an intem⯑perate abuſe of power, and ſhall be cautious how I riſque privileges ſo precious upon expe⯑riments ſo trivial.

I am not ſure that I ſhall make my leading characters happy enough to ſatisfy the ſan⯑guine, ſerious enough to ſuit the ſentimental, or beautiful enough to warm the imagination of the animated reader. Some may think I have not been ſufficiently liberal to them in point of fortune, others may wiſh I had fa⯑voured them with a few more caſualties and miſadventures. I am aware that, in a novel, [6] travelling the road is very hazardous, that even taking the air does not ſecure the company from a ſudden overturn in their carriage, and that few adventurers ever ſet foot in a boat without a ſoaking in the water; but I have not yet found out the wit of being miſ⯑chievous. I perceive that broken bones are conſidered as becoming appendages to young gentlemen when in love; that faintings and hyſterics are expected of young ladies upon all tender occaſions; and that a burning hot fever, with a high delirium, is one of the warmeſt topics we can ſtrike upon, and heightens the charms of a heroine beyond any other expedient that can be ſtarted for the purpoſe. All theſe weapons I know are within my reach, and the uſe of them I know; but it is a cut-finger buſineſs at beſt, and I think them ſafeſt in the ſheath.

One thing, however, there is for me to do, that cannot be diſpenſed with, though I ſhall, probably, hold it off as long as I can—I muſt make love, and I am far from ſure I ſhall make it in a ſtyle to pleaſe my readers. I wiſh to my heart I knew what ſort of love they beſt like; for there are to many patterns, I am puzzled how to chooſe what ſhall pleaſe them. [7] I have been ſometimes told, that the author of Arundel was not far from the butt; if ſo, I hope I am as good a markſman as he is. This, if I rightly remember, was rather point-blank firing; now I am inclined to think I ſhall give my piece a certain elevation that will ſend the ſhot upon a range: but it is no matter how I manage it, ſo it does but reach the heart at laſt.

Precedents in plenty are before me; heroes and heroines of all tempers, characters, and deſcriptions, love-ſuits as long as Chancery-ſuits; hearts conquered at a glance, ſurprized by treachery, or ſtormed by impudence—yet where to fix I know not.

I will aſk advice of Nature, and rule myſelf by her report.

CHAPTER II. The Hiſtory commences.

IT was in a ſummer-evening, whilſt the ſun was yet above the horizon, when Doctor Zachary Cawdle, practitioner in phyſic, ſur⯑gery, and man-midwifry, gently ambled acroſs the market-place of a certain town, upon the [8] eaſtern coaſt of this happy iſland called Eng⯑land. He was on his road homewards from a patient, whom he had left in that ſituation which every good wife will naturally covet, and every prudent ſpinſter would do well to avoid: he was in high good-humour with his day's work, for his taſk had been eaſy and his reward liberal: He had touched a hand⯑ſome fee in ready caſh from the huſband of his patient, for which he had only given him a draft upon time, in the perſon of an infant heir; and how many chances and croſſes a venture, dependant on the contingency of twenty-one years credit, muſt be liable to, let thoſe, who have ſtaked their happineſs upon ſuch expectations, declare.

Zachary, who was indebted to the courteſy of his neighbours for putting Doctor before his name, which by their favour was a title not without profit, as well as honour, no ſooner made his entry into this place of public reſort, than he was recognized by ſo many of his friends and cuſtomers, that, having no preſent call upon his time, and being withal a man of a ſocial quality, he was induced to make a halt, and to enter into parley on the ſaddle. The annual cuſtom of hiring ſervants upon [9] this day had brought the farmers together in conſiderable numbers, and, buſineſs being over, the market-place was clear of the human cattle, with which it had lately been ſtocked; ſo that had Zachary been in ſearch of a ſtout hind to do the drudgery of his houſe, there was none ſuch in his eye.

One ſolitary youth, the refuſe as it ſhould ſeem, and outcaſt of the market, was ſtand⯑ing in a corner of the ſquare, where the con⯑ſervators of the public peace had erected a whipping-poſt, embelliſhed with figures in bas-relief, more to be admired for the moral of the deſign than for the gracefulneſs of it's execution. Upon this inſtrument of correc⯑tion the aforeſaid youth was leaning in a moſt diſconſolate poſture, in the liſtleſs act of twirl⯑ing the point of a hazle ſwitch between the crevices of the pavement, and ſo intent was he upon the melancholy taſk, that Doctor Zachary Cawdle, the treading of whoſe pal⯑frey was none of the nimbleſt or leaſt noiſy, had brought the head of old Betty nearly in contact with his breaſt, before he either raiſed his eyes from the ground, or ſtopt the cir⯑cumrotatory operation of his hand.

[10]Zachary, who might well be credited for his ſkill in judging of the human form, having handed ſo many of his fellow-creatures into the world, and doubtleſs diſpatched not a few out of it, had now, with the eye of a connoiſ⯑ſeur, taken meaſure of the object who ſeemed ſo inſenſible to his ſcrutiny; and if the honeſt farmers had this day ſtaid at home, and ſent their dames on the errand, it is more than probable this unlucky candidate, now rejected on all hands, would not have been the laſt on the liſt; but different ſervices require dif⯑ferent qualifications, and he ſtands but a poor chance for his election into the offices of carter or ploughman, who has nothing to recom⯑mend him but the graces of his perſon and the harmony of his features.

His apparel, though neither ſumptuous nor ſuperfluous, being nothing more than a ſhort cloſe waiſtcoat or doublet of blue cloth and breeches of white ticking, was ſuch however as gave a fair diſplay to the perfect ſymmetry of his form: an artiſt would have taken him in his preſent habit, in preference to the robes of the garter.

Zachary, now raiſing himſelf on his ſtirrups, [11] and leaning forward upon the neck of his palfrey, roared out with the voice of authority, ‘"Hark-ye, fellow, can you chuſe no better place to reſt your back againſt than the whip⯑ping-poſt? Gramercy, lad, you'll find him but a treacherous companion, if you truſt your carcaſe to his keeping; he has made many a lazy back ſmart before parting, for hugging him ſo cloſely as you do."’

The youth, thus accoſted, raiſed his eyes from the ground, and fixing them on the countenance of the ſpeaker, ſeemed as if he would have ſaid, ‘"What is your pleaſure, ſir? I do not underſtand your raillery,"’—at the ſame time he lifted from his head the ſcanty remnant of a hat, and preſented to the eyes of Zachary a countenance, upon which Nature had engroſſed in her faireſt and moſt legible characters—Your jeſt is miſapplied: let the bearer paſs unſuſpected!

It can hardly be ſuppoſed, that a perſon of Zachary's ſagacity, and one withal who pro⯑feſſed himſelf a phyſiognomiſt, could over⯑look or miſtake what was ſo plain to be ſeen and underſtood. The many ſpecimens he had met with of nature's hand-writing, before hy⯑pocriſy [12] had marred the characters, could not but qualify him to read without error a text ſo fair as was now laid open to his view; and certain it is, he proceeded to queſtion the youth in a milder tone, ‘"Why he ſtood there idle, when the market-place was empty, and all buſineſs over?"’—‘"Becauſe no man had hired him, and he had no where to go,"’ was the anſwer to this queſtion. ‘"Had he no pa⯑rents?"’ the poor lad ſhook his head and was ſilent. The queſtion was repeated: it pro⯑duced nothing but the ſame ſilence, and the ſame melancholy action; he had again rivetted his eyes upon the ground, and was beginning to renew the operation of the hazel twig, work⯑ing it into the joints of the pavement; when Zachary, whoſe curioſity was now rouſed, muttered to himſelf, ‘"There is a myſtery in all this;"’ and then, addreſſing himſelf to the lad, added, ‘"Well, well! if you do not chuſe to anſwer my queſtion about your parents, I ſup⯑poſe you will not ſcruple to tell me whether you have been in ſervice before, who was your laſt maſter, and what employment you are fit for?"’ To this the youth replied, ‘"That he had been for a very ſhort time in the fa⯑mily of a grazier, in a diſtant county; but as [13] it was his firſt place, and his ſervice in it ſo ſhort, he could not ſay that he was expert in any menial employment, but he hoped upon a trial he ſhould be found willing to learn."’

‘"That is ſincere at leaſt,"’ cried the Doctor; ‘"but as you ſay your late maſter dwells at a diſtance, and do not tell me his name, I ſhall hope you can produce a good teſtimony under his hand to your character."’—‘"I am ſorry to ſay I cannot,"’ he replied. ‘"How ſo, how ſo?"’ quoth Zachary; ‘"haſt left it behind thee, child? or would not he give thee any character?"’—‘"Not ſo,"’ anſwered the youth, ‘"he is free enough to give me a character; but it is ſuch an one as will never recommend me to another maſter."’—‘"And do you con⯑feſs it?"’ rejoined the other, ſomewhat petu⯑lantly; ‘"if ſuch be your character, no wonder you are out of place; nay, I ſhould rather ſay you are in the only place proper for you; you are in the right to make friends with the whipping-poſt, for I perceive you are in fair train to find employment there, and no where elſe."’—‘"I am in a likely train to be ſtarv'd,"’ cried the poor lad, with a ſigh, ‘"if my maſ⯑ter's word is to be taken for truth; but I hope I ſhall not be corrected for what I never com⯑mitted: [14] 'tis puniſhment enough to be depriv⯑ed of the means of earning my bread; 'twill be hard if I am to be flead into the bargain; but God's will be done! I am a helpleſs crea⯑ture, and muſt ſubmit to my hard fortune. I was born in miſery, and in miſery I muſt die."’

There is a voice, a look, a tone in truth and innocence, which holds a ſympathy with the hearts of thoſe, on whom their evidences light, irreſiſtibly impreſſive: what honeſt Zachary wore in his boſom, under his left ribs, was fairly made by Nature of real fleſh and blood, and not of flint or adamant, or any ſuch im⯑penetrable ſubſtance as ſhe ſometimes puts in the place of better workmanſhip and ſofter materials, whereby the owners become as it were caſemated and bomb-proof againſt all beſiegers, of which number pity and com⯑paſſion, though in appearance the moſt gentle, are in fact amongſt the moſt importunate and perſevering; inſomuch that the ſaid Zachary had no ſooner heard theſe words, and reconnoitred the ſigns and ſymbols of truth and innocence, which accompanied them, than he felt ſomething like a ſtring or chord vibrating and tingling in the aforeſaid re⯑gion [15] under his ribs, which running along the ducts and channels that communicated with his tongue, put that little member into mo⯑tion, and produced the following words:

‘"Though it has never been my practice to take any one into my ſervice, without a teſ⯑timony as to character, yet I am ſtrongly tempted, for once to wave my rule in thy fa⯑vour. If thou art a knave, I am no phy⯑ſiognomiſt; it behoves thee therefore to be honeſt, for my credit as well as thine own; and now tell me, in the firſt place, what is thy name?"’—‘"Henry,"’ replied the youth."—‘"Henry!"’ cried Zachary, ‘"ſo much for thy chriſtian name; "but thou haſt another?"’—‘"I pray you,"’ rejoined Henry, ‘"to know me by none other, and I will obey you and ſerve you as faithfully by that one name, as if I had a hundred."’—‘"Heyday!"’ exclaimed Zachary, ‘"what is all this? not tell your name, ſirrah! What good reaſon can you have for concealing that?"’—‘"What bad one can I have,"’ replied Henry, ‘"ſince I might ſo eaſily have impoſed a falſe one upon you in its place, but that I ſcorn'd to anſwer your queſtion untruly?"’—‘"That's well, that's well!"’ cried the Doctor; ‘"it cannot be denied; [16] ſo let it paſs for the preſent: and now tell me with the ſame ſincerity, what buſineſs you are fit for, what is it you can do?"’—‘"I can write and read,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and tolerably well keep accounts, if I were entruſted with them."’—‘"So far ſo good,"’ quoth the Doctor, ‘"what beſides?"’—‘"I can play a little upon the flute, if I were owner of one; and upon occaſion make ſhift to ſing pſalms after a faſhion; at leaſt, I can chime in with thoſe that are better at a ſtave than myſelf."’—‘"Humph!"’ cried Zachary, ‘"this is no great matter, for I have no ear for a pipe, and ſeldom, if ever, any leiſure to attend the church; but go on."’—‘"I have been made to tend the poultry, help pen the ſheep-fold, and do a little with my hough at the turnips."’—‘"But I grow no turnips,"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"feed no ſheep, and harbour neither cock, hen, nor capon."’—‘"The worſe luck mine,"’ replied Henry: ‘"I am well uſed to horſes, and can follow the hounds."’—‘"So cannot I,"’ muttered Zachary.—‘"I can upon a pinch worm the puppies, cut their dew⯑claws and round their ears."’—‘"The devil you can!"’ cried the Accoucheur, ſomewhat out of humour; ‘"and what are all theſe things to me? I never ſuffered puppy to be about [17] my houſe; I have plagues enough without ſuch companions. Is there nothing you can do in my way? Let us have the whole."’—‘"The whole then,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"muſt be compriſed in a willing mind; I can pretend to nothing elſe, unleſs it be any recommendation to me that I can turn my hand to the diſtilling of elder-flowers and mint-water, and in a com⯑mon way to the picking of ſimples; but of this I make little boaſt, for indeed I am no great proficient in this or in any thing elſe."’

‘"Enough!"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"you have at laſt hit the nail on the head; and nothing now remains but to clinch the bargain."’—‘"Feed me, and clothe me,"’ ſaid the poor lad, ‘"and I ſhall be well content to ſerve you to the beſt of my capacity."’—‘"Say you ſo,"’ replied the Doctor, ‘"then come on, my good fellow! we have not above two miles to my home, and you ſhall hoof it, whilſt I jog gently on: I'll engage you can keep pace with old Betty on a pinch; and as for your bag⯑gage, I ſuppoſe it is all upon your back."’

This ſaid, the Doctor applied his left heel, which was the only one that carried arms, to the ribs of his mare, and provoked her into a gentle ſhuffle, whilſt Henry gave a flouriſh [18] with his ſapling, in token of triumph, and ſprung forwards with a light heart and empty ſtomach, as nimble as a roebuck.

CHAPTER III. A Duck diſturbs the Tranquillity of a Doctor.

IF Nature, when ſhe moulded the perſon of Doctor Zachary Cawdle, had been aware of the profeſſion to which Fortune was in fu⯑ture to devote her bantling, it may be pre⯑ſumed, ſhe would not have forgotten that ex⯑pedition is one main requiſite in the buſineſs of an accoucheur: but unleſs rotundity be a mark of ſpeed, even the perſon of Jeffery Gambado of immortal memory had not leſs reſemblance to a light horſeman, than what honeſt Zachary now exhibited on the back of old Betty, upon which he ſate aſtride with two legs, in ſhape not unlike the baluſtrades of a bridge, ſtrutting out from the ribs of his mare, wide as the fork of a pair of compaſſes, when ſtretcht upon a globe.

He wore a full ſuit of cinnamon-coloured [19] cloth, with boot cuffs and buckram ſkirts; a vaſt buſhy perriwig, cloſe dipt and frizzled, like a yew-tree hedge; with an enormous three-cornered hat, mounted peak upwards from the back of his head, which, like the gnomon of the dial, might have ſerved to mark the hour of noon upon his forehead, had the ſun been in his meridian. The animal that carried him was of a piece with her rider, a thick un⯑wieldy clod, of cart-horſe pedigree, ſlow-paced, ſhort-winded and a huge feeder. No wonder, therefore, if Henry on his feet was more than a match for his maſter in the ſaddle.

A little brook, that bounded the pariſh in which Zachary lived, pretty equally divided their whole line of march, which we have be⯑fore obſerved did not exceed two miles. Over this ſtream there was a foot-plank, that af⯑forded a paſſage for Henry, whilſt the Doctor proceeded through the ford, where, according to cuſtom, he halted to indulge the old mare with a draught of the limpid element, which her unſophiſticated palate preferred to all the fabricated compounds in her owner's ſhop, or even in his cellar itſelf.

At a ſhort diſtance down the ſtream, was a [20] mill, which this water turned. Now it ſo chanced, as old Betty was moving up the brook inſtinctively, in ſearch of a clearer run, her flouncing in the ford diſturbed a duck, who was hovering her young under the bank, and now flew up from her neſt, quacking and flapping her wings in a moſt clamorous man⯑ner. The din ſhe made, and the ſuddenneſs of the alarm, were too much for the philoſophy even of old Betty to put up with, though few beaſts could boaſt of nerves leſs irritable than her's; but truth muſt be confeſſed, the ſurprize ſo totally overpowered her natural phlegm, that having given a vehement plunge in the water, by way of warning to her rider, and following this up rather too precipitately with a ſudden toſs of her head, whilſt he was ſtoop⯑ing forwards to give her the rein, the reſpec⯑tive ſculls met each other with ſo much good will, and ſuch a hearty welcome, that Za⯑chary's hat and wig, not being fixtures, re⯑bounded from the concuſſion, and proceeded to float down the ſtream very lovingly toge⯑ther, as friends ſhould, towards the mill wheel, till they were arreſted in their progreſs by Henry, from the foot-bridge, who fiſhed them up with his hazel ſwitch, as they were fairly on [21] their way towards their laſt home, calling out at the ſame time to his maſter—‘"Have a care, Sir! hold faſt, or you'll get a ſowſing"’—a caution, which was by no means unſeaſonable, as the attitude Zachary was then in, upon the crupper of his ſtartled beaſt, was exactly ſuch as exhibited ſymptoms of falling in their moſt prominent character.

The duck, who had a friend at home, took her flight towards the mill, vociferating moſt incontinently by the way, till ſhe had called out the miller's dog, who ſallied forth in her defence with all poſſible alacrity, briſtling every hair with ardour for revenge, and ruſhing to the ford, where the flouncing and daſhing of the water directed him to the ſcene of action. Without a moment's heſitation, this amphibious animal plunged into the ſtream, at the very moment when Zachary's fate hung upon the balance, and the nymph of the brook was preparing to receive him in her arms. His head, according to the principles of ac⯑tion and reaction of elaſtic bodies, had taken a tour through the ſegment of a parabola, and was now in its declination towards the crupper of old Betty, when the avenger of the duck ſeized the ſkirt of his coat, and ſpite of all [22] impediments, which ſtaytape and buckram could oppoſe to his gripe, took ſo faſt a hold, and gave the luckleſs Accoucheur ſo hearty a tug in the criſis of vacillation, that he came backwards into the pool—and terrible was the fall thereof.

The dog kept his hold, and Zachary, who was bodily immerſed in the pool, had ſwal⯑lowed more of that beverage at a draught than had ſerved him for a twelve-month be⯑fore; ſo that had he kept his preſent quarters but a few moments longer, he might have ſet the Humane Society and all its experiments at defiance; and the child that is unborn might have rued the woeful event of this day: when Fortune, or more probably the tutelary goddeſs Lucina, ſent a meſſenger to his reſcue, in the perſon of Henry, who had no ſooner redeem⯑ed hat and wig, thoſe ornaments of his per⯑ſon, from the cogs of the mill-wheel, than he flew to ſnatch their principal from the teeth of the maſtiff. Having ſet his maſter on his legs, the valorous youth inſtantly ſeized the furious animal by the throat, and griped him with ſo ſtrong a hand, that at length he threw him, with lolling tongue and eyes rolling in death, breathleſs on the bank; he then re⯑turned [23] to tender his further ſervices to poor Zachary, who preſented a moſt piteous ſpec⯑tacle, in his cinnamon-coloured ſuit, alas! how changed, with every pocket full of water, his bald pate covered with duck weed, drip⯑ping down his ſhoulders, being in caricature the very model of a Dutch river-god: upon the ſhore lay his flaxen perriwig, a melancholy wreck, and beſide it old Betty, the origin of all evil, browſing inſenſibly on the bank, as if nothing had happened, and regardleſs of all other concerns than what affected herſelf.

CHAPTER IV. Strength is overthrown by Skill.

IT was happy for the Doctor, in his preſent plight, that he had a houſe of refuge to near at hand: the miller, Thomas Weevil by name, no ſooner heard of his misfortune, than both he and his dame ſallied forth, to tender him all the aſſiſtance needful in his diſtreſs. Dry cloaths and freſh linen were inſtantly pro⯑vided, and all the rights of hoſpitality duly performed by the maſter and miſtreſs of the family, who neglected nothing that could ſhew [24] their good will and gratitude for paſt ſervices, Zachary having been the happy inſtrument of uſhering eight ſturdy bantlings into the world, in ſucceſſion, without a ſingle ſlip or miſcarriage by the way.

The eldeſt of this groupe, a ſturdy youth about the age of Henry, had left his father to do the honours of the houſe to the Doctor, whilſt he was applying himſelf to the recovering of his favourite dog. When all the efforts which his art could ſuggeſt proved fruitleſs, with rage and diſappointment equally inflamed, he turned furiouſly upon the author of his cala⯑mity, and ſeizing him by the collar, ſwore vehemently to be revenged: a ſtruggle en⯑ſued, the young miller ſtriving to drag Henry towards the water, with an intent, no doubt, to make atonement to the manes of his canine friend, in the very ſpot where he met his death.

Henry, who had command over his temper, and only ſought to pacify the anger of his aſ⯑ſailant, oppoſed himſelf with calmneſs to the attack, expoſtulating meanwhile on the injuſ⯑tice of aſſaulting him, for what it was his duty to do in defence of a fellow-creature; and very properly demanding, if the life of a Chriſtian [25] was not of more value than the life of a dog? Young Weevil, who was not at leiſure to lend a patient ear to arguments of this ſort, and who probably aſcribed the coolneſs of the dog⯑ſlayer to the wrong motive, ſeemed only to gather freſh reſentment by what ought to have appeaſed it, and now redoubled his attack with ſuch fury, that our hero found it high time to reſort to other defences than words; and having, by a ſudden jerk, extricated him⯑ſelf from the graſp of the enraged aggreſſor, ſeized him in return, and having the advantage in ſkill as well as agility, kicked up his heels, and, pitching him flat upon his back, com⯑mitted him with ſo good a will to his mother earth, that if the emblem of man's life is but duſt and aſhes, it was never more ſtrikingly exemplified, than in the cloud which now aſcended from the mealy frock of the proſtrate miller. Stunned by his fall, and extended at his length, the champion and his dog lay ſide by ſide, till Henry, who did not wiſh to have more lives than one to anſwer for, began to fear they meant to keep company together to the ſhades of death: a few moments how⯑ever relieved him from that anxiety, when the fallen combatant, getting upon his legs [26] and giving himſelf a ſhake, by way of enquiry if all was right and in its place, ſurveying the perſon of his conqueror from heel to head, as if he had been taking meaſure of a meal⯑ſack, and ſpying there no bones or ſinews, which he was not conſcious of poſſeſſing in greater outward proportion himſelf, vocife⯑rated in a furious tone, that he was a cowardly raſcal, and no fair fighter; adding, with a hearty oath, ‘"Bar tripping, and I'll box you for a crown."’

Henry calmly replied, ‘"That what he had done was in ſelf-defence, and not with an in⯑tent to hurt him, which he was glad to ſee was not the caſe; therefore"’ added he, ‘"be ſa⯑tisfied with what you have got, and don't pro⯑voke a worſe miſchance, by compelling me to handle you after another faſhion."’—‘"You are a ſneaking puppy,"’ cried the miller, ‘"and no man; all your play lies in your heels: but I'll make you take to them in another gueſs manner, before I quit you; if I had you in a ring, ſirrah, I'd make a frog of you in half a dozen rounds, ſo I wou'd; I'd maul you like a raggamuffin as you are."’

‘"You had better let me alone,"’ anſwered Henry; ‘"I have other buſineſs than to fight [27] battles, and as for your abuſe, I don't regard it. Go to your work, friend, and leave me to mine; I am the Doctor's ſervant, and have no otherwiſe affronted you, than by defending my maſter; ſo let us ſhake hands, and there's an end of it."’

‘"You lie!"’ retorted the clown, who had again miſconſtrued the calmneſs of his antago⯑niſt, ‘"there is no end of it, and I'll ſhake hands with no ſuch ſhirker as you are. I tell you once again, bar tripping, and I'll box it fairly out with you to-morrow noon, upon the Town Green, foot to foot; and becauſe I know you for a ſhy cock, and a trickſter at the game, I'll have no tumbler's play; neither party ſhall drop without a knock-down blow; ſo here's my crown upon the battle, if you are worth ſo much, if not I'll fight you for love, and give you a belly-full for nothing: there's an end of the matter, I am your man—ſtrike hands with me if you dare."’

‘"If I dare!"’ replied Henry; ‘"don't miſtake me for a coward, becauſe I am not a bully. I am not afraid of my own riſque, but I have no quarrel with you, and beſides that have no money to ſtake againſt your's. As for the Town Green, I know not where it is, for I [28] never was in the place I am going to: I am a perfect ſtranger in theſe parts, and had ra⯑ther live in peace with you as a neighbour, than turn out againſt you for a trifling object, that is not worth wrangling about. However take your own courſe; if your ſtomach is not down by to-morrow's noon, and your fall has not diſabled you, you know where to find me at the Doctor's; and though I do not wiſh to ſeek a quarrel, be aſſured I have too much ſpirit to keep out of your way, or put up with an inſult."’

This ſaid, they parted, Henry to attend upon his maſter, and Tom Weevil to perform the funeral ceremonies of his maſtiff.

CHAPTER V. There are more Cordials in the World than Philoſophy has found out.

WHEN Doctor Cawdle had, with old Weevil's aſſiſtance, dried his rigging and repaired his damages, he began to put himſelf in ſailing trim, not forgetting firſt to ſwallow a precautionary cup of Nantz, by way of fortifying the vitals, and keeping the foe [29] out of the citadel. A gracious nod, which he beſtowed on Henry, gave him to under⯑ſtand that his ſervices were well received; but when old Betty preſented herſelf at the door, led thither by one of the younger fry of the mill, darting a reproachful glance upon her, he exclaimed—‘"Oh! thou bitch of Ba⯑bylon! is it thus thou ſerveſt me after all my kindneſs? Could'ſt thou not be content to ſwill that paunch of thine in peace, but thou muſt friſk and frolic in thy cups, till thou had'ſt tumbled me into the ſtream, at the peril of my life? Never ſhalt thou ſip more at the ford, or wet thy lips whilſt I am on thy back, though thou had'ſt journeyed as long without drinking as a camel, when ſhe traverſes the deſarts of Arabia."’

This denunciation ended, and no other an⯑ſwer returned but a grunt from old Betty as her ponderous jockey ſeated himſelf in the ſaddle, Zachary ſhook hands with the hoſpi⯑table miller, and putting himſelf under an eaſy ſail, ſteered for the harbour of his own manſion in the neighbouring village.

As ſoon as he got out of ear-ſhot of the miller, he began to vent his bile againſt the whole race of dogs and ducks, heartily con⯑ſigning [30] them to the devil and his dam. He next proceeded to vindicate his own talent for horſemanſhip, in which he roundly aſſerted no man ever exceeded him; and then turning to Henry, who was cloſe at his ſtirrup, he re⯑ſumed his natural good-humour, and, with many commendations of his courage and ad⯑dreſs, drew forth a guinea, and, forcing it into his hand, bade him take it as a ſmall gratuity for a great ſervice, and as an earneſt of future favours; ‘"Which,"’ added he, ‘"if you go on as you have begun, you will richly merit. Some difficulties, however, you will have to encounter in my family, and it be⯑hoves me to caution you againſt them: there is a lady at home, whom I have not found it very eaſy to live with, neither will you; Mrs. Caw⯑dle has a few conſtitutional failings, that are rather troubleſome to deal with; a great am⯑bition to be thought a ſaint, and a ſtrong pro⯑penſity to make herſelf a beaſt; in other words, ſhe will cant and tipple from noon till night. Now there is another paſſion, con⯑comitant of enthuſiaſm and inebriety, which I forbear to mention, though it is exactly that, Henry, which I think you are moſt likely to be hampered with: I ſhall only hint to you [31] that the ſaints are very loving in their cups; and reaſon enough why they ſhould, as in that caſe they are quickened by a double doſe of the ſpirit. You are a comely lad, have a care, therefore, that your fleſh don't catch fire when her ſpirit begins to flame. Amongſt the many accompliſhments you enumerated to me, pſalm-ſinging, if I well remember, was one: you may ſafely confide that talent to my ſecrecy, for I never wiſh to hear a ſingle ſtave of Sternhold or Hopkins while I live; but if you breathe a word of it to my Jemima, farewell to your lungs, depend on it ſhe will make you tune your pipe to ſome purpoſe."’

More would have enſued, for Zachary was now in the communicative vein, when old Betty came to a full ſtop; and Henry, look⯑ing up, perceived a neat brick houſe within a court, the gate of which was flanked by two ſtone piers, emblematically crowned with gally⯑pots, or, as a virtuoſo would have ſtiled them, cineral urns, ſupporting a ſcroll, carried in an arch from one to the other, on which was diſ⯑played, in letters of gold, upon a bright blue ground, ‘"Zachary Cawdle, Surgeon, Apothe⯑cary, and Man Midwife."’

An old woman preſented herſelf at the gate, [32] and led the mare to the ſtable, followed by Henry, who modeſtly conteſted with her the prerogative of the bridle, but to no purpoſe. Zachary entered the houſe; and having peeped into the parlour, where he deſcried his beloved in her eaſy chair faſt aſleep, drew his conclu⯑ſions, and quietly retired to his chamber.

Mrs. Jemima Cawdle, the ſpouſe of Za⯑chary, was a comely, corpulent lady, of about forty years of age, and had paſs'd the beſt part of her youth in the capacity of houſe-keeper to a wealthy baronet, who died a bachelor, and from whoſe bounty ſhe enjoyed an annuity of two hundred pounds, bequeathed to her in recompence for her long and faithful ſervices. Zachary, whoſe frequent viſits to the deceaſed left him uninformed of no one particular re⯑lative to Mrs. Jemima's character and cir⯑cumſtances, might poſſibly have withſtood her perſonal charms, ſeeing they were ſomewhat in the wane, and not a little obſcured by ſun⯑dry flaws in temper and reputation; but he was irreſiſtibly attracted by the charms of the legacy aforeſaid, jointly with the intelligence he had obtained of ſundry other pickings and gleanings, which that prudent damſel had amaſs'd by her oeconomy and good conduct: [33] upon theſe ſolid grounds of affection, not re⯑ferring himſelf to the blind guidance of a cer⯑tain hood-wink'd deity called Love, Doctor Zachary loſt no time in poſting himſelf on the ground which the baronet had left, and ſoon opened his honourable trenches before the mournful legatee. Sorrow is a great ſoftener of the human heart, and within two little months, nay, not ſo much, not two, the fair Je⯑mima yielded up her virgin hand, and was ad⯑mitted into the ſacred myſteries of Hymen.

It cannot be diſguiſed that Public Fame, who is too apt to buſy herſelf about other peo⯑ple's affairs, circulated an idle inſinuation that Doctor Zachary had been ſerviceable to this lady on a former occaſion, in relieving her from an indiſpoſition, with which ſhe had been annoyed for the ſpace of eight or nine months, and for which his art found a cure in the very criſis of her diſtemper; but not to dwell any longer on theſe ſilly rumours, which are below the dig⯑nity of this hiſtory, ſuffice it to obſerve, that Mrs. Jemima did not come empty handed to the Doctor, and that, fully conſcious of this, ſhe had too much ſenſe of her own dignity to give up her right and title for indulging her⯑ſelf in thoſe innocent habits and recreations [34] which ſhe had been accuſtomed to in her ſtate of celibacy, particularly that of applying to a certain ſpecific againſt qualms and tremors, which ſhe kept at hand, within the precincts of her own cloſet; and though the ſaid ſpeci⯑fic was not a medicine to be found upon Za⯑chary's file, nor what perhaps he would have taken on himſelf to recommend, yet long practice had ſo reconciled her to the uſe of it, that her conſtitution ſeemed now to call for it, and I cannot doubt but ſhe had ſtrong reaſons for preferring it to every thing the Materia Me⯑dica could offer in its ſtead.

Now it ſo chanced that Mrs. Cawdle, in her ſpouſe's abſence, had cheared her heart with a comforting portion of this ſpecific, and in the moment of her good man's arrival was, by the operation of the aforeſaid doſe, faſt locked in the arms of Somnus. All this was perfectly intelligible to Zachary at the firſt glance, who thereupon contentedly betook himſelf to his cabin, like a Dutchman when he ſmells a ſtorm, and quietly turned into his ſolitary crib, a reſource which he kept in petto for theſe and other occaſions incidental to his pro⯑feſſion.

CHAPTER VI. A Saint not ſober.

THE domeſtics of the family, into which Henry had now entered, conſiſted of an antient matron, Bridget by name, who offi⯑ciated in the kitchen, and Suſan May, daughter of a widow woman, an inhabitant of the vil⯑lage, who waited upon the perſon of Mrs. Cawdle. Doctor Zachary had recommended Henry ſo ſtrongly to the care and good graces of theſe kind creatures, that they received him very courteouſly, and did the honours of the kitchen with much hoſpitality. Bridget had recollected a cold gammon of bacon, that was ſtanding idle in the cupboard, and Suſan had put a freſh faggot on the fire, where ſhe was boiling the water for her miſtreſs's tea. By the light of a chearful blaze ſhe had now an opportunity of reconnoitring the young ſtranger with more accuracy than hitherto ſhe had been able to do; when, having ſcanned him over with an eye that betokened ſome⯑thing more than pity, gently ſtroking her hand [36] over his head, ſhe gave a ſigh, and ſaid—‘"Alas! poor fellow, thou art cold and hun⯑gry, I'll engage for thee;"’—and then pro⯑ceeded to other queſtions, which Henry ei⯑ther anſwered or evaded, as he thought fit. She now filled out a baſon of tea, and repaired with it to her miſtreſs in the parlour.

Suſan, who was not bred in the ſchool of Harpocrates, waked her miſtreſs from her ſlumbers, by the noiſe ſhe made upon enter⯑ing the room; whereupon Jemima accoſted her as follows,—‘"Why, what the devil, wench, will you never be taught to open a door ſoftly? Do you conſider, mawkin, the wretched ſtate of my poor tortur'd nerves, trembling, quivering, tingling all over me, at every ſhock you give them? Do you ſee the quandary you have thrown me into? Then you tread as heavy as a cart-horſe, and bawl ſo loud, that my brain ſplits with every word you ſpeak."’—‘"But I have not ſpoken a word yet,"’ cried Suſan; ‘"and here's your tea, ſo pray drink it, and compoſe yourſelf."’—‘"Com⯑poſe myſelf, child!"’ replied the miſtreſs in a ſofter tone; ‘"I don't expect I ſhall compoſe myſelf ſufficiently this night to be able to reach my bed-room without help; I perceive [37] I am relapſing into my old tremors. Mercy upon me, how my hand ſhakes! Indeed and indeed, my good girl, you muſt be cautious not to flutter me when I am in this way."’

She now took the tea, and whilſt ſhe was ſipping it, her waiting-woman began to tell her about the Doctor's accident, and how he was reſcued from the teeth of the miller's dog, which in Suſan's narrative made as tre⯑mendous a figure as an Abyſſinian hyaena: that good-natured girl having coloured her de⯑ſcription of her maſter's danger to the height, that ſhe might ſet off the heroiſm of Henry to the greater advantage.

The ſedative beverage having in ſome de⯑gree allayed the trembling of Jemima's nerves, ſhe made many pious apoſtrophes upon the Doctor's eſcape, which ſhe hoped would be a warning call upon him to repentance, and a better life: ſhe bewailed the reprobate ſtate he was in; and candidly obſerved, that as he led the life of a heathen, ſhe ſhould not have been ſurprized, had he periſhed by the teeth of a dog. In the mean time, ſhe hinted her aſtoniſhment in pretty ſtrong terms, that he could have the aſſurance to bring a ſtrange fellow into her family, picked up at random, [38] without conſulting her opinion and approba⯑tion in the firſt place. To this Suſan replied, ‘"A ſtrange fellow, do you call him, Madam! You would not ſay ſo, if you ſaw him; not⯑withſtanding his poor apparel, I'll be further if he is not a gentleman born; aye, and the handſomeſt in my opinion that ever I ſet eyes on."’—‘"What tell you me of handſome,"’ ex⯑claimed the miſtreſs; ‘"is he holy, humble, devout?"’—‘"He was wet and hungry,"’ re⯑plied Suſan, ‘"ſo we warmed him and fed him, that's all I know of the matter; as for the reſt, its no concern of mine: I only did by him as I would be done by in the like caſe."’ This ſaid, Suſan left the room without waiting for an anſwer.

This good lady, who properly put ſo high a value upon the piety of a ſervant, and ſo ſlight an one upon his perſon, had in times paſt led a courſe of life not perfectly recon⯑cileable to the rules and doctrines of that re⯑ligion, which is preached by the miniſters of the eſtabliſhed church; and being naturally indiſpoſed to hear of failings, which it was in⯑convenient to her to diſmiſs and repent of, ſhe determined no longer to be annoyed with their ſermons and exhortations, and, ſtriking out of [39] the regular road, took a ſhorter courſe for quieting her conſcience, without diſturbing her enjoyments. By this new method of com⯑pounding for defaults in practice, through the help of a ſtrong imagination and a glowing enthuſiaſm, Jemima had fairly brought all paſt reckonings to a balance, and at the ſame time kept a mental ſalvo in reſerve againſt future ones. She was correct in all ſmall matters of form, regular at her love-feaſts, dealt the kiſs of peace with a ſervency moſt edifying, waſhed the dirty feet of the brethren, had a pious reverence for ſalt, and as zealous a deteſ⯑tation for blood-puddings as any ſaint in the ſect, of which ſhe ſtood forth a bright and ſhining example, profeſſing to believe every myſtery of the Chriſtian faith, and fulfilling no one moral duty, which the Scriptures teach.

She was now exactly in that ſtate of fermen⯑tation, when the ſpirit was moſt apt to boil over; and having underſtood juſt ſo much from Suſan's report of Henry's youth and ſimplicity, as ſuggeſted to her an occaſion for making a diſplay of her zeal, ſhe began to arrange her thoughts in the beſt order ſhe could for the undertaking. Having thrown herſelf back in her chair, and ſhut her eyes to [40] aſſiſt meditation, ſhe had nearly fallen into another doze from the ſoporific effects of in⯑tenſe thinking, when having raiſed herſelf up⯑right in her ſeat, and being ſeized at the mo⯑ment with a ſwimming in her head by the ſud⯑denneſs of the motion a huge pyramid of gauze, which by her late recumbent poſture was thruſt forward out of its place, came in contact with the candle, and immediately caught fire. Her ſcreams in one inſtant brought Henry to her aſſiſtance, who ſo nimbly reſcued her from her danger, that her cap was off and extinguiſhed before one hair of her head had been ſinged by the flame.

When her terror had ſubſided, Mrs. Cawdle caſt her eyes upon the perſon of her deliverer. The alarm had perfectly diſſipated her ſomno⯑lency, and in great part even the cauſe of it. The ideas, that had floated in her brain, and on which ſhe had been pondering, loſt hold of her imagination, and enthuſiaſm began to give way to impreſſions of a different ſort: ſhe had no longer any wiſh to make a ſaint of one, who ſeemed to her already to be an angel. As the traveller, whoſe eye has been jaded with long dwelling on the loathſome fens of Eſſex, feels unſpeakable recreation when, having croſſed [41] the Thames, he mounts the beautiful hills of Kent, and thence contemplates nature in her faireſt ſhape—ſuch was the delightful ſenſation Jemima now experienced, whilſt ſhe gazed upon Henry, and compared his animated and graceful form with the liſtleſs and miſhapen lump, that the fat partner of her heart pre⯑ſented daily and hourly to her weary ſight. He had his hand upon the door, ſo that no time was to be loſt, when, with an eager accent, ſhe called out to him to ſtop; then bidding him ſhut the door, ſhe began as follows:

‘"You are the young perſon, I preſume, whom the Doctor has taken into his family, and your name is Henry: you give a good ſample of your ſervices, Henry, not only in the care you had of your wetched maſter in his fall, but no leſs ſo in the attention you have now ſhewn to me in my alarm; in ſhort, between fire and water, you have been fully em⯑ployed this day in the reſcue of us both in our turns, and you well deſerve to be rewarded for your performances."’

‘"I am amply rewarded,"’ replied Henry, ‘"by your kind acceptance of my duty in the firſt place, and next by my maſter's liberality, who gave me as much as I have occaſion [42] for, and more than I had any right to ex⯑pect."’

‘"Your maſter, indeed!"’ cried Jemima; ‘"your maſter knows neither how to rate your ſervices, nor to reward you for them; I'll en⯑gage he has hir'd you for no other purpoſe bur to beat the filthy mortar, and do the dirty work in his dirty ſhop: but you ſhall do no ſuch thing; you ſhall wait upon me; I will take you to myſelf. With me your work will be eaſy and your life happy, with him you will be a drudge and the lacquey of a drudge; for his very ſhopman, the old Highlander, will make you fetch and carry on his ſcrubby er⯑rands: from me you will hear none but pious and edifying converſation; from them nothing but balderdaſh and blaſphemy in an outlandiſh dialect: of me you will gain good inſtruction; they will lead you to your ruin, and render you in the end, what they are themſelves, loſt ſouls in a ſtate of reprobation, and totally caſt out from the lot of the righteous."’

‘"Heaven forbid!"’ quoth Henry.—‘"Don't ſay ſo, don't ſay ſo,"’ reſumed the ſaint; ‘"don't ſhock my ears with a ſingle word in their fa⯑vour: true zeal feels no pity for the wicked."’

‘"Not pity them!"’ exclaim'd the youth [43] with eagerneſs; ‘"I could almoſt find in my heart to pity the devil himſelf."’—‘"The devil you cou'd!"’ cried the ſaint, with horror in her countenance; ‘"from what part of the world are you come? who are your unhappy parents? and in what anti-chriſtian principles have you been educated? Pity them, indeed! No, no, that were a ſin as heinous as what they com⯑mit; but the elect cannot ſin, and conſequently have no pity for ſinners."’—‘"I beg pardon for my boldneſs, Madam,"’ replied Henry, ‘"but if this be ſo, I muſt take leave to diſſent from the elect."’—This ſaid, he quitted the room, and left the inebriated zealot to digeſt his doc⯑trine as ſhe could.

CHAPTER VII. A timely Reſcue.

THE next morning Henry aroſe with the lark, and finding nobody ſtirring within doors, went in to the garden, and there began to employ himſelf in reforming the borders, that were in a very neglected condition. Whilſt he was thus occupied, he obſerved a tall ſtout man, whoſe ſwaggering gait and important air [44] beſpoke him a perſon of ſome authority, com⯑ing acroſs the adjoining field, and making directly for a little wicket in the garden hedge, that communicated with the ſaid field. Here he was no ſooner arrived than, diſcovering Henry, he ſtopt ſhort, and in an angry tone demanded—‘"Who are you, Sir, and why are you at work in this garden?"’—‘"Becauſe I am ſervant to the owner of it,"’ Henry replied, ‘"and have nothing elſe juſt now to employ myſelf about."’—‘"If you are ſervant to the owner,"’ ſaid he, ‘"betake yourſelf to his ſhop, and tell Kinloch to ſend the medicines to my houſe, that are ordered to be made up."’—‘"And to whoſe direction muſt they be ad⯑dreſſed?"’—‘"My name is Blachford; you muſt be new in theſe parts, not to know me."’—‘"I am a ſtranger, it is true, in this place,"’ rejoined Henry, ‘"and have not the honour of knowing you, but I ſhall obey your com⯑mands."’

After a few minutes Henry, finding nobody up in the houſe, and the ſhop-door locked, re⯑turned to make report to his ſender, who was now ſtanding cloſe under the eaves, in earneſt converſation, as it ſeemed, with ſomebody at a window: the caſement was quickly ſhut upon [45] his appearance, but not ſo nimbly as to pre⯑vent his diſcovering to a certainty that Suſan was the party to whom Blachford's converſa⯑tion was addreſſed.

The look, that gentleman now beſtowed upon Henry, gave him ſufficiently to under⯑ſtand how unwelcome his company was; and before he could well explain the reaſon of his ſudden return, Blachford's rage had burſt forth both in words and actions, ſo far at leaſt as his courage ſuffered him to proceed, by brandiſh⯑ing his cane in a threatening manner, and tell⯑ing him to be gone from his ſight, for he per⯑ceived he was a very impertinent prying fel⯑low, and would have nothing to ſay to him, ‘"And depend upon it,"’ added he, ‘"I will have my eye upon you; if I catch you tripping, and once lay my hands upon you, you ſhan't eaſily get out of them."’

With theſe words, which Henry anſwered only with a look of firm undaunted innocence, Blachford ſtrode away, and was ſoon out of ſight: the caſement was then opened, and Suſan in a low voice deſired him to come into the houſe, for ſhe wanted to ſpeak to him: as ſoon as they met, ſhe began with ſome degree of embarraſſment to apologize for appearances. [46] She told him Mr. Blachford was a very rich gentleman, lived in a handſome houſe near at hand, and was very kind to her mother, an aged widow, who inhabited a ſmall cottage cloſe to his gate; that the occaſion of her ſpeaking to him from the window, was ſimply to thank him for ſome favours he had beſtowed upon her mother; ſhe hoped that Henry had ſaid nothing to give him offence, for that he was a proud man, and would not put up with an affront from any body, much leſs from his inferiors: moreover he was a juſtice of peace, and dealt ſo rigidly with thoſe that came under his hands, that all the pariſh and neighbour⯑hood round about ſtood in fear and terror of him.

‘"He may be a juſtice,"’ replied Henry, ‘"but I'll take upon me to ſay he is not a gentleman. As to his buſineſs with you, Suſan, or your's with him, truſt me I am not curious to be informed of it: it was mere chance and accident threw me in the way to interrupt it, which if I have done to your detriment or regret, I am heartily ſorry for it. As for his bluſtering and threatening, I fear him not, neither did I provoke him by any language improper for me to make uſe of to a perſon [47] of his ſort; I was as humble towards him, as becomes any one human creature to be to another in the like circumſtances. I reſpect him, however, for being kind to your mother; I only hope it is pure kindneſs, and that he does not look for it to be repaid by any ſacrifices from you: whilſt you make no other acknow⯑ledgments than you can convey to him from a window, all will be well."’

This was pointed with a certain expreſſion of look and accent, that brought the bluſhes into Suſan's cheeks. She hoped ſhe could not be ſuſpected of favouring ſuch a great, black, ugly thing as his worſhip, and an old fellow into the bargain; ſhe truſted ſhe under⯑ſtood herſelf better, than to give her company where ſhe could not beſtow her liking; in ſaying which, ſhe conveyed a glance to Henry's eyes, which ſimplicity itſelf could not fail to decypher, and nothing leſs than predetermined virtue could be able to encounter; for, with⯑out attempting deſcriptions, which we do not wiſh to engage in, we deſire the reader to take it on our word, that the aforeſaid Suſan May, in form and feature, was poſitively one of the moſt dangerous objects, that ſtrong paſ⯑ſion and weak reſolution could poſſibly come [48] in contact with; ſhe had health, youth and beauty to allure deſire, and tell-tale eyes, that threw out ſignals of encouragement to hope.

‘"Upon my word, Henry,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"you are very conſiderate of my reputation, which is more than I ſhould have expected from a handſome young fellow like you, who I dare ſay have ſly ſins enough of your own to an⯑ſwer for; but, to tell you the truth in one word, there is not a being upon earth I ſo abominate as that ſurly brute Juſtice Blach⯑ford: I believe he is as baſe in heart as he is black in perſon; therefore, with your leave, we will put him aſide, and talk of ſomething that is more to the purpoſe. What have you done to my drunken dame, I would fain know, that has ſet her in ſuch a tantarum? There was ſhe, foaming and fretting after you had been with her, like a mad thing: ſurely you did not put on that preaching face to her, as you did juſt now to me: you'll never have a moment's quiet in this houſe, if you don't keep well with the tipſey ſhrew that rules it: ſhe'll ferret you out in a twink⯑ling, take my word for it, if you thwart her, and it is not the Doctor that can ſave you; but if you'll coax and humour her, you may [49] paſs your time to your heart's content; and for my ſhare, ſhort as our acquaintance has been, ſo much am I prejudiced in your fa⯑vour, that as far as I can contribute to your happineſs, be aſſured nothing in my power ſhall be wanting to make your life pleaſant whilſt we are together."’

It was a look, a ſmile, a gentle preſſure of his hand in her's, whilſt ſhe uttered theſe words, that gave them a grace and energy, which but for theſe accompaniments had not belonged to them; Suſan, though not elo⯑quent, poſſeſſed the orator's beſt attribute in an eminent degree; in her action ſhe was ir⯑reſiſtible. I know not whether I am to call it Henry's good or evil genius, that now ap⯑peared in the perſon of old Bridget, to draw him off to his maſter in his bed-chamber. He had begun a ſtammering kind of acknow⯑ledgment to Suſan, that meant to convey ſomething between courteſy and caution, but expreſſed neither one nor the other diſtinctly, when the plea of duty helped him out of the dilemma for this turn, but left a memento be⯑hind it, plainly intimating that flight was his beſt defence againſt ſuch weapons as nature had beſtowed on Suſan: ſhe in the mean time [50] was not ſlow to diſcover, both where his weak⯑neſs lay, and in what her own ſtrength con⯑ſiſted; what he could not term a victory on his part, ſhe had no right to conſider as a defeat on her's: chance had broken up the conference; opportunity could not be want⯑ing to renew it.

CHAPTER VIII. A ſudden Attack upon an unguarded Conſcience.

WHEN Henry entered the Doctor's chamber, he found him ſtill between the blankets, where he had provoked ſo copi⯑ous a perſpiration, that there is little doubt but he had paid intereſt through his pores for every drop of water he had borrowed by his throat in his rencounter with the duck. Inſtead of giving a ſtrait anſwer to Henry's enquiries, he began to hold forth a learned lecture, upon the uſe and efficacy of ſudori⯑fics, reprobating in the ſtrongeſt terms the vulgar error of pouring in hot liquors upon cold ſtomachs, which he pronounced to be a diabolical practice, and little better than ſlow poiſon, juſt then forgetting the glaſs of [51] brandy at the miller's. In the courſe of this harangue, he inſtanced the bad habit of Miſ⯑treſs Cawdle as a caſe in point, who he roundly aſſerted was dramming herſelf out of the world; adding, with an oath, that if Jemima was a ſaint, he would be bold to ſay ſhe was the moſt drunken ſaint in the calendar.

Obſerving that Henry made no reply to this, except by a ſignificant ſhake of his head, he added—‘"Well, well, you are a diſcreet lad, I perceive, and know how to hold your tongue upon occaſion, but I'll bett a good wager ſhe has been preaching to you over her cups: it is always the caſe when the ſpirit flies up into her head; but don't let her make a fool of you; one ſaint in a family is one too many: mind your buſineſs, ply the mortar, and leave religion to thoſe who get their living by it: you and I, my lad, have ſomething elſe to think of."’

‘"I hope,"’ replied Henry, ‘"I can mind my buſineſs without neglecting my religion."’

‘"Hark-ye, child,"’ cried Zachary, ‘"you talk like an ignoramus, if you ſuppoſe that we of the faculty can have any other religion than to take care of the health and conſtitu⯑tions of our patients. Every man in his own [52] way, the parſon for the ſoul, the phyſician for the body. What have we to do in a church, whilſt there is one man under our care in a ſick bed? why, it were a ſhame for any of us to be ſeen there; it is all one as to confeſs that we are totally cut out of our practice; and to do my brethren juſtice, I muſt confeſs they ſeldom, if ever, come into a church but with a view of being called out of it: but that is a ſtale trick, and begins to be blown upon, ſo that every gentleman of character in the profeſſion, who does not wiſh to be thought a mountebank and a quack, never lets him⯑ſelf be ſeen within the walls of a church, un⯑leſs indeed he ſhould chance to follow the corpſe of a cuſtomer thither."’

‘"And when his own corpſe is carried thi⯑ther to it's laſt home,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"what will become of him then?"’—‘"Heh! how! what is that you ſay?"’ demanded Zachary, ſtarting up in his bed—‘"I ſay, ſir, under fa⯑vour, that I am little able to argue with a per⯑ſon of your ſcience; but I muſt think this a very ſerious queſtion, and what every one of us ought to put to ourſelves in good time, ‘'Can any man expect to find pardon after [53] death, who has done God no ſervice when alive?'’’

‘"What are you talking about?"’ cried the Doctor: ‘"I tell you, child, that I, Zachary Cawdle, with theſe very hands, have uſher'd two thouſand living ſouls into the world; and do you call that doing God no ſervice? How many others I may have ſtopt from going out of it, in the courſe of a long and ſucceſsful practice, the Lord above only knows, I have kept no account of them. I hope you don't mean to make any compariſon between ſuch a man as I am, and an idle fellow in creation, who does nothing but preach and pray."’

‘"Far be it from me,"’ replied Henry, ‘"to offer at any compariſon between profeſſions, which I cannot pretend to judge of; but as I preſume a good Chriſtian is the greateſt cha⯑racter a man can have, I humbly conceive a good and faithful miniſter of God's word to be no man's inferior."’

‘"Be that as it may,"’ rejoined Zachary, ‘"I have had the handling of their carcaſes in my time, and have found ſome rotten wethers amongſt the flock, that would hardly bear the touch: but I perceive, young man, you have got a twang of the conventicle about you, and will [54] forfeit my ears if you have not been canting with that boozy babe of grace my wife; but I tell you at a word I will have no ſaints in my ſervice; I did not hire you to ſing pſalms; if you do it as well as king David, it is no recommendation to me; I told you ſo at firſt; and as to your talking to me about the other world, I forbid you ever to name it to me again; 'tis a ſubject that always hips me when I hear of it."’

I believe I have already hinted that Zachary was ſomewhat inclined to the iraſcible, and as he had now ſtarted a topic that was apt to give certain twitches to his conſcience, which were not over pleaſant in their operation, he had flounced and floundered about at ſuch a rate in his bed, whilſt this buſy intermeddler was at work, that he had by this time effectu⯑ally repelled the perſpiration, and began to be ſenſible of certain ſymptomatic innuendoes, that argued an intention in Nature to make a ſud⯑den turn from hot to cold, and in one of her freaks and fits of variety treat him with a taſte of the other extreme. His teeth now began to make muſic, his ſpirits ſunk, and he huddled up his head in the bed-cloaths, ſighing from the bottom of his heart, as well knowing by the [55] tuning of the inſtruments before-hand what the full concert would be when it ſtruck up in earneſt.

‘"The Lord have mercy upon me!"’ ex⯑claimed poor Zachary, ‘"what is going for⯑ward now? I was as well but now as heart could wiſh; I thought no more of being taken ſo ſuddenly than the man in the moon: never truſt me but I ſhake from head to foot; I can't ſtand it, poſitively I can't ſtand it, if I am to be ſeized in this manner. I know my own conſtitution to a tittle; I'm a plethoric man, the worſt ſubject in nature for an ague and fever: Doctor Doublechin went out of the world in the ſame way, he took a ſhort leave and was off; 'tis a loſt caſe, Henry, 'tis all up with your poor maſter, if I can't drive the foe out of one door or the other before he gets footing in the houſe. For the love of Heaven, put your hand in my waiſtcoat pocket, and give me a ſmall paper in a blue wrapper, which you'll find there; it contains a medicine which I never adminiſter to my patients, be⯑cauſe I ſcorn to go out of the regular practice with my friends, but when a man's own life is at ſtake, there is no joke in dallying: Doctor James muſt do the jobb, or I muſt beat a haſty march out of this world, and be gone."’

[56]Henry gave him the paper and ſome warm liquid, in which he mixed the life-reſtoring doſe and ſwallowed it, giving order for ſome barley-water to be made, and other fit prepa⯑rations for its operation.

No ſooner had his attendant left the cham⯑ber than Zachary, now alone and at leiſure for meditation, began to entertain ſerious ap⯑prehenſions for the conſequences of this ſud⯑den attack. The rapid progreſs of a ſever in better conſtitutions than his own he had fre⯑quently been a witneſs to: it was an enemy whoſe ſtrength he had fully experienced, hav⯑ing baffled him over and over; death was a conſummation, which in his own caſe was de⯑voutly to be dreaded, though he could con⯑template it with all due ſerenity in the caſe of others; the flippant and contemptuous ſtile, in which he had juſt then been talking of the du⯑ties of religion, recoiled upon his thoughts ſo ſtrongly, that his preſent ſudden and unex⯑pected attack ſtruck his conſcience as a judg⯑ment, and moſt heartily did he wiſh he could recall what he had been ſaying to Henry: in the mean time the cold fit ſhook him worſe and worſe, whilſt the active medicine ran through his veins with awful omens of a criſis [57] coming on: he knew too well that the battle between Death and him muſt be a cloſe one and a ſhort one, for, alas! he was too fat for flight, and too fair a butt for ſuch a markſman not to hit. Vanity might have held him up in the preſence of a ſecond perſon, but he could not impoſe upon himſelf; and after a deep ſigh he broke forth into the following me⯑lancholy ſoliloquy:—‘"What poor miſerable mortals are we, who cannot foreſee what may befall us for a moment to come! Here am I ſhivering and ſhaking, and perhaps upon the bed of death, whereas but a few minutes ago I thought no more of death than I did of the pope of Rome. But, to be ſure, when a man is in perfect health, it is natural for him to keep ſuch dull thoughts out of his head: it cannot be expected that one ſhould be muſing and pondering upon the other world, when one ſees no preſent chance of going thither; whilſt things are at a diſtance, it is not neceſ⯑ſary to think about them. Ah! poor Za⯑chary, thou haſt enjoyed a brave ſtate of health and kept a merry heart till this ſad moment; but art thou not an aſs and a blockhead, not to recollect that all fleſh is mortal? Haſt thou not had dealings enough with Death to be [58] aware of his ſlippery tricks? How many hun⯑dred times has he made a fool and a falſe pro⯑phet of thee, by ſnapping up thy patients in a twinkling, when thou, ſilly Doctor, waſt hug⯑ging thyſelf in the credit of a cure, and hadſt pronounc'd them out of danger? And why, above all things, ſhou'd I be vapouring with this poor lad, and ſhewing off my courage at the expence of religion, which is about as wiſe a thing to do, as it wou'd be to pluck a ſleeping bear by the beard. I know my wife to be a ſlut and a ſot, and no more of a ſaint than Judas Iſcariot, but what then? Becauſe ſhe profeſſes more faith than ſhe has, why ſhould I make a boaſt of believing leſs than I do? Lord have mercy upon us! nobody knows how ſoon he may be call'd away; and what a misfortune would it be to be taken off juſt in the fluſh and flower of my buſineſs! If it would pleaſe God to take my wife firſt, it would be ſome comfort: I might then lead a quiet life, leave off practice, and begin to think ſeriouſly of my latter end; but, alas-a-day! I have now ſo many cuſtom⯑ers dying upon my hands, that I cannot in conſcience neglect their affairs to look after my own. Of a certain, death is a ſerious [59] thing at the beſt, and I have always look'd grave at the funeral of a patient; but when it comes to be one's own caſe it is intereſting in⯑deed! Zooks! what a twinge in the bowels was there! Aye, aye, I feel it at work; the powder begins to ſtir; 'tis all for the beſt: the enemy is ſhifting his quarters. How many people might I have cur'd with this drug, if I had not had too much honour to dabble in quack medicines! If I can but ſhake off this fit at once and get well, I ſhall have plenty of time to turn over theſe thoughts at my lei⯑ſure."’

He now applied himſelf luſtily to the bell at his bed's head, for reaſons that argued the neceſſity of diſpatch. Old Bridget heard the ſummons, but was not in the ſame neceſſity to obey it: when at laſt ſhe preſented herſelf at the door, the Doctor, whoſe anger had been up long before ſhe was, greeted her with a ſalutation not very courtly, demanding why ſhe would hobble up ſtairs ſo ſlowly, when ſhe might well conceive what a hurry he was in—‘"Well,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"and now your hurry is over, what is it you want?"’—‘"Barley-water and a bucket,"’ cried Zachary, ‘"as quickly as you can, for a greater turmoil than is now [60] in my ſtomach the duck herſelf could not make, if I had ſwallow'd her alive when ſhe flew out of the bank and ſous'd me in the brook."’

CHAPTER IX. Doctors differ.

THERE was an old Scotchman, Alex⯑ander Kinloch by name, who officiated in the like capacity under Doctor Cawdle as Whackum did under Sidrophel. The care of the poorer patients in general devolved upon this deputy doctor, who, being an old limb of the faculty, was become ſo ſtubborn withal, that it ſeemed a point with him in practice conſtantly to take any road but that which he conceived his principal would purſue. No ſooner had he been informed by Henry of his maſter's ſituation, and the medicine he had ad⯑miniſtered to himſelf, than, having taken two or three haſty ſtrides about the ſhop, as if to give vent to his choler, he ſnatched down an old plaid night-gown, which hung upon a peg, and having girt it round his loins with a green worſted ſaſh over a black cloth waiſtcoat, to [61] which he had ſtript himſelf for his work, he bade Henry look to the ſhop, and imme⯑diately aſcended the ſtairs to the chamber of the invalid.

If Death had been diſpoſed to have com⯑plimented Zachary with a viſit, I queſtion if he could have taken a better figure for his pur⯑poſe than what Alexander now preſented to the ſick man's view, ſtanding at the feet of his truckle bed, arrayed in his ruſty plaid, tall, ſqualid, begrimed with the duſt of the mor⯑tar, a perfect ſkeleton with the ſkin on, and ſtaring upon him with two lack-luſtre eyes, that ſeemed buried in their boney lockets. A ſtronger contraſt could hardly be found in hu⯑man nature than might here be ſeen between maſter and man; Zachary preſenting to the eye of the ſpectator a rotundity of figure, which, though in the horizontal poſture, as now diſplayed, loſt little, if any thing at all, of its perpendicular elevation from a given plane; Alexander, when erect upon his feet, being in the proportion of a foot to an inch in point of altitude, when compared with the aforeſaid Alexander extended on his back; in few words, the one ſtood in like relation to the other as the ſpiggot does to the tun.

[62]Zachary had no ſooner caught a glimpſe of Alexander's viſage over the hillock of human fleſh, which intercepted nearly all the reſt of his figure, and being now under the impreſſion of a terrified imagination, than he ſhook in every joint, and though he recognized his old acquaintance ſufficiently to be ſatisfied that Death was not actually preſent in perſon, yet he was far from certain that he had not viſited him by proxy; and in juſtice to Zachary it muſt be confeſſed, that a better proxy than Alexander, Death could no where have found, nor one to whom, upon long experience of paſt ſervices, he could more ſafely have con⯑fided a commiſſion, either general or ſpecial.

The deliberation with which Alexander had proceeded in his ſurvey, (for it was a cuſtom with him to let the ſick man make his own complaints, by which he ſpared himſelf the trouble of finding them out) gave the Doctor time to rally his ſpirits ſo far as to aſſume an air of ſome compoſure, whilſt he addreſſed his viſitor as follows:—‘"Ah! Sawney, you find me here in a ſorry pickle."’—‘"Aye, aye,"’ quoth the Scotchman, ‘"I can well enough ſcent the pickle you are in; you have been ſcrubbing your inteſtines with that damn'd [63] powder of poiſon, which I will maintain to be the vileſt duſt that ever devil blew into the brains of a mountebank."’—‘"Verbum ſapienti, friend Sawney,"’ replied the Doctor; ‘"I be⯑lieve I know ſomething, and I believe you are convinc'd I do; but ſurely you forget to whom you are talking. What you ſay is very right, only you ſay it to the wrong perſon: every profeſſional man, like you and me, will hold for the regular practice, and cry down quaok⯑cry; 'tis his duty ſo to do, and as for theſe powders, I believe neither you nor any man living can ſay I ever adminiſter'd them to pa⯑tient of mine ſince I was maſter of a mortar; living or dying, my cuſtomers have been al⯑ways handled by me ſecundum artem: but the cook is not bound to eat his own porridge; neither am I, Zachary Cawdle, compell'd to take my own phyſic; 'tis a fooliſh landlord that thinks to drive a trade by drinking out his own barrel."’

‘"Well, Doctor,"’ replied Death's image, ‘"ſince you are not to be advis'd, I ſhall only remind you of the old ſaying, ‘'Phyſician, cure thyſelf."’’—‘"And I've good hope I ſhall cure myſelf,"’ returned the Doctor, ‘"and ſpeedily too, for I find I am wonderfully lighter ſince the [64] powders operated."’—‘"'Twou'd be wonder⯑ful if you were not,"’ quoth Alexander, ‘"con⯑ſidering how much of your cargo you have thrown overboard."’—‘"Better do that than let the ſhip ſink,"’ rejoined Zachary; ‘"that's a reſource, friend Sawney, which we, who are full laden, have, and you, who are in ballaſt, have not"’—‘"Yes, truly,"’ quoth Sawney, ‘"you have broke bulk with a vengeance, but by the ill ſavour of the hold I ſhould doubt if you have clean bills of health on board yet. Marry, joy go with you, maſter of mine; if a ſwoln paunch, ſhort neck, and wheezing lungs are ſymptoms of long life, you are bleſt with them to your heart's content; but I am of Ari⯑ſtotle's mind for that; I agree with the old ſages, Hippocrates, and Galen, and Doctor Nicholas Culpepper, who, in his Laſt Legacy bequeath'd to his dear Conſort, Mrs. Alice Culpepper, for the Public Good, recommendeth to ſuch as be fat to eat three or four cloves of garlic every morning with bread and butter, and faſt two hours after it; and he further ſaith, ‘'Let their drink be water, wherein fennel hath been boil'd, and in a very ſmall time it will eaſe them."’’

‘"What tell you me of Nicholas Culpep⯑per?"’ cried Zachary; ‘"he was nothing better [65] than a ſtar-gazer and a quack. Will he give me a receipt to know whether a ſick man like me ſhall live or die of the malady he is afflict⯑ed with?"’

‘"That he will do,"’ cried Alexander, ‘"by three ſeveral modes of proceſs, and you may take your choice of which you like beſt."’—‘"L [...] us hear'em, let us hear'em all,"’ ſaid the Doctor.

‘"Primo,"’ replied Kinloch, ‘" 'Shave th [...] crown of your head, and lay upon the ſhaved place rue ſtamped with oil of roſes, binding it on; and, if you ſneeze within ſix hours after, you ſhall live, elſe not."’

‘"Let him carry his own fool's noddle to the ſhaver for me,"’ anſwered Zachary; ‘"I'll have nothing to do with his rue and roſes.—What next?"’

‘'Secundo. Let green nettles be ſteeped in the urine of him that is ſick, twenty-four hours. If they remain green and freſh, the ſick will live; elſe it is all up with him.'’

‘"Let him go to the devil with his noſ⯑trums,"’ quoth the Doctor, exalting his voice; ‘"I hope I ſhall live to ſteep the nettles upon his grave; and now, Sawney, for the third and laſt, and then let us have done with Nicholas and his nonſenſe."’

[66] ‘"Well, well,"’ ſaid Sawney, with much gravity, ‘"there are more ſecrets in nature than you and I have hitherto found out, but you may take them or leave them. I ſhall tender you but one experiment more; and let me tell you, maſter of mine, I ſhould be very unwilling to put it to the proof in your caſe, for reaſons, that I do not think it neceſſary to explain."’—‘"Say you ſo, ſay you ſo?"’ cried Zachary, ſomewhat ſtartled with this pre⯑amble; ‘"then I perceive you think worſe of my caſe than I do; but what is your experi⯑ment?"’

‘"This it is,"’ anſwered the journeyman doc⯑tor; ‘"I give it you in Nicholas Culpepper's own words—‘'Tertio, Take the greaſe of a hog, and rub the body of any that is ſick againſt the heart and the ſoles of the feet, then throw the greaſe to a dog; if he eat it, the ſick will live; if not, he will ſurely die."’’

‘"Are you ſure,"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"that you have been correct in the particulars of this notable noſtrum?"’—‘"Perfectly correct,"’ replied Kinloch; ‘"I can ſhew it to you in his book."’—‘"Then I muſt own to you,"’ ſaid the Doctor, ‘"it is an experiment I ſhould not like to pledge my life upon: but ſome dogs [67] have ſtronger ſtomachs than others; does he give no directions in that particular?"’—‘"None,"’ replied the North Briton, ‘"he ſpeaks of dogs generically, not ſpecifically."’—‘"Then he is a booby and a blockhead for his pains,"’ rejoined Zachary; ‘"would he have me throw ſuch a pellet to a lady's lap-dog, that is fed upon boiled chicken and ſugared milk? The very thought of it has ſet my ſtomach a work⯑ing. Get thee our of my room, good Sawney, make haſte and be gone, and pr'ythee give me ſome chance for recovery by forbearing to pre⯑ſcribe to me."’

The deputy doctor now departed in a huff, and left Zachary to ſolicit, with the help of Doctor James, a kind turn from the only bet⯑ter friend in ſickneſs, ſleep; but alas! though theſe two friendly reſtorers of tir'd Nature, have been ſeldom found at diſtance from each other, yet in the preſent caſe Zachary's temples could take no reſt; he was tormented with a racking head-ach and a throbbing heart: all his terrors now returned, and he again applied himſelf to the bell at his bed's-head, ringing it with might and main.

‘"Law! Sir,"’ cried Suſan, as ſhe entered his room, ‘"what a ringing you keep! as ſure [68] as can be, you'll wake my miſtreſs, and what will become of us then?"’—‘"Your miſtreſs, quotha!"’ exclaimed the Doctor; ‘"your miſ⯑treſs is a ſow and a ſot; becauſe ſhe went boozy to bed overnight, am I to lie and periſh next morning for fear of waking her? I care not if ſhe never wak'd again, ſo I were out of this torment: Pr'ythee, my good girl, can'ſt thou not think of ſomething to eaſe me of this racking head-ach?"’

‘"I never had the head-ach in my life,"’ re⯑plied Suſan.—‘"I wiſh from my ſoul you had it now for the firſt time, and I was quit of it,"’ quoth Zachary. ‘"If it plagues you ſo,"’ cried Suſan, ‘"why don't you lay your head down on the pillow and go to ſleep; that's the way I get rid of all my troubles."’—‘"Get you gone for a gooſe,"’ cried the Doctor in a rage, ‘"and ſend old Bridget to ſet the room to rights."’—‘"Foh!"’ quoth Suſan as ſhe went down ſtairs, ‘"your head may well ach o' my conſcience."’

‘"If one of my patients,"’ ſaid Zachary to himſelf, ‘"conſulted me upon a head-ach like this, I ſhould make nothing of it: my buſineſs would be to give nature a fair field, and let her fight her own battles: cooling drinks, with endive, ſuccory, purſlain, lettuce, or barley-water [69] with a little cinnamon, is the moſt I ſhould adminiſter; but for my own part, I wiſh to be well at once; for I have no time to ſpare, and I hate pain.’

During this meditation, Bridget had been em⯑ployed in removing nuiſances; when the Doc⯑tor, recollecting nothing in his own practice, that would ſerve the preſent purpoſe, and that old women frequently had noſtrums that make quick work of what they undertake, repeated the ſame queſtion to Bridget, that he had put with ſo little ſucceſs to Suſan. Proud to be conſulted by ſo great a man as her maſter, the old wench immediately demanded on which, ſide of his head the pain laid. ‘"On every ſide,"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"and all over it."’—‘"Then I can do you no good,"’ replied Bridget: ‘"had the pain laid on the right ſide, I could have cured it with a comb made of the right horn of a ram; if on the left, with one made of the left horn of a ram."’—‘"Begone for an old fool,"’ cried the Doctor; ‘"if ram's horns could have cured me, I ſhould have been well long enough ago."’

Alexander Kinloch now re-entered the chamber, and with a ſolemn countenance in⯑formed the Doctor that he had been ſent for to Mrs. Cawdle, whom he had found in her [70] bed, grievouſly afflicted with the head-ach ac⯑companied by a high pulſe, dry tongue, and other febrile ſymptoms. ‘"I am glad of it with all my heart,"’ exclaimed Zachary; ‘"and what have you adminiſtered to her?"’—‘"No⯑thing,"’ replied Alexander, ‘"till I conſulted you; but upon inſpection of the patient, I ſhould humbly conceive there is nothing ſo effectual to remove her complaint as evacua⯑tion and refrigeration."’—‘"Then ſet about it thyſelf, friend Sawney,"’ quoth the Doctor, ‘"for I am in no condition to do either one or the other."’—‘"I have noted with ſome concern,"’ reſumed Alexander, ‘"that the ce⯑phalaea, or head-ach, of which Madam com⯑plaineth, lieth not in the pericranium, or out⯑ward ſkin of the ſcull, but in the pia mater, or in other words in that membrane, which knitteth the ſenſes together, and lieth round the brain within the dura mater: now it is a point agreed both by ancients and mo⯑derns, that there are various ſorts and deſcrip⯑tions of head-achs; ſome poſſeſſing the whole head, others only half of it; ſome coming of heat, others of cold; ſome of dryneſs, others of moiſture; ſome ariſing from plethory or plenitude of blood, others from choler."’— [71] ‘"Which will certainly be my caſe,"’ cried the Doctor, interrupting him, ‘"unleſs you bring your diſcuſſion to a point."’—‘"I am haſtening thereunto,"’ replied Sawney: ‘"there are alſo head-achs, which proceed from windineſs; there are others cauſed of the ſtomach; there are head-achs ſymptomatic of fevers; and laſtly, there are head-achs originating from drunken⯑neſs, to which denomination I pronounce this of Madam Cawdle's indiſputably to belong."’—‘"Who doubts it?"’ cried Zachary: ‘"then why the devil didn't you come to it at once?"’

Alexander gave no attention to the Doctor's impatience, but proceeded after his own man⯑ner—‘"Now the cauſes of this kind of head-ach are evident enough; for hot wines, ſtrong waters, and inflaming potations, fill the brain with vapours, and the brain of Madam Je⯑mima ſo much the more, inaſmuch as I con⯑ceive it to be hot and aduſt by nature, having noted upon examination that her os triquetrum is cloſe ſhut, and her ſutoriums not remark⯑ably open; the beating or pulſation therefore is the greater in a ſcull ſo conſtructed, and of courſe the pain: the cure therefore conſiſteth, as I before ſaid, in theſe two things, evacua⯑tion and refrigeration."’—‘"Humph!"’ echoed [72] Zachary, with a grunt. Alexander proceeded: ‘"Now of the former there are various modes whereby to adminiſter relief, the choice of which I refer to you, as preſuming you beſt know which proceſs of evacuation is moſt conſentaneous to the habits and conſtitution of Madam your ſpouſe."’—‘"I beg to be excuſed from giving any opinion at all in the caſe,"’ ſaid the Doctor. ‘"As for the latter,"’ continued the noſtrum-monger, ‘"namely refrigeration, the uſe of which is to drive back the vapours as they aſcend to the head, I would recommend oil wherein ivy-leaves have been boiled; with which to anoint the head, the temples, and the forehead."’—‘"With all my ſoul,"’ repeated Zachary, ‘"I approve much of your ivy-leaves; they will be in their proper place upon her temples, for by my faith, Sawney, Jemima is as true a Bacchante as ever brandiſhed a thyrſus."’

Alexander had not yet run out his whole tap, and reſumed his diſcourſe once more:—‘"Now to prevent drunkenneſs in thoſe, who are addicted to drink, is a grand deſideratum in phyſic; yet there are many medicines be⯑queathed to poſterity by the ancient ſages for this purpoſe."’—‘"But I hope you are not [73] going to enumerate them,"’ quoth the Doctor, ‘"for I am out of all patience already."’—‘"Be it ſo!"’ anſwered he; ‘"then I will con⯑fine myſelf to one alone, which is ſimply this: ‘'Let the perſon ſo addicted eat ſix or ſeven bitter almonds every morning faſting, drink a draught of wormwood-beer before any other potation; and let there be infuſed therein a ſmall portion of the aſhes of ſwallows burnt in a crucible feathers and all."’’

‘"Wormwood and burnt ſwallows!"’ cried Zachary, elevating his voice; ‘"what devil of a doctor put that doſe into your head? But make her take it, my good Sawney, and I'll honour you for ever."’—‘"I fear,"’ replied Sawney, without paying any regard to the Doctor's raillery, ‘"that ſwallows being now out of ſeaſon and a bird of paſſage, we ſhall be defeated in the main point of our experiment."’—‘"Then catch an owl,"’ rejoined Zachary, ‘"and put him into your crucible: my life upon't he'll do the jobb as well; and hark-ye, Sawney, if you take a little modicum of the powder'd owl yourſelf, it may help your wits and promote wiſdom."’—‘"I'll ſee what can be done,"’ quoth Alexander gravely, and de⯑parted.

CHAPTER X. One more Doſe than is to be found in the Diſpenſary.

THE medical underſtrapper, who was in⯑debted to Doctor Nicholas Culpepper's Laſt Legacy for every one of theſe noſtrums, upon which he plumed himſelf ſo highly in ſpite of his maſter's irony, immediately ſet to work upon his embrocation of ivy-leaves and oil, a buſineſs of no great difficulty, as there was a certain manſion in the garden over-grown with that ſimple, and no ſcarcity of good Lucca oil in the cupboard near at hand: but when he came to meditate upon a ſucce⯑daneum for the burnt ſwallows, even Zachary's propoſal of the owl as a locum-tenens was a ſtaggering conſideration, as being a bird of night, whereas it was now unfortunately broad day. In this dilemma ſeeing Henry in the ſhop, he abruptly demanded of him if he was a good hand at catching an owl: the youth, ſuppoſing he was bantering him, ſtared him in the face, and, without giving any anſwer, went about his buſineſs. The compounder of me⯑dicines in the mean time caſt his eyes round [75] the ſhop, as in deſpair of finding any ſubſti⯑tute for his purpoſe, when in a lucky moment fortune threw within his ken a dried lizard hanging from the beam, which for time im⯑memorial had been the humble companion of a ſtuft aligator and the egg of an oſtrich.

‘"Aha! my little crony,"’ cried Alexander as he ey'd the lizard with tranſport, ‘"you and I muſt have a word together: come down, for I have ſpied thee in the very nick of time."’ This ſaid, he unhook'd the little ani⯑mal, and examined him from head to tail: he was as dry as the mummy of a patriarch; no crucible could have done the jobb more ef⯑fectually; he was a perfect deodand in the hands of an experimentaliſt. ‘"Thou wilt pul⯑verize moſt featly,"’ quoth Sawney, ‘"when I have thee under the peſtle; but before I con⯑ſign thee to the mortar and reduce thee to duſt, let me ponder upon thy properties, and do nothing without forecaſt and circumſpec⯑tion. Poiſonous thou can'ſt not be, for though I have never eaten of thy ſpecies myſelf, I know that others have; I have read that thou art a delicacy, a tit-bit as I may ſay, at the tables of the Chineſe, and if thy fleſh be de⯑licate, thy duſt cannot fail to be wholeſome; [76] nay, I doubt not but it is medicinal, a drug to my very purpoſe, an abſorbent, a repeller, an antidote to drunkenneſs, for the Chineſe are the ſobereſt nation upon earth. I'll begin upon thee incontinently. But hold, hold! whi⯑ther am I running? Thou haſt other virtues, if I could but recollect them; there is ſome⯑thing more about thee; ſomething I have read in learned authors of the back-bone of a lizard; and thine, Heaven be prais'd, I per⯑ceive is perfect and entire; but whether it is recorded as a provocative to incontinency, or as a preventive, I cannot for the blood of me to a certainty recollect: upon ſecond thoughts, I ſuſpect thou art a ſtimulative; as I'm a ſinner, I ſuſpect thou art of a ſtirring quality, for thy tail betokeneth it. Be it as it may, I will venture upon thee, for thou art a loving little creature, and fam'd above all the reptile race for being the friend of man: therein thou wilt aſſimilate in property with thy patient, for truly Madam Jemima is of an amorous and moſt incontinent propenſity."’

This ſaid, he took the animal by the tail, and with an air of triumph hurl'd it into the mortar, covering it up, as well to conceal his treaſure from diſcovery, as to preſerve it againſt [77] injury. He now turn'd his hand to the re⯑frigerating embrocation of oil and ivy-leaves, which having put into a phial, and properly labell'd, he conſign'd to Suſan, directing her how to apply it to the temples and forehead of her miſtreſs: his next buſineſs was to take ſix bitter almonds out of the drawer, and in⯑cloſe them in a writing paper labelled accord⯑ing to form, and theſe he depoſited upon the counter, reſerving them as an introductory kind of preamble to his grand arcanum now in actual projection, for old Bridget had in charge to prepare the wormwood-beer, ſo that all hands were now buſy and the work was in forward⯑neſs.

Whilſt Alexander was belabouring the lizard, for it was a tough morſel, Suſan had performed her part, and ſo plentifully had ſhe beſtowed the unction on the temples of the rubicund Bacchante, that Jemima's face, thus varniſhed, preſented to the beholder an intire maſk of crimſon foyle, with the contraſt of a pair of ferocious dark eyes, ſparkling under the ſhag⯑gy canopy of two enormous brows of the ſame ſubfuſcan hue with the eyes they over-arched.

Her malady, it is true, was conſiderably abated, but whether it was owing to the re⯑frigerating [78] mixture, or to a cordial doſe of ani⯑ſeed, which ſhe had juſt taken, is not for my purpoſe to enquire. Alexander now called luſtily for Suſan to adminiſter the bitter al⯑monds, but Suſan was not to be found; ſhe had walked into the village: Bridget was buſy with the wormwood-beer, and as for himſelf, he was ſtill in warm action with the lizard, who ſhewed great antipathy to being pulve⯑rized, and made a notable defence againſt the inceſſant battery of mortar and peſtle.

What was to be done? Henry was the only perſon unemployed, but Henry had ſtrong ob⯑jections to any errand that was to carry him into Jemima's bed-chamber. ‘"If ſuch be your ſcruples at ſtarting,"’ ſaid Kinloch, ‘"I pronounce at once you will never do for us in our way of buſineſs: we muſt go to all pa⯑tients, and the ſex of a ſick perſon is the laſt thing in our thoughts: are you afraid of riſqu⯑ing that ſmooth face of your's in your miſ⯑treſs's room, and have you the conceit to think ſhe will play the part of Potiphar's wife?"’—‘"Stop your raillery,"’ cried Henry, ‘"and ſpare yourſelf the pains of a very clumſy at⯑tempt at being witty, till I know what my duty is, and then I ſhall obey it."’

[79]He ſtept ſoftly up to Zachary's chamber, but finding him aſleep, ſhut the door with great caution, and returned. Unwilling to re⯑new an altercation with Kinloch, and finding that Bridget made altogether as light of his ſcruples, he took the pacquet of almonds, and having gently given notice at Jemima's door, was no leſs gently invited to enter it.

‘"I am ordered to bring you this medicine,"’ ſaid he, ‘"which Mr. Kinloch has prepar'd, and recommends you to take."’—‘"Give it me into my hand,"’ ſaid the dame, and at the ſame time taking it with one hand, and claſping his wriſt with the other, ſhe caſt a look of kind⯑neſs upon him, and ſaid ſhe did not doubt it would do her good, when tender'd to her by him, though ſhe had no faith in any thing of Sawney's preſcribing.

So ſaying ſhe unfolded the paper, and to her utter ſurprize found that it enveloped only half a dozen almonds. ‘"What does the fool mean by this?"’ cried ſhe; ‘"what good are theſe paltry things to do me? Let the old ape eat them himſelf,"’ and with that ſhe flung them away; ‘"But you, Henry, you do me all the good in life; your preſence is a cordial, that revives my drooping ſpirits, and whether [80] your maſter lives or dies, depend upon me, and you will have nobody to blame but your⯑ſelf, if I do not prove the beſt of friends to you;"’ in the ſame moment ſhe raiſed herſelf on the bolſter, reaching forth her arms, as if ſhe intended him the favour of an embrace.

Henry, who ſaw her eyes flaſhing, and her face red and ſhining like a ball of fire, ſup⯑poſed that ſhe was in a high fever fit, and de⯑lirious: he gently entreated her to be more compos'd, whilſt he ran down and call'd up thoſe, who were better able to aſſiſt her. ‘"Stop, I conjure you,"’ ſhe exclaim'd; ‘"if you fancy me in ſuch a ſtate of danger, can you have the heart to leave me?"’—‘"I will only leave you for a moment,"’ he replied, ‘"till I fetch Mr. Kinloch."’—‘"Are you in your ſenſes,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"to ſuppoſe that I can be comforted by the ſight of ſueh a ſcare-crow as old Kinloch? I want neither him nor his maſter, nor any of their potions, which I loath and deteſt, and hold to be the vileſt traſh upon earth. Had I any body about me with half a grain of ſenſe or feeling, I ſhould want none of their aſſiſtance. You, Henry, have a heart, or I am miſtaken; you can underſtand what I muſt endure in a family like this, and can pity [81] me: Cou'd I bind you to me by confidence, by favours, by affection, there is nothing I would not do to recompenſe and reward your attachment."’—‘"Madam,"’ replied Henry, ‘"ſo long as I receive the wages of Doctor Cawdle, you are intitled to every ſervice I can render you, conſiſtent with honour and my duty to him."’

‘"What honour and what duty do you owe to him, which you are not in an equal de⯑gree bound to fulfil towards me? Nay, if you are not loſt to every manly feeling, you will own that as a woman I have a ſuperior claim to your attentions: if you are ſway'd by in⯑tereſt, can you heſitate between me and him? If you are capable of being touch'd by a more generous paſſion, where can you more worthily beſtow it, than on one who has no ſcruple to confeſs the impreſſion you have made upon her heart?"’

‘"On your heart!"’ cried Henry, ‘"is it poſ⯑ſible you can be ſerious in this declaration? or am I only to regard it as the wandering of a feveriſh delirium?"’—‘"Regard it in no other ſenſe,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"than as the frank confeſſion of a woman, who is above the mean practice of diſguiſing what ſhe feels, and [82] whoſe mind is made up to the conviction, that what nature dictates muſt be right."’—‘"If that be your rule, Madam,"’ quoth Henry, ‘"you cannot be offended with me for adopt⯑ing it; therefore, as my nature dictates to me the impropriety of holding any further con⯑verſation with you upon this ſubject, you will pardon me if I cut it ſhort and take my leave."’

‘"Perverſe, provoking, obſtinate, hard fate!"’ exclaim'd the diſappointed fair, as ſoon as he had departed; ‘"thus is the patience of the ſaints for ever exercis'd by trials and temptations. But, thanks to the Spirit, through the aſſiſtance of grace, I have withſtood the importunities of the fleſh; I have wreſtled with the wicked one, and obtain'd the victory. Now, Jemima, thou may'ſt rejoice and tri⯑umph"’—here ſhe burſt into an agony of paſ⯑ſion, ſobb [...]ng and weeping after a piteous ſort, the tears trickling off her greaſy cheeks like water from the feathers of a duck.

Before this paroxyſm was well over, Kin⯑loch preſented himſelf at her bed-ſide, gor⯑geouſly arrayed in his robe of plaid, with the doſe of wormwood-beer and lizard powder oſtentatiouſly held forth in his right hand, [83] whilſt with the left he drew back the curtains, as if to give a greater pomp and richer flow of drapery to the introduction of his perſon, and of the precious contents, with which his goblet was charged.

‘"I have brought it,"’ quoth the vaunting empiric, ‘"with my own hands: a medicine of the rareſt virtues; the paragon of wonder-work⯑ing art; a panacea to reſtore exhauſted nature, though ſhe were at her laſt gaſp."’—‘"Is the fellow mad?"’ cried Jemima: ‘"what is it you are talking about?"’—‘"No matter, no matter,"’ replied Alexander; ‘"taſte and try!"’ with that he put the doſe into her hand. ‘"What naſtineſs have you given me?"’ cried ſhe; ‘"and what is it to do?"’—‘"It is,"’ ſaid he, ‘"an anti-inebriating julep, a ſheather of the ſpicula, with which inflammatory liquors trans-fix the vitals: I don't quite ſay it will make you immortal, but it will keep off death, though he were at the door."’—‘"Then take it yourſelf, you ſkeleton,"’ cried the dame; and forthwith vollied the whole contents of the potion in Alexander's face, who inſtantly fled out of the room, covered with the filthy mix⯑ture, ſputtering and ſwearing he would ſooner [84] preſcribe to the whore of Babylon, than ſuch a drunken vixen as ſhe was.

CHAPTER XI. Meditations in a Kitchen.

WHEN Jemima was left to reflect ſeri⯑ouſly upon the rebuff ſhe had met from Henry, and found it no longer poſſible to turn it to her credit by any ſophiſtry or ſelf-deluſion that her vanity could ſuggeſt, nothing remained but to ſoothe herſelf with ſchemes and projects of revenge; and in the courſe of theſe meditations it naturally occurred to her, that whilſt ſhe kept ſo fine a girl in her ſer⯑vice as Suſan May, ſhe would never be with⯑out a rival in her own family; and as this was not the firſt mortification of the ſort ſhe had encountered ſince that girl had been about her perſon, ſhe began to think that in good po⯑licy ſhe could not be too quick in getting rid of her. The queſtion however had its con as well as pro, for Suſan was a decoy-duck, that brought game to the net, as in the inſtance of the afore-mentioned Juſtice Blachford, who [85] found it worth his while to beſtow many cour⯑teous attentions upon the miſtreſs, by way of maſque to his approaches in another quarter.

Although few gentlewomen in Mrs. Caw⯑dle's circumſtances would have had the conde⯑ſcenſion to be ſo explicit with a ſervant juſt hired into their family, yet that gracious per⯑ſonage, mindful, no doubt, of the time when ſhe herſelf took poſt in that low order of ſo⯑ciety, had neither that pride of virtue nor that delicacy of ſentiment about her to be wounded by reflections of this ſort; faithful to her an⯑tient habits, ſhe was in the practice of plain deal⯑ing on thoſe occaſions where other ladies uſe fineſſe, and by making her wiſhes well under⯑ſtood was ſure of bringing them to a ſpeedy iſſue at all events, and avoiding that moſt painful of all ſituations, a ſtate of expectation and ſuſpenſe. At the ſame time when thoſe wiſhes were croſſed and thwarted, the good lady had a due ſenſe of her own dignity, and reſented a diſappointment with as much ſpirit as her warmeſt admirers could wiſh her to have; and never was this ſpirit more tho⯑roughly called forth than at the preſent mo⯑ment by Henry's unaccountable neglect of her moſt gracious advances; a circumſtance that [86] ſeemed to run counter to all calculation; for who ſo unlikely to withſtand temptation as a creature deſtitute of every thing, and without a friend upon earth? The greater therefore muſt be her mortification to find her wiſhes thwarted and her favours rejected by one ſo circumſtanced, and that in a ſtile ſo peremp⯑tory and determined, as left her no hope of ſuc⯑ceeding in any future attempt. She could not of courſe fail to ſee how much it was for her repoſe, as well as for her dignity, to put him out of ſight by an immediate diſmiſſion, in which ſhe had little fear of being over-ruled by her huſ⯑band, who could hardly be ſaid to have even a ſecondary authority in the affairs of the fa⯑mily.

Whilſt theſe reſolutions were forming in the boſom of the indignant dame, Henry's thoughts were employed upon meaſures for anticipating their execution by a voluntary ſe⯑ceſſion, for it ſeemed to him inconſiſtent with propriety to remain any longer in his preſent ſervice: his mind, trained in the principles of honour, and uncontaminated by impure con⯑nections, revolted from the idea of taking wages from the huſband and bribes from the wife: his experience of adverſity, though ſhort, [87] had been ſevere; it had pleaſed Heaven to plunge him at once into diſtreſs and poverty, againſt the force of which his former habits and education had not furniſhed him with any of thoſe reſources, which men taught to labour from their birth are provided with; and of the world at large he had as little knowledge as any being could well have, who had lived in civilized ſociety for his term of years: ſtill he was reſolute to preſerve his integrity and com⯑bat his hard fortune as he could; and whereas the very ſame difficulties had now fallen upon him in this his ſecond ſervice as he had en⯑countered in his firſt, he ſaw no encourage⯑ment to ſeek a place in any family, where he was liable to be entangled in the ſnares of the fair ſex; to put himſelf therefore effectually out of their reach, there ſeemed no way ſo honourable as by enliſting himſelf in the firſt recruiting party he could meet: here he fore⯑ſaw that thoſe gifts which Nature had beſtowed upon him would no longer lead him into em⯑barraſſments; but on the contrary might ope⯑rate to his advantage: to the ſervice of his king he determined to devote that perſon, which, in his preſent courſe of life, ſeemed likely to involve him in a continual ſeries of [88] ſtruggles and perplexities; when crowned with the cap of a grenadier, he flattered himſelf he ſhould be no longer courted by any miſtreſs but glory, and to her ſolicitations he might ſafely commit his honour and his conſcience.

In the purſuit of theſe meditations he had already paſſed ſome ſolitary minutes, whilſt old Bridget was occupied elſewhere; when Suſan May came in from her walk to the village, and took her ſeat beſide him. In the courſe of the converſation that enſued Henry did not diſguiſe from her his intention of quitting his preſent ſervice, though of his motives he did not ſpeak; theſe however Suſan was at no loſs to conceive; the experience ſhe had of her miſtreſs's character, and the manner in which Henry evaded her queſtions, aſſiſting her con⯑jectures ſo as to give her a ſufficient inſight into the real cauſe of his diſguſt. She felt too ſtrongly in her own heart the emotions which a perſon like Henry's was capable of inſpir⯑ing, not to credit her miſtreſs for the like ſen⯑ſations; ſhe ſpoke of her without reſerve, and pronounced upon his motives with ſuch confi⯑dence, as ſoon as ſhe underſtood he had at⯑tended upon her with her medicines, that though ſhe could not bring him to confeſſion, [89] ſhe took his ſilence for aſſent, and proceeded without interruption till ſhe had exhauſted her eloquence on the ſubject.

When he told her of his intention to enliſt, ſhe ſighed, and ſaid ſhe knew too well what hard⯑ſhips a ſoldier ſuffered, for ſhe had had a bro⯑ther in the army, as fine a young man as ever was ſeen, but he was now no more; he was killed at the ſiege of Gibraltar, in a ſally upon the Spaniſh lines; ſhe hoped that Henry would not run ſuch a deſperate courſe; for her part ſhe did not ſee the neceſſity there was for his leaving the Doctor's ſervice merely becauſe her miſtreſs had whims in her head, which, when ſhe was more calm, would pro⯑bably ſubſide; ſhe muſt own it was extremely natural that ſo handſome a young man ſhould be admired by the women; it was what he muſt expect, go where he would, but then it was always in his power to return it or not, as his inclination prompted him; and though it was againſt nature to ſuppoſe he could ever throw away his regards upon ſuch an object as her miſtreſs, yet had it been a caſe where ages were ſuitable, and love was on both ſides, ſhe took for granted the ſame ſcruples would not have operated; for an attachment of that ſort [90] ſhe obſerved was quite another thing from ſelling himſelf to ſuch an old cat as her miſ⯑treſs.

‘"Foh!"’ cried Henry, ‘"all the money in the word would not pay me for ſuch a ſacri⯑fice."’—‘"No, to be ſure,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"love makes all the difference in life: every kindneſs that does not come from the heart coſts one a pang; but to the man we love, Oh! Henry, that woman's heart muſt be as hard as marble who can refuſe him any thing."’

As ſhe ſaid this ſhe leant her hand careleſsly on his ſhoulder; it was one of thoſe move⯑ments that intend a great deal and profeſs to mean nothing; but whilſt ſhe was ſitting in this attitude, enveloped in the contemplation of one of the fineſt countenances in nature, behold! on a ſudden one very little reſem⯑bling it, the property of Alexander Kinloch, preſented itſelf to her view, that learned per⯑ſon having ſilently crept into the kitchen and ſurprized them in their conference.

‘"Aha! my young ſpark!"’ quoth the in⯑terloper, ‘"is it thus you paſs your time, whilſt I am toiling like a galley-ſlave at an oar till my fingers cling to the peſtle? I have [91] been wanting you in the ſhop; here are medi⯑cines to take out, and plenty of buſineſs to be done, when you are at leiſure to put your hand to it; but at preſent I perceive you are engaged, and in a way, let me tell you, that is more likely to make work for the Doctor than to do any."’

Suſan turned her eyes upon the ſpeaker, and with a ſmile that would have ſoftened the heart of Herod, apologized for Henry by taking all the blame to herſelf:—‘"I was telling him,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"what a kind ſoul you are, and what a world of knowledge he may gain from your inſtructions, if he will but ſtay amongſt us; but indeed and indeed, my good Mr. Kinloch, I am afraid there will be no living in this houſe for any of us long, if my miſtreſs is to go on at this rate."’

This was touching the very maſter-ſtring of Kinloch's mental machinery, who hated Je⯑mima as cordially as he loved to hear his own praiſes. Suſan had ingeniouſly contrived in a ſhort compaſs to give him a ſmall remem⯑brance of both; the conſequence was an in⯑ſtant truce between him and Henry, who was nevertheleſs conſtrained to be a patient hearer of a long and furious philippic from the jour⯑neyman [92] doctor, in which he belaboured poor Jemima without mercy, and not the leſs vi⯑rulently for the affront ſhe had ſo lately put upon him, when ſhe returned the potion upon his hands, which he had compounded with ſuch care and ſkill. Not that his oration conſiſted, like ſome that might be named, of one continued ſtrain of invective, for on the contrary it was relieved every now and then with a ſtrong daſh of the panegyric, of which he was himſelf the ſole hero, on all which occaſions he took eſpecial care to contraſt the brilliancy of his own charac⯑ter by throwing that of his maſter Zachary into ſhade; and in truth there was no other way of bringing the weight of their reſpective abilities to any thing like a balance but this which Alexander adopted for making his own ſcale equiponderate, by borrowing from that which elſe would have cauſed him to kick the beam.

When he had pretty well exhauſted the ca⯑talogue of Jemima's failings, and added a few more items to the account of his own per⯑fections, than a leſs partial calculator would have diſcovered, the tempeſt of his wrath ſubſided into ſo perfect a calm, that he began [93] to rally the young people in a ſtrain which he miſtook for humour; and when he underſtood from Suſan that Henry meditated a haſty re⯑treat, he heartily joined her in perſuading him not to quit the poſt he had taken, where ſuch mighty advantages might be reaped by a diligent attention to the inſtructions he ſhould give him, and by the opportunities he would have of ſeeing the art practiſed in its greateſt perfection:—‘"I own to you,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that there is ſomething to get over before you can ſubmit to ſerve a woman like your miſtreſs; for whether it is your lot to fall into her good graces or her ill ones, ſhe is equally intolerable. As for the Doctor, poor man, he is a mere cypher in the houſe, and pretty nearly ſo in his profeſſion; the weight of that reſts upon me; ſo that with him you will have little to do and leſs to learn; with me you will have enough of both: but you well know there is no learning without labour, as Ari⯑ſtotle wiſely obſerves; therefore courage, my good lad, think no more of the troubleſome woman above ſtairs, who has thrown away the only chance ſhe had for a longer ſtay in this world by rejecting a medicine that might have wrought wonders in her conſtitution; [94] but ſhe was unworthy of it, and 'tis happy for the world that I had reſerv'd enough of the ineſtimable drug of which it was com⯑pounded to make experiment on another pa⯑tient, whoſe caſe exactly tallies, being as great a ſot as herſelf, and as far gone in the diſorders incidental to that fatal propenſity."’

Alexander now produced a phial containing the aſhes of the lizard ſteeped in wormwood-beer, and delivered it with many charges to Henry, directing him the ſtrait road to the George and Dragon ale-houſe, where he was to give it into the hands of Dame Dunckley, the hoſteſs, whoſe ſtomach, after all the hard ſervices it had gone through in the courſe of her profeſſion, was now deſtined to en⯑counter a doſe that might have diſcompoſed the nerves of a ſtone-eater.

With this important commiſſion Henry ſet forward towards the ale-houſe, and Suſan, at the ſummons of the bell, to attend upon her miſtreſs.

CHAPTER I. Reaſons for writing as faſt as we can.

THOSE rules which a well-bred man lays down for himſelf, when he engages in the difficult taſk of telling a long ſtory about per⯑ſons unknown to the circle he is in, may with equal propriety be adopted by an author in the conduct of a novel: both purſue the ſame ob⯑ject, and both incur the ſame riſque of failing in the purſuit, which certainly requires a con⯑ſiderable ſhare of management and addreſs to ſucceed in.

A ſtory will infallibly diſguſt if it is told in vulgar and ill-choſen language; if interlarded with affected phraſes, or florid deſcriptions, that advance no intereſt; if it is delivered in a pedantic laboured ſtile, unſuitable to charac⯑ters in familiar life, if it ſubſtitutes dull jokes and ribaldry in the place of wit and pleaſantry; if the teller either digreſſes too often from the main ſubject, or dwells too long and circum⯑ſtantially [96] upon matters not ſufficiently impor⯑tant or amuſing; in ſhort, if it fails in any of thoſe requiſites that ſhould keep the attention wakeful and alert, it is a bad ſtory, and the teller has wilfully brought himſelf into diſ⯑grace with his hearers by cheating them of their expectations and abuſing their indul⯑gence.

So is it with the novel-writer; the ſame faults will be puniſhed with the ſame con⯑tempt.

Be the matter ever ſo intereſting, which falls to the taſk of any one man to relate in public company, he will naturally be aſhamed of keeping their attention too long upon the ſtretch; and if he cannot prevail upon other tongues to move, yet in good manners and common delicacy, he will contrive to make ſome breaks and pauſes in his narrative, which may give relief to the ear, and ſome degree of relaxation to the mind. This ſeems generally underſtood by the novel-writer, who, by the diſtribution of his matter into books and chap⯑ters, tenders to the reader in his ſeveral ſtages ſo many inns or baiting-places by the way, where he hangs out a ſign that there is reſt at leaſt to be had for the weary traveller.

[97]An eminent author, whoſe talent for novel-writing was unequalled, and whoſe authority ought greatly to weigh with all, who ſucceed him in the ſame line, furniſhed his baiting-places with ſuch ingenious hoſpitality, as not only to ſupply his gueſts with the neceſſary remiſſions from fatigue, but alſo to recruit them with viands of a very nutritive as well as palatable quality. According to this figure of ſpeech, (which cannot be miſtaken, as alluding to his prefatory chapters) he was not only a pleaſant facetious companion by the way, but acted the part of an admirable hoſt at every one of the inns. Alas! it was famous tra⯑velling in his days: I remember him full well, and deſpair of ever meeting his like again, upon that road at leaſt.

Others there have been, and one there was of the ſame day, who was a well-meaning civil ſoul, and had a ſoft ſimpering kind of addreſs, that took mightily with the ladies, whom he contrived to uſher through a long, long journey, with their handkerchiefs at their eyes, weep⯑ing and wailing by the way, till he conducted them, at the cloſe of it, either to a raviſhment or a funeral, or perhaps to a madhouſe, where he [98] left them to get off as they could. He was a charming man, and had a deal of cuſtom, but the other's was the houſe that I frequented.

There was a third, ſomewhat poſterior in time, not in talents, who was indeed a rough driver, and rather too ſevere to his cattle; but, in faith, he carried us on at a merry pace over land or ſea; nothing came amiſs to him, for he was up to both elements, and a match for na⯑ture in every ſhape, character, and degree: he was not very courteous, it muſt be owned, for he had a capacity for higher things, and was above his buſineſs: he only wanted a little more ſuavity and diſcretion to have figured with the beſt.

With theſe I ſhall ſtop; for another ſtep would bring me into company with the living, and of my partiality for my contemporaries I am too conſcious to put my judgment to the riſque of criticiſm, which may not be over-indulgent to miſtakes of the heart. Them and myſelf I implicitly reſign to the favour and protection of thoſe public ſpirited inſpec⯑tors of literature, who undertake the laborious taſk of reviewing every thing we write, and who underſtand ſo well the policy of the wiſe Lacedaemonians, that no ſooner do they light [99] upon a deformed or ricketty bantling, but they charitably ſtrangle it outright, and don't let it ſurvive to diſgrace us with poſterity. This is mercy to the age at large, though any one of us, upon whom it falls, is apt to call it cruelty, when we are ſent to the trunk-maker and the paſtry-cook to drive the beſt bargain we can for our property, before it is turned over to the worms, who then only take us into reading when nobody elſe will: but ſuch is our obſtinacy notwithſtanding, that it ſeems as if we ſpitefully wrote the more in contradic⯑tion to our real friends, who fairly tell us we cannot write at all.

However, at the very worſt, we can always draw this conſolation from our faults, that our kind correctors have had infinite pleaſure in finding them out; for ſurely if the diſcovery gave pain, no man would voluntary engage in the ſearch.

There is alſo another cheering reflection we have to feed upon, which is, that thoſe authors, who ſhall follow us in point of time, will fall ſhort of us in point of merit. Homer himſelf tells us this, who, as an Epic poet, was ſurely intereſted to hold up his heroes as high as he could, and yet is compelled to confeſs [100] that the pelting they beſtowed upon each other was but children's play compared to what their fathers could do at that ſport. Now it is clear, that from Homer's day to the pre⯑ſent hour there has been a gradual falling off in the human powers, mental and bodily; from which I infer that the novel laſt written may always be preſumed the worſt that ever was written; and therefore that it behoves every writer, and myſelf amongſt the reſt, to write as faſt as ever we can, for the longer we are about it the worſe it will be. And this re⯑minds me that I ought to bring this chapter to a concluſion, and attend to the hiſtory, which, in the mean time, has been ſtanding ſtill, and cannot profit by a pauſe.

CHAPTER II. The Hiſtory goes to the Alehouſe.—Bella, horrida bella!

AT ſome diſtance from the houſe of Doc⯑tor Cawdle, and in the centre of the vil⯑lage, there was a ſpacious green, round which the cottages were ſcattered in irregular groupes, and amongſt theſe the habitation of Alexander [101] Kinloch's patient, conſpicuouſly diſtinguiſhed by the effigies of the heroic ſaint of England beſtriding an enormous dragon. Hither Henry bent his courſe, charged with the ineſtimable potion, and caſting a look upon the ſign for ſecurity's ſake, thought himſelf ſufficiently warranted to enter the houſe without further enquiry, all poſſible ſcruples being ſatisfied by the information of the following ingenious diſtich:—

He found the hoſt and hoſteſs in the kitchen, with three or four gueſts aſſembled over their liquor: the lady, who was deſtined to entomb the aſhes of the lizard, was ſeated in a wicker chair by the chimney ſide, contemplating a few weeping ſticks, that were bewailing their ſad fate on the hearth. When Henry was certified as to the perſon of the patient, and had diſcharged himſelf of his commiſſion by delivering the doſe into her hands, he was cal⯑led upon to give anſwer to a ſtring of en⯑quiries, which the curioſity of the good dame prompted her to make upon the ſight of a ſtranger, for whoſe appearance as ſervant to [102] Zachary ſhe could not account, the news of that event not having reached her ears. How long had he been with Doctor Cawdle? Where did he come from? What was his name? The very little intelligence ſhe gathered from theſe queſtions did not diſcourage her from ſtill going on to aſk—If he knew what the ſtuff in the phial was? Did he make it up, or did Kinloch?—Kinloch made it up, and he knew nothing about it.—By this time ſhe had drawn the cork, and was ſmelling to it.—‘"Phoh!"’ cried the dame, ‘"a dog would not ſwallow this: what does he mean by ſending ſuch poiſonous ſtuff? carry it back to the old Scotchman, and bid him take it himſelf, for I'll have none of his naſtineſs."’—‘"Pardon me there,"’ replied Henry; ‘"I carry out phy⯑ſic from the Doctor, but I bring none back."’

‘"No, no,"’ cried Nathaniel, the landlord, ‘"that would be carrying coals to Newcaſtle, as the ſaying is; you are in the right there, my lad: I ſee you are a knowing hand, and have got your leſſon already. Pr'ythee, where did you live before our doctor hir'd you? I warrant you are a Londoner."’—‘"I ſuppoſe it can little concern you to know from whence I come,"’ replied Henry, ‘"but I am no Londoner: I [103] have done my errand, and I believe that is all that need paſs between you and me for the preſent."’—‘"By the living,"’ repeated Natha⯑niel, ‘"you are a deep one; I warrant me you have been at queſtion and anſwer before now, and will be again ere long; but have a care our juſtice don't lay his fingers upon you; 'fore George, you'll find it no eaſy job to get out of his gripe."’

Amongſt the people, who were drinking, there was one in a ſailor's jacket, who went by the nickname of Bowſey, a bold and reſolute fellow, who occaſionally uſed the ſea, and at intervals returned to his pariſh to make waſte of his earnings, and raiſe what contributions he could upon the neighbourhood, by ſnaring game, or any other pilfering and illegal de⯑predations, which he could turn his hand to. This Bowſey was the terror of all his induſ⯑trious neighbours, and the favourite of all the idle ones. No man handled a fighting cock like Bowſey; and at the country races he hawked about liſts of the ſporting ladies with univerſal applauſe; at fairs and markets he cried gingerbread and ſung ballads with equal eclat; at boxing matches he was in his element, and bottle holder general to all bruiſers; [104] in nine-pin allies, foot-ball, huſtle-cap, and every drunken gambling ſport or fray, Bowſey was without an equal.

This ingenious perſon, whoſe attachment to Juſtice Blachford was pretty much of the ſort with what the devil is vulgarly ſaid to have to holy-water, had no ſooner heard the landlord out, than turning to him with an angry look and ſurly voice, he reprimanded him for his contemptuous treatment of a ſtranger, who had given him no offence, de⯑manding of the company round, if any man had a right to be called a rogue, till he was found out to be one.—A nod of aſſent from the tiplers preſent encouraged him to proceed.—‘"And who but a ſcandalous fellow would go about to blaſt a poor lad's character for nothing but becauſe he would not plead to your damn'd impertinent queſtions? And why threaten him with Juſtice Blachford? We all know what he is: many an honeſter man than himſelf has he committed to priſon."’—‘"Have a care, Maſter Bowſey,"’ quoth the landlord, ‘"what you ſay of Juſtice Blachford; keep a good tongue in your head, if you are wiſe, for his worſhip, let me tell you, has long ears."’—‘"Yes,"’ cried Bowſey, ‘"and ſharp [105] eyes after every young wench in the neigh⯑bourhood; we all know well enough that he has his lurchers and ſpies about day and night, ſo that a man can't ſtir a hand, but he has his ſetters upon him; if you ſaid a word, friend Dunckley, he would ſtop your licence, and rob you of your livelihood, therefore you are in the right to be wary; but I value not his favour at a ruſh; what I ſay, I'll ſay to his face."’ Then turning to Henry, who ſtood beſide him, he exclaimed, ‘"Come, my hearty fellow, don't be caſt down by any thing they ſay; keep a good heart, and ſet them at nought, for I am your friend, and let me ſee the man, who dares to affront you."’

Theſe words were ſcarce out of his mouth, when a company of young men entered the alehouſe kitchen in a riotous manner, amongſt whom was Tom Weevil, the miller's ſon, whom Henry had the ſcuffle with at the ford. The death of his dog, and the diſgrace he fell into on that occaſion, ſtill rankled in his mind, and he had now ſet out with a full reſolution to wreak his vengeance upon his antagoniſt, for which purpoſe he had brought a parcel of his cronies to back him: with theſe fellows he had been taking a cup to give a ſpur to his [106] courage, and put ſpirits in him for the en⯑counter. No ſooner, therefore, had he ſet eyes upon the object of his reſentment, than he be⯑gan to aſſail him in the moſt opprobrious terms, beſtowing many hard names upon him, and challenging him to fight it out fairly on the green before the door.

The meekneſs of Henry's expoſtulation had no other effect, than to provoke a torrent of oaths and defiances, repeated in language the moſt inſulting, and echoed by his colleagues, who played the part of chorus to the leading ſtrain. Nathaniel Dunckley, the hoſt, who had been an approving hearer of all the foul words, which the miller had ſo liberally be⯑ſtowed upon the unoffending ſtranger, and who was well diſpoſed to put the worſt interpreta⯑tion upon his patience, now began to triumph in his turn, and to plume himſelf on his ſa⯑gacity in having ſpied out the traces of a rogue in the moſt innocent countenance in nature. In the mean time Bowſey, who had not the ſmalleſt objection to a battle, eſpecially where he was not to be principal, began to exalt his voice amidſt the uproar, and to bluſter in behalf of the weaker party, whom he now declared to be his friend, and one that [107] he would ſecond, if he wou'd turn out againſt Weevil, whom he retorted upon with the more acrimony, as owing him an old grudge on paſt accounts.

The young miller, who found himſelf in a ſtrong majority, and well backed by every body about him, anſwered Bowſey in his own ſtrain, telling him, that he knew well enough why he was ſo ſpiteful againſt him, becauſe he had caught him at his pilfering tricks, and deſtroyed the trimmers and thief-nets he had ſet in the river; ‘"but I give you fair warn⯑ing, my maſter,"’ added he with an oath, ‘"that the very next time I trap you at that ſport, you ſhall ſwing for it like a rogue as you are."’

Bowſey, not the leſs galled by this charge for knowing it was true, grew furious with rage, and ſhaking his fiſt at him in a threat⯑ening attitude, bade him take heed what he ſaid, for though he was now in the midſt of his myrmidons, the time would come when he ſhould find an opportunity to make him repent of his vapouring, which, he might de⯑pend upon it, ſhould not go unrevenged. ‘"Shame upon you!"’ cried dame Dunckley, from the chimney corner, ‘"would you go to [108] murder the young man for ſpeaking the truth? Take notice, neighbours, and remember what he ſays: 'tis a pity but the juſtice heard it."’ The juſtice did not hear it, but there were ſome who did, and as his houſe was no further off than acroſs the green, the hint, if well underſtood, had not far to travel, and there is reaſon to think it found the road thither very ſpeedily, and without any loſs by the way.

Henry, who found himſelf unintentionally a witneſs to converſation, for which he had no reliſh, was in the very act of retiring out of company, when his challenger caught him by the arm, and in a bullying tone peremptorily demanded if he would turn out like a man, and ſet to upon the green, or ſculk like a coward from a fair propoſal, and be kick'd about the houſe. This was ſeconded by a loud ſhout from the party, and even Bowſey ſeemed abaſhed, being awed into ſilence by the proſpect of half a ſcore ſtout cudgels, brandiſhed in the air, and ready to execute any kind of vengeance, that might be required of them by the champion of the gang.

‘"You may quit your hold of me,"’ ſaid Henry to the miller, ‘"for I ſhall not run [109] away from any man, who threatens me with a kicking. If you really mean to put it into execution, I hope theſe gentlemen at your back will leave you to yourſelf, and not aſſiſt in the doing it: they may ſhout on your ſide, and brandiſh their ſticks as much as they pleaſe, but even that is not very manly, con⯑ſidering I am here a ſtranger, and without a friend, except this ſingle man, who ſeems to have drawn himſelf into danger and ill will, by taking part with the weaker ſide, and ſtand⯑ing forth in my defence. Whether I deſerve this treatment for what paſs'd between us at the mill, you may aſk your own conſcience; I ſhall make no appeal to a company like this, who ſeem determin'd to bear me down, right or wrong, by noiſe and numbers. Take notice, Mr. Weevil, that if I was one of thoſe, who make boxing a ſcience, I ſhou'd be war⯑ranted in declining your challenge, for you are in all reſpects above my match, heavier, and ſtronger, and taller than me; but, never⯑theleſs, if you are determined to have me out, don't be at the trouble of kicking me, for that may be fatal to one of us in a room like this, and probably not very pleaſant to the miſtreſs of the houſe: go forth into the green, [110] chuſe your ground, and I'll take my chance for a beating, rather than be kick'd into cou⯑rage, which is a diſcipline I am not uſed to, and have no ſtomach for."’

A murmur ran through the crowd, that would have been applauſe, if there had not been ſomething nearer to their hearts, than juſtice or generoſity. The young miller ſtept forward, and drawing a canvaſs purſe out of his pocket, emptied it's contents upon the table, in gold and ſilver, to no trifling amount, and vauntingly called upon Henry to ſtake all, or any part, of the amount upon the battle. When this was altogether declined on the part of Henry, he gathered up his caſh again, while dame Dunckley from her wicker chair, like the Pythia from her tripod, prophetically exclaimed, ‘"What ſhou'd you fight for, ye fooliſh boys? mind, if you don't draw the juſtice out of his den upon you both."’ The voice of divination was not heard; the die was caſt for battle, and forth ruſhed the whole company upon the green.

Now Bowſey was in his element: provided with a bottle of water in one hand, a coloured handkerchief and a lemon in the other, he fallied forth upon the field of battle, taking his [111] champion under the arm, and as they walked apart from the crowd, whiſpering many ſage inſtructions in his ear, where to place his blows with beſt effect, and pointing out cer⯑tain vital parts, where a well-directed ſtroke might effectually diſable his antagoniſt, and enſure the victory. In this however the pro⯑feſſor and the pupil did by no means agree: vengeance rankled in Bowſey's breaſt; courage and humanity held divided empire in the heart of Henry. ‘"Be content,"’ he replied, ‘"I'll foil him without maiming him; he is more than half tipſey, and will be out of breath in a few minutes; t'wou'd be a ſin to hurt him: boxing has been a kind of boyiſh exerciſe with me, and I never yet practis'd it in wrath, much leſs with miſchief and ran⯑cour in my mind: my aim will be to avoid his blows, and let him beat himſelf."’—‘"Don't make too ſure of that,"’ replied Bowſey; ‘"I know his way of fighting, for I have taken a round or two with him myſelf; he ſtrikes as hard as the kick of a horſe."’—Henry now took off his jacket, and recollecting a large claſp-knife, which he wore in the ſide pocket of his breeches, delivered it to Bowſey, ob⯑ſerving that it might hurt him in his falls: [112] and being now diveſted of all weapons but what nature had given him, he advanced cheerfully to the ring, where his brawny op⯑ponent, like another Goliath, ſtood encircled by his Philiſtines, and whom he now ap⯑proached with a complacent ſmile, tendering him his hand, and ſaying,—‘"Come, miller, let us be friends before we ſet to; I hope you bear no malice, and will ſhew yourſelf a brave fellow by giving me fair play."’ Inſenſible to the humanity and mildneſs of this addreſs, the other, with a ſavage ferocity, bade him take his ground, for he ſhould give his hand to no ſuch vagabond as he was.

The temper of our hero, milky as it was, could ill brook this aggravating inſult: the colour mounted to his cheeks, his ſpirit ſparkled in his eyes, and darting a contemp⯑tuous look at his antagoniſt, he ſilently ſtept back to his ground, and poſting himſelf in the centre of the ring, with clenched fiſts, braced muſcles, and frowning brow, the juve⯑nile athletic, terrible in his beauty, preſented to the ſight of the ſurrounding ruſtics a figure and attitude, which the ſtatuaries of Greece, in the brighteſt aera of the art, might have been emulous to ſtudy.

[113]The onſet now began, which was to bring the conteſt between brutal ſtrength and ſkill⯑ful agility to an iſſue. The ſturdy blows of the miller, which ſeemed to menace his op⯑ponent with extinction, were ſo artfully warded that they ſerved no other purpoſe, but to waſte his ſtrength and exhauſt his breath. Furious and implacable in his rage, he ſtill continued to advance, and preſs upon his more wary antagoniſt; till Henry, who kept a ſteady eye upon every movement of his foe, no ſooner ſpied an opening, than he ſprung within his guard, and with a blow, which ſeemed to have the force, as well as ſwiftneſs, of lightning, laid him proſtrate on the turf. Bowſey leapt upright and ſmote his hands for joy: the hoſtile phalanx gave a groan, whilſt their fallen champion was ſlowly raiſed from the ground by his ſeconds. Had not Henry's patience been urged by the inſult above related, it may well be doubted if he would have plied his advantage either ſo forcibly, or in a part ſo ſenſible to injury as the throat; but repeated provocations had rouſed a ſpirit, which could hardly be ſaid to have a tincture of gall, and he now contemplated his fallen foe with pity and regret.

[114]The miller, however, did not keep him long in painful ſuſpence; the blood, which flowed freely from his noſtrils, by the violence of the ſhock upon the ground, relieved him from the ſtupor that at firſt poſſeſſed his ſenſes, and by the aſſiſtance of his ſeconds he was again upon his legs, and in a poſture to renew the battle; but ſo miſerably creſt-fallen was this vaunting braggart, and ſo confuſed and off his guard, that the generous victor, though re⯑peatedly urged by Bowſey to follow up his ad⯑vantage, would not avail himſelf of it to the utmoſt; ſo thoroughly was his reſentment allayed, that he warned him more than once to keep a better guard, or give over fighting: and now not only Weevil's ſeconds, but his whole party, grew outrageous, and kept no order in the ring, thronging round the com⯑batants, and ſhouldering Henry in a moſt un⯑fair and riotous manner. It therefore became neceſſary for him, in ſelf preſervation, to make a ſhort battle of it, and a ſecond blow, placed centrically between the eyes, laid his adverſary a ſecond time at his length upon the ground, totally diſqualified for another onſet.

An uproar of voices now enſued, ſome run⯑ning to the beaten party, whilſt others were [115] laying about them with their ſticks, and would probably have demoliſhed both the conqueror and his ſecond, had not peace been pro⯑claimed by the authority of the worſhipful Juſtice Blachford, attended by his ſecond, the conſtable, who inſtantly proceeded to fulfil his orders, by arreſting the only innocent perſon in the affray, dragging Henry to the ſtocks, who, being ſprinkled with a pretty large portion of the miller's blood, and ſurpriſed in the very act of knocking him down, might have biaſſed the judgment of a more equitable magiſtrate than he had now to deal with.

Bowſey, being an old offender and a bold talker againſt Blachford, was ſentenced alſo to the ſame place of durance with his principal, though he made many efforts to aſſert his in⯑nocence, which his worſhip lent no ear to, delivering him over to his ſentence with the voice of authority, whilſt he went growling, like a bear to a ſtake, amidſt the hiſſes and hootings of the whole village mob, who were there aſſembled.

CHAPTER III. A Story gains by telling.

THERE is not a miniſter of ſtate, gene⯑ral, or potentate upon earth, who keeps ſo many couriers, or employs them ſo much, as a certain buſy body called Fame: to all quarters of the compaſs her emiſſaries fly at one and the ſame inſtant; there is no ſtop with them for the penning of diſpatches; they want no written evidence of the news they carry, but away they poſt with word-of-mouth intelligence, which gathers as it goes, every tongue that repeats it adding, ſomething to the tale, till ſuch a cluſter of falſhoods are wound and woven round one ſmall atom of original truth, that you may as ſoon find a grain of wheat in a buſhel of chaff, as ſearch for fact amongſt the fictions that envelope it. It was however ſo ſhort a ſtage from the village-green to the houſe of Zachary, that the cou⯑rier, who came poſt with the tidings of Henry's fight, had ſo little time for his invention to work in, that he had done little or nothing to the improvement of the truth, except killing [117] the miller, and ſending Henry to priſon in fet⯑ters for the murder.

With theſe ſlight advantages in point of effect the ſtory found its way to the ears of Alexander Kinloch, juſt as he was in the act of puniſhing the ſins and offences of a rotten grinder in the jaw-bone of a patient, by lug⯑ging out its guiltleſs neighbour, which being ſound and ſtrong, and an uſeful ſervant withal, came ſo unwillingly out of his ſocket, that he brought part of it away with him as a proof of his attachment to his duty.

Alexander had a gift of foreſeeing things after they had come to paſs, which I take to be a true definition of the ſecond ſight; he there⯑fore heard the tidings of Henry's fate with no other remark, than that he thought how it would be; but as the operation he was en⯑gaged in was a work of charity, and the pa⯑tient of courſe not entitled to a grievance, he left him to reconcile himſelf to the miſtake as he could, and retired into the kitchen, where old Bridget was occupied in her culi⯑nary concerns.

‘"Here's a pretty kettle of fiſh, o' my conſcience,"’ cried Alexander, as he entered the kitchen.—‘"What's the matter with the [118] fiſh?"’ replied Bridget, as ſhe was flaying an eel; ‘"I'm ſure they are all leaping alive, and will hardly let me ſtrip their ſkins off, fooliſh things, wreathing and wriggling about at ſuch a rate."’—‘"I told you how it would be,"’ continued the prophet.—‘"I have no need to be told of that,"’ quoth the dame; ‘"they are always the plague of my life, teazing crea⯑tures!"’—‘"When the Doctor brought this no-name fellow amongſt us, I predicted what would follow, and now he has murdered a man, and muſt ſwing for it: Juſtice Blach⯑ford has ſent him loaded with irons to the county gaol."’—‘"What are you talking of?"’ cried Bridget, (laying down her knife, and leaving the poor eel under operation in much the ſame mangled ſtate as Alexander had left his patient) ‘"is our young Henry a-going to be hang'd?"’ This drew forth the whole narrative, reviſed and corrected, with notes, and an ample commentary, by the editor, Alexander Kinloch.—‘"Well, for a certain,"’ ſaid Bridget, at the concluſion, ‘"there was ſomething in his look that boded ill luck, and now it is come out. As ſure as can be, he'll be hang'd in chains at the door, and then who can live in the houſe, (not I for one) when he is dangling on a gib⯑bet [119] in full view of the windows?"’ Then, feigning to liſten, ſhe exclaimed, ‘"Hark! ſure I hear my miſtreſs's bell,"’ and immedi⯑ately poſted up ſtairs.

As ſoon as ſhe ſet foot in her miſtreſs's chamber ſhe began—‘"What a terrible thing it is to take fellows into a houſe that nobody knows! Wou'd you believe it, Madam! this lad that maſter pick'd up at the ſtatutes, and that kill'd miller Weevil's dog in ſuch a bar⯑barous faſhion, has now kill'd young Tom, the owner of the dog."’—‘"What do you tell me?"’ exclaimed Jemima. Suſan was in the room, but ſtruck with horror, ſtood in ſpeech⯑leſs amaze.—‘"I tell you what is true"’ anſwer⯑ed Bridget; ‘"the murdered man is at this very moment lying ſtone dead at his full length upon the town-green; they ſay there was never be⯑held ſo ſhocking a ſpectacle: Kinloch ſaw him with his own eyes; and there are the poor unhappy father and mother weeping and wail⯑ing over the corpſe, and tearing their hair off their heads for very madneſs. Every body ſays that the murderer will be hang'd at our door in chains, and that you know is a diſmal ſight, and will drive every ſoul, gentle and ſimple, from the houſe; but what can be [120] done? the law will take its courſe, and Juſ⯑tice Blachford has pronounced ſentence of death upon him already, and ſent him loaded with iron fetters, hand and foot, in a hang⯑man's cart, to the county gaol."’

Here Suſan gave a deep ſigh, ſunk down upon a chair, pale as aſhes, and threw her apron over her face.

‘"What ails the fool?"’ cried Jemima, ‘"was he too one of your ſweethearts, that you take on ſo about him? Can no young fellow ſhow his face within the houſe, but you muſt be inſtantly laying out to make prize of him? I warrant you fancy yourſelf a beauty! a pretty fancy, truly! a precious conceit, o' my conſcience! But hark ye, Bridget, you have not told me how this murder came to paſs."’—‘"Why, that's the worſt part of the ſtory,"’ replied the news-carrier, ‘"for every body allows that they quarrell'd about the dog, and that poor Tom Weevil ſpoke kindly and civilly to Henry, and wou'd fain have made it up with him, but all to no purpoſe; fight he would, and ſwore vehemently that he would have his blood; nothing leſs than his life would con⯑tent him."’—‘"'Tis a lie as falſe as hell,"’ [121] cried Suſan, burſting into a vehemence of ſpeech; ‘"Henry never ſwore; Henry never thirſted for blood; Henry never ſtrove to take the life away even of a fly, much leſs of a fellow creature: if ever Heaven created a hu⯑man being without fault or failing, Henry is that being; the kindeſt, gentleſt, meekeſt, mercifulleſt!—Oh, Bridget, you muſt have a heart of ſtone to talk in ſuch a ſtile!"’

‘"How now, minx,"’ cried Jemima; ‘"who talks in a ſtile to be aſham'd of but yourſelf? And how dare you, I would fain know, inſult my ears with your blaſphemous oaths and im⯑precations, telling the poor woman, before my face, that 'tis a lie as falſe as hell? Have a care what you ſay about that place of tor⯑ment; thoſe who are ſo free to ſend others thither are generally the firſt to go to it them⯑ſelves. I know you, huſſey! I know you to be carnal-minded and void of grace; there⯑fore begone, for I will harbour no ſuch repro⯑bates in my houſe!"’

‘"I do not intend you ſhall, Madam,"’ re⯑plied Suſan, ‘"ſo you may ſave yourſelf the trouble of warning me out of your ſervice: you may give me what bad names you pleaſe; I hope my character will not depend upon [122] your report; and though I may be void of grace in your way of thinking, I am not void of pity and compaſſion, which you ſeem to treat as folly and offence. When you ſay that you know me, Madam, you certainly mean to inſinuate that you know more of me than is good and praiſe-worthy; permit me to ſay that I know you alſo; and though I am not bound to praiſe you, I ſhall never violate the duty of a ſervant by betraying you. As for all that Bridget has been telling you about Henry, I don't ſuppoſe ſhe believes it herſelf; for nobody that had been half the time in his company that ſhe has, ſhort as that has been, could give credit to the tale that ſhe has been relating; and I would only aſk you, Madam, whether you conſidered him as a villain and a murderer when he attended upon you this morning with your medicine: I am pretty well convinc'd you did not treat him as ſuch, nor ſhrink from his touch, as you would have done, had you thought there was an aſſaſſin at your bed-ſide."’

This was one more ſecret in Suſan's bag than Jemima was aware of: for a ſhort ſpace her confuſion robbed her of words; ſhe even debated within herſelf whether ſhe would not [123] do well to make a quick turn, and compro⯑miſe all differences; but before this reſolution could be formed, the object of it was loſt; Suſan had vaniſhed out of her ſight like a ſpirit; paſſions ſtronger than intereſt had poſ⯑ſeſſion of her heart: indignation, terror, pity, love added wings to her ſpeed, and ſhe ran, or rather flew, to the fatal ſpot, where Bridget had laid the ſcene of her fable, reſolute to ſacrifice every wordly enjoyment, preſent or in proſpect, rather than abandon Henry in his diſtreſs.

As ſhe approached the town-green, where the tale-bearer had painted the horrid ſpecta⯑cle of the murdered man ſtretched on the earth, and ſurrounded by his weeping friends, her knees trembled under her, her heart palpi⯑tated, and her breath was loſt: with difficulty ſhe reached the dreaded ſpot, and eagerly caſt her eyes around; but all was ſolitude and ſi⯑lence; the crowd had diſperſed, the ſtocks were not within view, and nobody was ſtirring on the green: the proſpect was auſpicious to her hopes; the improbability of Bridget's re⯑port became more glaring, and her ſpirits gathered ſtrength to ſupport her on her way to the houſe of the Juſtice, where ſhe aſſured [124] herſelf, that either Henry would be found, or ſuch intelligence obtained as ſhe could depend upon.

Here then we ſhall leave her to her enqui⯑ries, and attend upon our hero in his misfor⯑tunes.

CHAPTER IV. A Key to unlock the Stocks.

WE now return to Henry, whom we left in a ſituation of ſecurity againſt eſcape, be⯑ing faſt locked by the leg, and ſide by ſide with his partner in affliction, Bowſey; companions as ill matched as ever fortune brought together in the ſame predicament. Henry, all patience, unmoved by the mockeries and gibings of the mob, calm and collected; Bowſey, full of ran⯑cour and revenge, in ſullen ſilence brooding on the horrid thoughts of robbery and murder, inſpired into his mind not only by the menaces of Weevil, but by the ſight of the money, which he oſtentatiouſly diſplayed upon the challenge; at length, after a long meditation, turning a look, in which every evil paſſion was expreſſed, upon his partner in diſgrace, he be⯑gan [125] to vent himſelf in the following manner:—‘"A pretty ſon of a b—ch of a juſtice, to lay us by the heels in this faſhion for nothing at all! What have I done to be ſet in the ſtocks, whilſt that raſcally miller goes at large? but it is a true ſaying, that one man may better ſteal a horſe than another look over a hedge. You would not be advis'd by me, or you would have done that cowardly ſneaker's buſineſs in another gueſs way: a villain! to vapor over me; to threaten me with the gallows; but I'll be reveng'd of him before this night's at an end; if once I get my foot out of this hole, I'll be up with him, I warrant me; and if you'll ſtick by me, my hearty fellow, we'll give him ſomething to remember us by, and be off to ſea in a twinkling."’

‘"I believe,"’ replied Henry, ‘"he has got enough to remember us by already; and I ſhould gueſs he will have no ſtomach for a ſe⯑cond trial of the ſame ſort. If he had not put me out of all patience by his inſolence, I would not have plied him with ſuch hard blows, at leaſt not in ſuch dangerous places, be aſſur'd."’

Bowſey here fixed his eyes upon Henry, and with a ſhare of aſtoniſhment, exclaimed, ‘"Pr'ythee, friend, are you a quaker, or a [126] methodiſt preacher? or, in the devil's name, what are you? for I cannot for the blood of me underſtand what you would be at. You don't ſeem to want mettle when you are put to it; but you talk as if you had no heart to revenge yourſelf upon an inſulting raſcal, who bullies you into fighting with him, and then claps you into the ſtocks for doing yourſelf juſtice. If you will put up with ſuch things, I will not; I know him for a pitiful peaching raſcal; that fellow has the ſpite of the devil in him; if he could, he would hang a man for only taking a gudgeon out of the water; a knave that goes prowling and lurching about all night to pick up informations for the juſ⯑tice, and that makes him ſuch a favourite, for⯑ [...], with his worſhip; but I'll favourite him if I catch him; I ſhould think no more ſin and ſhame of knocking him on the head, than I ſhould in ſhooting a mad dog; for why? every body will allow that an informer is the vileſt of wretches, and that it is as good a deed as to drink, to put ſuch a villain out of the world.’

‘"Hold there,"’ cried Henry, interrupting him, ‘"for if you know what you ſay, and mean to execute your threats, I ſhall not ſcruple to take upon myſelf that very character you hold [127] in ſuch abhorrence, and inform againſt you, as I would againſt any man whom I ſuſpected of harbouring a deſign upon the life of a fellow creature: horrible idea! monſtrous iniquity! to bear ſuch deviliſh malice in your heart as to talk of revenging yourſelf upon this poor fellow by killing him, and that with as little remorſe as you would deſtroy a mad dog, of all animals the moſt miſchievous. Where can be your conſcience to meditate upon ſuch wickedneſs, though I am perſuaded you have too much dread of the gallows to carry it into execution? What, if he has done you an ill turn with the juſtice, cannot you forgive it like a chriſtian? cannot you pa [...] it off like a man? But are you ſure you did not de⯑ſerve to be informed againſt? If he caught you in any illegal practices, ought he not to put the laws in force againſt you? and which party is in the fault, you that break the laws, or he that enforces them? If the fiſh of the ſtream are private property, (which is more than I know) you perhaps knew better, and had no right to take them; in that caſe it was a robbery, and you ſubjected yourſelf to being puniſhed as a pilferer and a thief. Perhaps it is his duty to protect the fiſhery from plunder; perhaps he is paid for guarding the water upon which he [128] lives; and would you have a ſervant betray his truſt, and turn accomplice with the thief that comes to rob his maſter? ſhame upon ſuch prin⯑ciples! if theſe be the motives for your re⯑venge, depend upon it, this puniſhment, which you are now ſuffering, will be the leaſt, but not the laſt, that you are deſtined to."’

‘"Damn you for a puritanical preaching ſon of a b—ch,"’ cried Bowſey, in a rage; ‘"is this your way of treating the only friend that ſtood by you, when no ſoul was on your ſide? Is it thus you ſerve me like a flincher as you are? For whoſe ſake but your's, I would aſk, am I in this hobble, with the devil to it? Who drew me into this premunire but yourſelf, and your curſt, ſneaking, half-begotten quarrel, when I ſtood forth on your ſide, and made you fight it out like a gentleman? Who provok'd that thief of a miller to vent his ſpite upon me, and to threaten me with informations, but yourſelf? Didn't the bluſtering raſcal draw out his purſe in my very face, and throw it full of gold and ſilver on the table, purpoſely to vapour over me with his riches, and to ſhew me and every body elſe what he got by his pitiful trade of informing? And do you think any man living can bear ſuch treatment from a purſe-proud ſcrub like him? [129] What do you take me to be? but it's no mat⯑ter; I have done with you; I waſh my hands of ſuch a ſcurvy companion; I have ſtood up in your cauſe, when nobody elſe would; I have fought your battles, becauſe I thought it the part of a man of honour to take the weaker ſide; and thus am I treated by you for it; but I am rightly ſerv'd.—Honour and honeſty are but names, and as for gratitude, damn me, if there is ſuch a thing left amongſt mankind."’

This dialogue would probably have been kept up ſome time longer, had it not been cut ſhort by the intervention of a reſcue in the perſon of the conſtable, accompanied by Suſan, who came running out of breath to Henry, with the joyful tidings of his inſtant liberation. That generous youth had no ſooner heard ſentence of emancipation pronounced in his favour, and underſtood that it was not to extend to his fellow priſoner, than he abſolutely proteſted againſt availing himſelf of it upon ſuch partial terms. The conſtable ſtared with aſtoniſh⯑ment, and declared it to be a new caſe; that his powers extended no further than to the perſon of Henry; and that there muſt be a freſh ap⯑plication made to the juſtice, if he perſiſted in ſo unnatural a reſolution.

[130] ‘"It may ſeem unnatural to you,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"who, perhaps, are of the ſame opi⯑nion with my companion in diſgrace, who aſſerts that there is no ſuch thing as honour or gratitude left in the world; but as my ill for⯑tune involved him in a puniſhment, that, in the preſent inſtance, he does not merit, I ſcorn to avail myſelf of any good fortune, wherein he does not ſhare; it is therefore to no purpoſe to unlock your ſtocks, for I ſhall ſit with my foot in this hole ſo long as his remains impriſoned in the other, be it for what time it may."’—Ob⯑ſerving Suſan to look diſconſolate at theſe words, he added, ‘"Don't ſuppoſe, Suſan, I am the leſs ſenſible of your kindneſs, becauſe I cannot profit by it on theſe conditions; be aſ⯑ſured I receive it as a mark of your friendſhip and good opinion, which I ſhall ever gratefully bear in mind, whatever may befal me."’

Suſan turned aſide to wipe away a tear, and at the ſame time Juſtice Blachford appeared in view on the other ſide of the green; for the ſtocks were ſo ſituated as to have the green in view, though not diſcoverable by Suſan in her way to the Juſtice's houſe. That friendly girl had too much experience of Henry's inflexibi⯑lity in points of honour not to deſpair of over⯑ruling [131] it, ſo that ſhe inſtantly ſet forth in pur⯑ſuit of Blachford, to make a ſecond effort on his heart, and finiſh the good work ſhe had as yet but half accompliſhed. Whether ſhe was indebt⯑ed to his worſhip's humanity, or to her own ad⯑dreſs, for the eaſe with which ſhe now obtained her ſuit for the releaſe of both parties, we ſhall not at preſent divulge, but certain it is, that Henry's point of honour in ſtickling for his companion's releaſe was, by circumſtances which thereafter happened, employed as one amongſt many reaſons for involving him in the ſevereſt trial innocence could be expoſed to.

As ſoon as Bowſey was ſet free, he reached his hand to Henry, gave him a hearty ſhake, and proteſted aloud with an oath, that he was a brave fellow, and ſtaunch to his friend; add⯑ing, that he would ſtand by him to the laſt drop of his blood, and if he had ſaid any thing to the contrary in his paſſion, he was now con⯑vinced of his error, and was ſorry for it; then tucking his cudgel under his arm, without a word to any other perſon preſent, ſilently marched away; the conſtable, with a ſigni⯑ficant ſhake of his head, muttering ſomething to himſelf about evil company and the gallows, which ſeemed pointed equally at the party abſent and the party preſent.

[132]There was a diſorder in Suſan's perſon and deportment that could not eſcape the notice of Henry; her dreſs diſhevelled, her cheek fluſh⯑ed, her eyes red and ſwoln, every thing be⯑ſpoke the trepidation of her mind. Impatient to be informed of Henry's real ſituation, ſhe found occaſion to put ſome queſtions to him in a whiſper (for the crowd was now collecting about them) relative to his treatment of young Weevil; but what was her aſtoniſhment when ſhe heard the truth expounded to her in a few words, and underſtood how groſsly the affair had been exaggerated, not only by Kinloch and Bridget, but no leſs ſo by Blachford him⯑ſelf, who had ſet it forth to her in moſt dark and diſmal colours: ‘"Oh! the villain! the baſe treacherous villain!"’ ſhe exclaimed with up⯑lifted hands and eyes. But now the villagers had got round them in conſiderable numbers, and kept a watchful eye upon every motion of Suſan, whoſe anxiety for Henry's liberation had rouſed both their curioſity and ſuſpicion; for as this girl was a poor woman's daugh⯑ter of the ſame pariſh, and had been raiſed from a very lowly ſtation to ſuch an one, as enabled her to ſet off a very pretty form in ſmart and elegant apparel, ſhe had many [133] enviers amongſt her own ſex, who were ready prepared to let looſe the venom of their tongues upon her. This was well underſtood by Henry, who reſolved, if poſſible, to diſ⯑appoint their malice, and therefore kept ſuch a guard over his behaviour towards his bene⯑factreſs, as ſhould afford no grounds for their cenſure. He therefore declined her invitation to her mother's cottage, and would not enter into any private converſation, notwithſtanding all her hints and contrivances for drawing him aſide, contenting himſelf with general expreſ⯑ſions of thankfulneſs, which he took care ſhould be heard by all about him; and though the prudence of this reſerve did not meet the warmth of Suſan's heart, yet it was well cal⯑culated to ſave her from the taunts of her neighbours: awed as ſhe was by the diſtance of his behaviour, knowing withal the firmneſs of his reſolutions, ſhe ſuffered him to leave her without any other effort to detain him than what was expreſſed in the ſilent ſorrows of the eyes.

He was now once more caſt upon the world a helpleſs ſolitary wanderer, not know⯑ing whither to direct his ſteps, nor where to reſort for a livelihood by the labour of his [134] hands. A ſtranger to the country, he knew no road, but that he had paſſed over to and from the town where Doctor Cawdle had hired him. Reſolute to remain no longer in the houſe with Jemima, he was no leſs deter⯑mined not to expoſe the reaſons he had for quitting it. To the neighbouring market-town he therefore propoſed to bend his courſe; from thence he could write a few lines to his maſter, by way of farewel, and in thankful⯑neſs for his favours; there alſo he had hopes of falling in with ſome recruiting party in which he might enliſt. The pittance he had in his pocket did not promiſe him any long ſupport, yet it ſufficed to keep immediate diſ⯑treſs out of ſight.

As Zachary's houſe was by the road ſide, he took a circuit through the fields, at the back of it, and as he was on his way, chance (whether good or ill, time may reveal) threw him upon the very ſpot, where Suſan was ſitting at the root of a tree, in a moſt ſolitary place and diſconſolate attitude, giving vent to her tears, and meditating upon the very ob⯑ject who now ſtood before her.

Henry well knew the intereſt he had in her thoughts; and thoſe reaſons that would have [135] led a man of leſs delicate principles to throw himſelf in her way, operated upon him for avoiding her. In the preſent caſe, this was impoſſible; ſurpriſed into an interview, and in a place where their conference ſeemed ſe⯑cure from obſervation, he neither attempted, nor probably had at that moment a wiſh to eſcape from her.

CHAPTER V. An Opportunity not improved.

‘"AH! Henry,"’ cried Suſan, riſing from her ſeat, and caſting a tender melan⯑choly look upon him, ‘"how cou'd you be ſo cruel as to quit me without a word? Am I ſo indifferent to you, or has my anxiety for your ſafety made me troubleſome? I perceive you are even now uneaſy in my company; and 'tis clear that I am indebted to mere accident for meeting you at all."’—She then proceeded to tell him that ſhe had left her ſervice, and repeated the ſubſtance of her laſt altercation with her miſtreſs, which led to that event; ſhe dwelt much upon the ſhock ſhe had received [136] by Bridget's aggravated account; nor did ſhe ſpare for reproaches againſt Blachford on the like account, who had tortured her feelings for the mean purpoſe of enhancing the merit of ſetting him at liberty.—‘"But all theſe ſor⯑rows,"’ added ſhe, ‘"put together, are little to what I ſuffer'd, when you coldly turn'd your back upon me in the face of the whole vil⯑lage."’—‘"For that very reaſon,"’ replied Henry, ‘"and for that only, becauſe it was in the face of the whole village, I did a violence to myſelf, rather than expoſe you to their ma⯑lice. Think not I can be ſo ungrateful as to ſlight your kindneſs; but when you conſider the diſgraceful ſituation, in which you found me, and from which you reliev'd me, you cannot wonder if I was cautious of letting you appear any otherwiſe intereſted than in com⯑mon charity for ſo mean an object. Recollect, Suſan, your advantages over theſe people in point of perſon and appearance, and then judge what their envy and ill-nature wou'd have prompted them to ſay, had I not had the reſo⯑lution to withſtand your flattering advances, and put a force upon myſelf, by treating you with a cold and diſtant regard."’

‘"That is very eaſy to do,"’ replied Suſan, [137] ‘"when the regard is really cold and diſtant;—but ſuppoſe that I were not indifferent to you; grant for a moment that you was as kind-hearted towards me, as I am diſpoſed to be to you, cou'd you have done as you did?—nay, put the caſe that you lik'd me only half as well as I like you, Henry, then let me aſk you, if you wou'd, if you cou'd, have ſlighted my advances, though every ſoul in the village had been preſent at our meeting?"’

Suſan, now covered with bluſhes, hung her head, whilſt Henry was little leſs embarraſſed than herſelf. After a ſhort ſilence, recollecting himſelf, and ſtepping back a few paces, with a ſerious tone and countenance, he ſpoke as fol⯑lows:—‘"I perceive, Suſan, that you and I had better ſhorten this converſation, and part, without explaining more of our ſentiments for each other, than is conſiſtent with diſcretion, and a prudent regard to our reſpective ſitua⯑tions. You, thank Heaven! are not the deſ⯑titute unfriended creature that I am; the child of myſtery and misfortune; the very outcaſt, as it ſhould ſeem, of creation. Though you have quitted a profitable eſtabliſhment upon principle, you are known in the neighbour⯑hood, and your character will recommend you [138] to no worſe a ſervice than you have left: I am a ſtranger, and muſt wander over the earth, wherever theſe feet, which you have delivered from the ſtocks, can carry me, in ſearch of a precarious maintenance, unleſs ſome friendly ſerjeant will equip me with a muſket."’—Suſan ſtarted at the word.—Henry proceeded—‘"Nay, my dear girl, don't be ſurpris'd, that I prefer the humbleſt ſtation in his majeſty's ſervice to that of being the deſpicable favourite of our abandon'd miſtreſs. Where can I now reſort for another ſervice? Can I ſtep out of the ſtocks into a gentleman's family? Who will receive a nameleſs vagrant with a ſuſpected character? I conjure you, therefore, not to waſte a thought upon me: for ſuch misfortunes as affect myſelf alone, I am prepar'd; but were I to involve a friend in the ſame troubles with myſelf, it would be ſuch a ſtate of miſery as I could not ſtand under."’

This was too much for the ſoft heart of Suſan to ſupport: hurried away by the im⯑pulſe of her affections, and melted by the looks and language of Henry, ſhe fell upon his neck, and burſt into an agony of tears: agitated at once by the paſſions of love and pity, and never practiſed to diſguiſe her feel⯑ings, [139] ſhe gave a looſe to her fond affliction, generouſly declaring that ſhe was ready to meet any difficulties or diſtreſſes for his ſake; and that, having now quitted her ſervice, ſhe had the world before her, and was as much to ſeek for a ſettlement as himſelf. She next produced her ſtock of money, which amount⯑ed to little leſs than twenty pounds, and ten⯑dering it to him, ſaid, ‘"Look, Henry, here is our joint ſtock; take it, and diſpoſe of it as our occaſions may require; here is enough, you ſee, to keep off want for a while, 'till we can ſettle ourſelves to our content in ſome decent family, where we may both find places, and by our joint earnings ſupport ourſelves comfortably, and be happy in each other. Oh! my dear Henry, let us never part."’

As ſhe ſpoke theſe words, ſhe preſſed him in her arms. Henry, no leſs ſenſibly affected by the generoſity of the ſpeech, than by the tender action which accompanied it, had no ſmall ſtruggle within himſelf, before he found power and reſolution to anſwer as follows:—‘"Let us recollect ourſelves, my dear Suſan, and before we yield to paſſion, hear what rea⯑ſon and diſcretion ſay. Your purſe, in the firſt place, I will not touch: the earnings of [140] your induſtry ſhall not be applied to my ne⯑ceſſities, whilſt I have limbs to labour; no diſtreſs, that I can ſingly ſuffer, wou'd be half ſo inſupportable to me, as the remorſe of making you a ſacrifice to my misfortunes: let not, therefore, your tender heart be wound⯑ed; think me not inſenſible either to your kindneſs or your charms, when I declare to you, that in my preſent circumſtances, no power on earth, not even theſe endearments, ſo delightful to me and ſo flattering as they are, can prevail over my ſelf-denial, or betray me into a diſhoneſt gratification of my own intereſt at the expence of your's; neither will I yield to deſires, however urgent, or op⯑portunities, however tempting, to abuſe your confidence and enſnare your virtue. No, my dear girl, this proof of love you have given me, this fair confeſſion, and theſe affectionate careſſes, are pledges for the ſecurity of my honour and your innocence, which I will never violate; but though I am certain no⯑thing can debaſe me to ſuch villainy as I ſhou'd be guilty of, were I to act contrary to this reſolution, yet, as it is a principle that requires no ſmall ſhare of ſelf-command to adhere to, tempt me not any further, I implore [141] you, but generouſly aſſiſt me to conquer my ſenſibility, by reſtraining your own."’

‘"Then I am indeed a wretched and for⯑ſaken creature,"’ cried Suſan, ‘"and life is no longer worth preſerving: oh Henry, you have deſtroy'd me!"’—‘"Heaven forbid!"’ ex⯑claimed the affrighted youth, ‘"what wou'd you have me do or ſay to put your heart at reſt?"’—‘"Love me as I love you,"’ ſhe re⯑plied, ‘"and let us never part; for if you for⯑ſake me, I think I cannot ſurvive your cru⯑elty."’—‘"Call me not cruel,"’ he rejoined, ‘"becauſe I am not baſe enough to avail my⯑ſelf of your generoſity, by involving you in circumſtances that you cannot fail to regret, when you ſhall be more capable of reflection than you are at preſent. Can I give a ſtronger proof of my eſteem, than by taking more care of you than you are diſpoſed to take of your⯑ſelf? What but miſery can enſue from your attachment to a wretched thing like me? Be⯑lieve me, Suſan, there are inſuperable objec⯑tions to our lawful alliance; I cannot marry, and I will not betray you."’—Here Suſan fetched a deep ſigh, and looked earneſtly in his face.—‘"Do not urge me for my reaſons,"’ he added, ‘"I muſt not reveal them; and let it [142] ſatisfy you, that they are not to be ſurmounted: it ſhou'd ſeem to me that I am doom'd to be a ſolitary wanderer in darkneſs and obſcurity that I cannot penetrate. You ſtarted at my ſaying I wou'd take a muſket; what elſe can I do? Hitherto I have been in two ſervices only, and in both unfortunate. Whither am I next to go? My education has not train'd me to any art or handicraft: I have ſtrength indeed for daily labour, but I am a ſtranger to the practice of it: I can neither weild a flail, nor hold the plough. I have paſs'd my days in ſuch tranquillity and retirement from the world, that every ſcene of active life, much more every trial of adverſity, is new to me, and ſtrange. I was never taught to be a ſer⯑vant, and thoſe things which coarſer natures are enur'd to bear, my ſpirit indignantly re⯑volts from. A man ſhould be made flexible by education before he can ſubmit to be the ſlave of ſuch a miſtreſs as our doctor's wife. I wou'd ſtarve rather than ſtoop to her un⯑warrantable humours; neither cou'd I endure to truckle to ſuch a wretch as Blachford, tho' my life was in his hands. One friend only I have chanc'd upon in my misfortunes, and that friend, by nature the moſt generous and [143] affectionate, is by her ſex, her youth, her beauty and condition, more expos'd to dan⯑ger, and more in need of protection, than even I myſelf am. How then ought I to conduct myſelf towards that tender and too generous friend? ought I to ſtrip her of the little means ſhe has put together as a ſecurity againſt diſ⯑treſs? ought I, like a traitor, to ſteal into her honeſt unſuſpecting heart, and rob it of its innocence and peace? ſhou'd I take that hand, which I cannot honourably join to mine, and lead her by it into miſery and ruin? may Heaven renounce me if I do!"’

The look, the action and energy of voice, with which theſe concluding words were ac⯑companied, awed the fond afflicted damſel into ſilence and ſubmiſſion; ſhe drooped her head and wept: the piteous manner of it was more than eloquence; even the firm heart of virtue yielded to a momentary weakneſs, which na⯑ture ſeized the inſtant to indulge; he caſt a look of tenderneſs upon her, ſighed, and threw his arms about her neck. In the ſame mo⯑ment, a ſhout, or rather yell, of drunken vil⯑lagers aſſailed his ears; he ſprung with horror and alarm from her embrace, looked eagerly around him, and ſoon, with infinite regret, per⯑ceived [144] that he had been diſcovered by a party of fellows from an adjoining field, who had ſet up a cry, or kind of view-holla in token of what they had ſeen. This unmanly triumph ſtung him to the quick, and the more ſo as he perceived it was the party of his antagoniſt the miller, whoſe perſon he diſtinguiſhed a⯑mongſt them. His apprehenſion for Suſan's reputation, thus expoſed to their malignant raillery, was his chief concern; but on this ſcore ſhe endeavoured to relieve his anxiety, by repeatedly aſſuring him, that ſhe held their malice in perfect contempt, being determined alſo upon quitting the village immediately, and ſeeking a ſervice elſewhere: ſhe told him it was her purpoſe to walk to the market-town, where he had firſt met Zachary, and where ſhe had an uncle, who followed the trade of a barber, and was well known, and in good eſteem in the place: ſhe preſſed him ſo ear⯑neſtly to meet her there, that he could not get releaſed from her ſolicitations, till he had made her that promiſe, which, having done, and given his hand in pledge and aſſurance of his faithful performance of it, he was unwillingly let to de⯑part, and immediately ſet forward towards the party, who had annoyed him by their ſhouts, [145] and by whom, in delicacy to Suſan, he wiſhed to be once more ſeen, as having quitted her company.

CHAPTER VI. He that won't take Caution, muſt take Conſequences.

WHILST Henry was following a foot-path acroſs the encloſures that led him the way which the miller and his comrades had taken, he ſaw a man at ſome diſtance, whom he perceived to be his friend Bowſey, loitering about the ſide of a coppice; the ſight of him in ſuch a place, and certain ſymptoms that be⯑trayed no good deſign, brought to Henry's recollection the menaces he had reproved him for venting againſt Weevil, when they were fellow-priſoners in the ſtocks. He kept his eye upon him till he ſaw him creep into the wood, and he then bethought himſelf that it might not be an unneceſſary precaution to fur⯑niſh himſelf with ſome weapon of defence, in caſe he ſhould fall in either with Bowſey [146] or the hoſtile party, for his ſuſpicions of his former friend were now become not leſs un⯑favourable than what he entertained of his avowed enemies. With this intent he had ſingled a ſtout ſtem of a crab-tree in the hedge; but upon applying to his pocket for his knife to cut it off, he recollected with much regret that he had entruſted it to Bowſey's keeping, and had forgotten to demand it of him after the fight was over. This knife had been the gift of a friend; a plate of ſilver was inlaid upon the heft, and the word Henry at full length engraved upon it. It was furniſhed with a long and pointed blade, and was as formidable a weapon in the hand of a villain as a villain could deſire. He had every reaſon to wiſh it back again in his own poſſeſſion, and therefore took the ſtraiteſt courſe towards the gap in the coppice, where he had obſerved Bowſey to enter.

In the way thither, and when he had ap⯑proached near the place, where a narrow path led to a ſtile at the entrance of the coppice, he chanced upon young Weevil, the miller, who had parted from his comrades and was on his way to the mill, which laid not many furlongs on the other ſide of the coppice in queſtion. [147] Henry, obſerving that his head was bound about with a handkerchief, very civilly en⯑quired after his hurt, expreſſing his regret for the ſevere blow he had dealt him, proteſt⯑ing that he had not ſtruck in malice or with an intent to maim him. A ſhort and ſurly anſwer was all that Henry gained by this friendly addreſs; yet he proceeded to caution Weevil againſt Bowſey, and to give him ſome intimations of what had eſcaped from that re⯑vengeful fellow, whilſt he was ſitting by him in the ſtocks: he told him that he verily be⯑lieved he harboured miſchief in his heart againſt him, that he had ſeen him prowling about the ſkirts of the wood, that he had entered it a few minutes before over the ſtile which Weevil had to paſs; and as he knew him to be armed with a dangerous weapon, he recommended to him either to go home by another way, or to accept of him as a companion through the coppice.

‘"Accept of you!"’ cried the miller, ‘"no, truly I want no ſuch ſcurvy companion to go with me: keep your diſtance, and let me have none of your cant, for I don't believe there is the value of a rope's end to chooſe [148] between your friend and you; therefore march off, if you pleaſe, take your own courſe, and leave me to follow mine: one at a time, and I fear neither of you; but before I paſs this ſtile, let me ſee you out of reach, and I'll ſtand to conſequences for what may follow."’—‘"Go your way, then,"’ replied Henry, ‘"for I ſee you are incorrigible; only remember I have given you warning, and am clear in con⯑ſcience."’ This ſaid, he turned aſide, and was out of ſight in a minute.

Weevil pauſed a while, then, graſping his cudgel, nimbly vaulted over the ſtile and en⯑tered the coppice. A narrow winding path led through the underwood, which was thick and over-grown, ſo as to make his paſſage ſomewhat difficult; when, as he was putting aſide the hazel-boughs with his hand, a vio⯑lent ſtroke on the head brought him inſtantly to the ground: it was from the hand of the vil⯑lain Bowſey, who in the ſame moment ſpring⯑ing upon him, and making a thruſt at him with his knife, began to rifle him of the can⯑vas bag, which he had ſo idly diſplayed in the ale-houſe, and which was probably the chief in⯑centive to the murderous aſſault, though it muſt [149] be owned the rancour of the wretch's heart was black enough, without a provocative, to under⯑take any infamous act of malice and revenge.

Henry, in the mean time, whom the ſul⯑lenneſs of Weevil's manners could not diveſt of anxiety for his life, heard the ſtroke as he was ſtill hovering near the ſpot, for his mind au⯑gured miſchief. Without a moment's heſita⯑tion he ruſhed into the coppice, and forcing his way through it with a rapidity no obſtacles could impede, unarmed as he was, leapt ſud⯑denly upon the aſſaſſin, ſeizing him by the throat with one hand, whilſt with the other he wrenched the bloody knife out of his graſp, which, together with the canvas bag, and the money it contained, fell upon the ground. Apprehenſive that the robber might recover the knife, he took occaſion in the ſtruggle to poſſeſs himſelf of it again; but whilſt he was ſtooping for this purpoſe, one hand only being employed in holding Bowſey, the ſturdy vil⯑lain ſeized the moment for eſcape, and with a ſudden jerk extricated himſelf from his hold, and fled for life. The exertion Bowſey had made in getting looſe was ſo violent as to cauſe Henry to ſtep back ſome paces, who, in his ſtruggle to keep his legs, received ſo [150] ſevere a ſprain in his ancle, that he became incapable of purſuing him. Sick and pale as aſhes with the acuteneſs of the pain, he ſtood ſtill to recover himſelf; a faint cold ſweat burſt out all over him; at his feet lay the body of Weevil, apparently without life, and bleed⯑ing from the ſide, where the ſtab had been given him; in the hand of Henry was the bloody knife, and upon the ground the can⯑vas bag; the pockets of the plundered man were rifled, and turned inſide out.

In this ſuſpicious poſture, and at this very moment, almoſt fainting with what he ſuffered, and horror-ſtruck with what he looked upon, our ill-ſtarr'd hero found himſelf on the ſud⯑den violently ſeized by the whole party whom he had firſt deſcried in Weevil's company, and who now, with one voice, pronounced him guilty of the horrid act. The vehemence with which they ſprung upon him brought him to the ground, and in his fall gave him ſuch intolerable anguiſh, that had they been diſpoſed to liſten to his defence, which they were not, he was in no capacity of making it. At length, however, he ſummoned ſtrength and reſolution enough to tell them in few words that his hurt was got in the defence, [151] and not in the aſſault of the wounded man; that Bowſey was the aſſaſſin, and, pointing to the way by which he had run off, earneſtly recommended them to ſet out in purſuit of him.—‘"You are in the right of that,"’ quoth one of them, ‘"for then you will be off, and ſo we ſhall loſe you both; as for your ſprain'd ancle, I take it to be a mere ſham, ſo get up, and come along with us to the Juſtice's."’ This ſaid, they raiſed him on his feet; and now it muſt be confeſt the figure he exhibited, ſprinkled with the blood of the wounded man, the fatal knife in his hand, and his looks ghaſtly and full of horror, was ſuch as might fairly have ſtaggered minds more equitably diſpoſed than their's. They had ſeen him fighting with Weevil, and it was on all hands concluded that malice and revenge had ſpurred him on, jointly with Bowſey, to perpetrate the bloody deed. Nobody, however, thought of ſtirring a ſtep in purſuit of Bowſey; con⯑tented with their capture, they held him faſt, whilſt one ran to the mill with the diſmal tidings, and all ſeemed to forget that any at⯑tention was to be given to poor Weevil, who to all appearance ſeemed to be in a ſtate that needed little other ſervice than that of burial.

[152]The main object with the whole poſſe, ap⯑peared to be that only of guarding one diſ⯑abled man, incapable of eſcape, which they now manfully ſet about with no ſmall noiſe and clamour, hauling him along, though in racking pain, without ſtop or ſtay, to the houſe of the worſhipful Juſtice Blachford, of whom in this place we ſhall take occaſion, with the reader's leave, to premiſe a few particulars, introductory of a character, who has no ſlight part to ſuſtain in this important hiſtory.

CHAPTER VII. A Man may be led to act mercifully upon evil Motives.

ROBERT Blachford, Eſquire, who has al⯑ready been ſlightly introduced to our readers, was proprietor of a ſmall eſtate in the village where he reſided, which he had lately purchaſed of the diſtreſſed ſurvivor of a family, very antient in the county, and once very reſpectable. He was rich in money, cloſe in his oeconomy, and unencumbered with wife or relations: in his genealogy he was not to be traced any otherwiſe than by conjec⯑ture, [153] it being natural to ſuppoſe that he had a father, grandfather, and ſo upwards, through as many generations as his neighbours, who had kept a better account of them: All that the world in general knew of him was, that he had made a fortune in the iſland of Jamaica from a very abject ſtation in ſociety, and that his familiars in that quarter of the globe pretty generally complimented him with the ſtile and title of Bloody Bob Blachford.

He was now perhaps fifty years of age or more, of a ſtout athletic make, with a ſwarthy atrabilious complexion, ſtrongly leaning to⯑wards the caſt of the mulatto, with all his paſſions hot and fiery as indulgence could make them, cunning and ſelf-intereſted, fawn⯑ing to his ſuperiors, arbitrary over thoſe he could oppreſs, unforgiving and unfeeling. As neither his manners nor morals ſpoke much in his favour, he had been little noticed by any of the neighbouring gentry, till in a recent conteſt for the county he became ſo active an agent for the candidate he eſpous'd, and there⯑by recommended himſelf ſo effectually to the leading friends of the party, that he ob⯑tained the honour of having the name of Robert Blachford, Eſquire, inſerted in the com⯑miſſion [154] of the peace, and with very little le⯑gal qualification for the office, but great zeal t [...] make himſelf a man of conſequence in the country, he had taken out his dedimus.

Before we preſent our hero at the tribunal of this worſhipful diſtributor of juſtice, amongſt whoſe failings certainly weak pity had no place, it may be neceſſary to account for a ſeeming contradiction to this remark, exemplified in his late treatment of our afore⯑ſaid hero, who had eſcaped out of his hands with a much ſlighter chaſtiſement, than could be expected from ſo rigorous a magiſtrate: but though mercy was not predominant in the heart of Blachford, there was a certain paſſion in that region, which we cannot dig⯑nify by the name of love, and will not ſtain our page by affixing to it the real title which it merits. Now this paſſion had a great deal to ſay in the cabinet councils of Blachford's boſom; it could very eaſily make him reſort to every ſpecies of treachery to compaſs it's indulgence; it could even untie his purſe-ſtrings in ſome caſes, where nothing elſe would ferve the turn, and now and then (as in the inſtance alluded to) has been known to put a violence on his nature, by forcing him into [155] meaſures that had an outward reſemblance to charity and forgiveneſs.

Suſan May, as we have before hinted, was eminently endowed with thoſe powers and ca⯑pacities, that are requiſite to put the aforeſaid nameleſs paſſion of Blachford's into a ſtate of high activity and efferveſcence; ſhe had alſo, as our readers muſt have diſcovered, a large portion of benevolence, and though this was a pleader, ſingly conſidered, that he would have turned a deaf ear to from the bench, yet when ſeconded by beauty like her's, it could convert a deſperate cauſe into a good one. Blachford had ſeen Henry, as our hiſ⯑tory has related, and neither from the ſurvey of his perſon, nor from the circumſtances of the interview, had he received any ſuch im⯑preſſions as were likely to favour a ſuit un⯑dertaken in his behalf; when Suſan, therefore, betrayed ſuch anxiety and ſolicitude for his ſake, and earneſtly demanded a releaſe from the ignominious confinement he was in, the Juſtice held the balance between two op⯑poſing paſſions with ſo even a hand, that it was for a long while doubtful whether her charms or his jealouſy would turn the ſcale. Nothing could ſo gall his pride, as her zealous impor⯑tunity [156] for a rival whom he dreaded and ab⯑horred, but the terror ſhe was in for his ſafety added ſuch expreſſion to her features, that though they hurt her argument they advanced her ſuit. Blachford painted the caſe in ſuch aggravated colours, as alarmed her to the height; and as he took care to inſinuate that no hand but his could ſnatch her favourite object from his danger, the inſidious villain ſecured to himſelf an intereſt from her fears, that his whole fortune perhaps could not have purchaſed from her favours. The bribe of reſcuing her beloved Henry, was the only bribe ſhe could not reſolutely withſtand. Blachford ſtated that the life of Weevil was in danger, that it was his duty as a magiſtrate to keep the aſſailant in ſafe hold, and he muſt abſolutely commit him to priſon, there to abide the iſſue; that to gratify her partiality for a worthleſs fellow, by letting him looſe upon ſociety, would be a ſtretch of power on his part, that would put his reputation to riſque, and perhaps be attended with very ſerious conſequences; nevertheleſs, he was ready to run all hazards for her ſake, could he but find her diſpoſed to make any return on her part for ſuch ſervices. To this ſhe [157] replied, that all the return in her power to make was gratitude; and of this he might be aſſured, ſhe would never fail to bear his favour in remembrance.

Gratitude, he obſerved to her, was ſo mere a burden to a generous mind, that ſhe would do well to avail herſelf of the power ſhe had to balance the account at once by favours, which he had long ſolicited in vain, though he had ſtrove to merit them by conſtant at⯑tention to her, and frequent gratuities to her indigent mother. To this ſhe replied, with proper ſpirit, that ſhe was perſuaded, if her mother, poor as ſhe was, could ſuſpect his kindneſs to her was only a cover for deſigns upon her daughter, ſhe would ſpurn ſuch favours, and deſpiſe him for his baſeneſs; add⯑ing, that ſhe was no leſs ſure, that ſuch wou'd be the ſentiments of the unhappy youth now in his power, did he ſuſpect that his ſafety was to be purchaſed by the ſacrifice of her perſon.

‘"Then keep your perſon,"’ cried Blach⯑ford ſullenly, ‘"and let him keep his priſon: let him rot, ſtarve, and periſh in his ſtraw!"’—‘"Oh horrible!"’ ſhe exclaimed, ‘"what ter⯑rors do you give me! muſt he ſuffer this, [158] when I can redeem him? What is it I muſt do? what are the torments I muſt ſuffer to ſave him?"’—‘"Don't talk of torments,"’ replied the filthy ſatyr, forcing his ſavage viſage into a ſmile, ‘when every thing that money can purchaſe ſhall be yours; all the fine things that my purſe can procure to ſet you off; you ſhall be no longer a ſervant, but live at your eaſe and be the envy of every body, ſo kind will I be to you, and ſo handſome the ſtyle in which I will maintain you."’

Here he began to make certain familiar overtures, which ſhe put aſide, ſaying in a per⯑emptory tone, ‘"Set your priſoner free in the firſt place; give immediate orders for his releaſe, and let me ſee him ſafe and at liberty; 'tis the only favour you can grant me."’—With this ſhe turned from him as if to leave the room, when Blachford nimbly interpoſed, and bolting the door, caught her with a ferocious kind of extacy in his arms; the manner of it more re⯑ſembled the aſſault of a ruffian than the careſſes of a lover; his age, his perſon, his black and mercileſs viſage were calculated to inſpire terror and diſguſt: ſuch was the effect they had upon the preſent object of his deſires, who inſtantly ſet up a ſcream ſo loud and ſhrill, that it echoed [159] through the houſe. Had the ſcene of this rencontre been a ſolitude, Blachford's courage would moſt probably have been proof againſt the outcry; but ſituated as he now was, in the midſt of habitations, with the cottage of Suſan's mother near adjoining, the alarm became ſe⯑rious, and to perſiſt was to expoſe himſelf to public diſgrace. Frighted for his reputation, though in principle unreformed, he inſtantly let looſe his victim, and fell to entreaties and apologies, begging her to be ſilent, and pro⯑miſing to comply with her requeſt on the ſpot, if ſhe would only aſſure him of keeping ſecret what had paſſed. There was enough in Suſan's keeping, of which the reader ſhall hereafter be informed, beſides this affair, to have put his re⯑putation, if not his life, at her mercy; we need not wonder therefore if he was glad to ſeal a peace, and ſend the conſtable to releaſe his priſoner in the manner already related.

CHAPTER VIII. Innocence may, by Circumſtances, aſſume the Appearance of Guilt.

TO the worſhipful perſonage, whom we have been deſcribing, our hero was now carried, and arraigned by the joint evidence of all who had been preſent at his ſeizure. The knife was produced, which, upon interrogation, he acknowledged to be his property, ſtamped with his name. The canvas purſe was ex⯑hibited, which the witneſſes teſtified to have been taken by Weevil out of his pocket in the ale-houſe kitchen in preſence of the priſoner, and its contents diſplayed upon the table. The quarrel he had had with the wounded man was notorious to the whole village, and the language Bowſey had addreſſed to him upon their being freed from the ſtocks, was perfect⯑ly well remembered: the very attitude, in which he was diſcovered, ſtanding over the body, ſprinkled with blood, pale and ghaſtly, and confuſed, with every other circumſtance that could corroborate ſuſpicion, were ſtated and deſcribed. It was not denied but that [161] Bowſey's diſappearance made it highly pro⯑bable he was an accomplice in the act, which was the rather credited from the converſation above alluded to; and orders were in conſe⯑quence given for a purſuit, which however were better heard than obeyed, ſeveral perſons undertaking it, but none ſetting out upon the errand.

Hitherto the priſoner had not oppoſed a word to the ceaſeleſs torrent of accuſation, that had been poured upon him. The clerk had been buſied in minuting down the depoſi⯑tions, and the Juſtice was preparing to make out his commitment; when, taking up the knife, and ſhewing it to the priſoner, he ſaid, ‘"You acknowledge this knife to be your pro⯑perty?"’—‘"I do,"’ replied Henry—‘"And with this knife the ſtab was given to the unhappy man, whoſe life has probably been ſacrificed thereby—With that very knife the deed was done, but not by my hand."’—‘"I underſtand you,"’ ſaid the Juſtice, ‘"but for that we ſhall not take your word; he that does not ſcruple to commit a murder, will not heſitate to ad⯑vance a falſehood in his defence."’—‘"True,"’ replied Henry; ‘"but if the wounded man is alive and in his ſenſes, I refer myſelf to him; [162] let him be my witneſs, I have none other, ex⯑cept my conſcience and my God."’—‘"Mighty well,’ cried the Juſtice; ‘"that we ſhall enquire into hereafter."’—Here ſeveral voices cried out that the man was dead, others ſaid he was in⯑ſenſible, but nobody was diſpatched to make enquiry.—‘"Your chriſtian name, I perceive,"’ quoth the Juſtice, ‘"is engraved upon the knife-handle; and what other name do you anſwer to?"’—‘"I beg leave to decline anſwering that queſtion,"’ replied the priſoner. ‘"How!"’ ex⯑claimed Blachford with a voice of authority, ‘"not tell your name, fellow! I wou'd have you to know the law will force you to declare it; the thumb-ſcrew will wring it from you. Hark'ye, clerk, turn to the book, and tell this contumacious fellow what the ſtatute enacts in the caſe of not declaring his name."’ The clerk now whiſpered his worſhip, and probably in⯑formed him that there was no proviſion to en⯑force an abſolute declaration of his name. The Juſtice next demanded the condition of his parents, where he was born, and to what place he belonged?—‘"Thoſe queſtions,"’ anſwered he, ‘"I muſt in like manner decline, for no torture can force me to diſcloſe what I do not know."’—‘"Heyday!"’ cried the Juſtice, ‘"you [163] do not know who were your parents, nor where you was born, nor what place you belong to?"’—‘"I told your worſhip,"’ ſaid one who was the chief ſpokeſman of the party who apprehended him, ‘"that he was a vagabond and a no-nation raſcal, when I informed againſt him for his aſſault upon poor Tom Weevil on the Town-Green; he wou'd then have murder'd him, had not your worſhip ſtept in as you did: I wiſh to Heaven, when you had him in the ſtocks, you had kept him there, and not have let that wench Sukey May, who is no better than ſhe ſhou'd be, have prevailed upon you to releaſe him."’

The magiſtrate reddened at this retort, and was evidently diſconcerted. Henry took the opportunity to ſay, ‘"that he deſir'd that young woman, whom the witneſs was pleas'd to de⯑ſcribe as no better than ſhe ſhou'd be, might be ſummon'd, as he believ'd ſhe wou'd have ſomething to depoſe in his exculpation, which might tend to ſolve the appearances that were againſt him, and corroborate the defence he was prepar'd to make."’

‘"Aye, aye!"’ rejoined the aforeſaid ſpokeſ⯑man, ‘"there is no doubt but that huſſey will ſpeak to your character, if ſhe is call'd upon; [164] for, pleaſe your worſhip, I myſelf, and theſe men with me, ſaw that very wench and this fellow in cloſe quarters together under a hedge, hugging and kiſſing after a fine faſhion; ſo that there is no queſtion but what one ſays, t'other will ſwear to; beſides,"’ added he, ‘"Sukey May has run away from her ſervice and fled the pariſh, which, I believe, you will find to be the caſe, if your worſhip thinks fit to en⯑quire of her late miſtreſs, Madam Cawdle."’

The Juſtice did not wiſh to make any en⯑quiries of or about Suſan May, who probably was the very laſt perſon living he at this mo⯑ment wiſhed to ſee, or even to be named in his hearing; he therefore briefly obſerved to the ſpokeſman, that what he had been ſaying was irrelevant; and turning to the priſoner, demand⯑ed if he could call any other witneſs in his de⯑fence. ‘"If Thomas Weevil be yet living,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"I appeal to him; his teſtimony alone can clear the fact; if he is no more, or incapable of giving evidence, and if Bowſey, the ſole perpetrator of the deed, has eſcaped, I muſt reſt my defence upon my own ſingle account of the tranſaction, corroborated, how⯑ever, by the evidence that Suſan May can give of certain circumſtances antecedent to it."’— [165] ‘"We have heard enough of thoſe certain cir⯑cumſtances,"’ quoth the Juſtice—whereupon, riſing from his chair with much ſolemnity, and fixing a ſtern look upon the priſoner, he de⯑manded of him what elſe he had to offer, before he proceeded to fulfil the duties of his office, by committing him to priſon. ‘"I again de⯑ſire,"’ replied Henry, ‘"that reſort may be im⯑mediately had to the wounded man; providen⯑tially it may ſo happen, that neither the blow he received on the head by the bludgeon of the robber, nor the ſtab in his ſide, are mortal, or, if mortal, not ſo immediate as to diſqualify him from performing one act of juſtice before he leaves the world, that of ſaving the reputation, and perhaps the life, of an innocent man, who has fallen into this peril by ſtanding forth in his reſcue and defence. If I am to be deprived of this appeal, which I hold to be my right, I am ſtill prepared to account for every circumſtance that appears to make againſt me; and if that fails me, ultimately I am provided againſt the worſt that can befall me, for God and my own conſcience will acquit me; they are my wit⯑neſſes, and will teſtify that I am guiltleſs."’

‘"How dare you, impious wretch as you are,"’ cried the Juſtice, ‘"to uſe the name of [166] God in my hearing, before whom you ſtand accuſed of murder, and apprehended in the very act, as I may ſay, by theſe men, who are credible witneſſes and depoſe againſt you? And you truly to talk of conſcience! who, if you had ſuch a thing belonging to you, or any remorſe at heart for the heinous crime you have committed, wou'd ere now have made confeſſion of your guilt, and invok'd the pu⯑niſhment it merits, ſeeing you have no one word to offer in your defence, nor any creature to appeal to but a wretch, who is your ac⯑complice, and an unhappy girl, whom there is too much reaſon to fear you have ruin'd and ſeduc'd, which, though it falls not within the preſent charge againſt you, is a crime that can⯑not be ſpoken of without horror. And now, having examin'd you touching the felony in queſtion, and taken in writing the information of thoſe who apprehended you, I ſhall pro⯑ceed to commit you to priſon for ſafe cuſtody, the offence of which you are charg'd being of a capital nature, and in which bail is ouſted by ſtatute: your ſureties, therefore, muſt be the four walls of the priſon and none elſe: there you muſt lie till the next county aſſizes, when you ſhall be arraign'd before the court upon [167] the inquiſition of the coroner. It now remains that I ſay ſomething to you upon the ſtrong evidence of the circumſtances, in which you was apprehended, and of the heinous nature of the act, of which you ſtand charg'd; and this I ſhall do the rather, becauſe there ſeems a har⯑den'd inſenſibility and impenitence about you, which are ſhocking to all here preſent. The crime of deliberate and wilful murder, whereof you are accus'd, is a crime, from which the heart of man ſtarts with horror, and revolts, and which throughout the world is puniſhed with death. The unhappy object, whom you have ſent unprepar'd to his account, was found by theſe people preſent, mortally ſtabb'd to the heart; the fatal weapon, bathed in his blood, was in your hand; a knife of a dangerous and unlawful conſtruction, which you admit to be your property, and bearing your chriſtian name upon the handle, though of any other name that belongs to you, you contumaciouſly refuſe to make diſcovery, a circumſtance, let me obſerve to you, of a very ſuſpicious aſpect. The pockets of the deceaſed had been rifled, and his purſe, containing money to no ſmall amount, was found, not indeed in your hands, but within your reach and under your eye; certain [168] it is, it had been raviſh'd from him by violence, and the preſumption is, that it was your purpoſe to rob as well as murder, but that being ſurpriz'd unawares, you had not yet actually poſſeſs'd yourſelf of the ſpoils which had tempted you to that horrid act. It has been objected to me by one now preſent, that I was too lenient in releaſing you ſo eaſily from the temporary confinement I inflicted upon you, when you broke the peace by an unprovok'd and violent aſſault upon the unhappy party, now no more: to this I reply, that I rather wiſh I had ab⯑ſtain'd from puniſhing at all in the firſt in⯑ſtance, apprehending, as I do, that your vin⯑dictive and cruel rage againſt the aforeſaid party was probably inflam'd and aggravated to the height of murder by that very puniſhment you had on his account incurr'd, ſlight as it was. You have, or affect to have, receiv'd an injury by a ſtrain; if ſo, I muſt obſerve that it is but one amongſt a cloud of circumſtances, that bear againſt you; for what ſo natural as that a ſtrong and vigorous youth, like Thomas Weevil, ſhould make a ſtruggle for his life, and that you in the aſſault ſhould not eſcape un⯑hurt, though fatally too ſucceſsful in the per⯑petration [169] of your inhuman purpoſes? The youth, who fell under your deadly ſtroke, liv'd amongſt us, his neighbours, in good repute, an honeſt, unoffending, peaceable lad, the ſon of an induſtrious father, whoſe tears are now watering his breathleſs corpſe, and whoſe cries are ſent up to the throne of juſtice againſt you his murderer."’

Whilſt the Juſtice was uttering theſe words, the countenance of Henry turned deadly pale, and giving a ſigh, he caſt up his eyes and fell backwards in a ſwoon. Though he was ſur⯑rounded by the men who had apprehended him, there was not one who moved a hand to ſave him, ſo that he came with his whole weight upon the floor, where he laid, ſtretcht at his length, inſenſible, and to appearance dead. The Juſtice ſtarted from his ſeat, and exclaimed, ‘"Behold, conviction upon the face of it! My words have reach'd his heart! conſcience has ſmitten him at laſt, obdurate as he was!"’

The triumph of eloquence was painted in his countenance, and he looked around him, as if to demand the tribute of applauſe from all who had heard him.

CHAPTER IX. Audi alteram Partem.

THE guiltleſs priſoner, who had fainted with the agony of his ſprain, encreaſed by ſtanding ſo long in preſence of the Juſtice, ſoon recovered, and with the aſſiſtance of the by-ſtanders was raiſed from the floor; he was now indulged with a ſeat, being unable to keep his legs, and in this poſture requeſted leave to ſay a few words for himſelf before he was diſ⯑miſſed to priſon.

He began by accounting for his ſwoon from the natural cauſe, aſſerting that it was in his ſtruggle with the aſſaſſin, whom he knew only by the name of Bowſey, that he got his hurt; that it was then he wrenched from him the bloody knife found in his hand, which he ac⯑knowledged to be his own, explaining how it came to be in Bowſey's poſſeſſion, when he emptied his pockets before he ſet to with Wee⯑vil on the green: to this fact he feared he had no witneſs, as no one elſe would aſſiſt or come near him on that occaſion. ‘"Hard indeed is my caſe,"’ ſaid he, ‘"in this particular, who [171] have none to bear evidence to ſo material a circumſtance but a guilty wretch, who is fled from juſtice, and whom this hurt which I re⯑ceived diſabled me from purſuing."’

Here Blachford appealed to the by-ſtanders, if there was any one preſent who could bear witneſs to the priſoner's delivery of the knife to Bowſey. The anſwer was loud and gene⯑ral in the negative. ‘"Then let us have no more arguing on that point,"’ added he, ‘"we ſhall not take the fact on your ſingle aſſertion."’—‘"I have done,"’ replied the priſoner; ‘"God knows I ſpeak the truth."’

There was a perſon amongſt the crowd, who had been a ſilent obſerver of all that paſſed, and now ſtept forward with much gra⯑vity, crying out in an authoritative tone, ‘"I conjure you, Worſhipful Sir, for the love of God, and by your duty as a magiſtrate, ſitting here to adminiſter impartial juſtice to the ac⯑cuſed no leſs than to the accuſers, that you ſuffer the priſoner to proceed in his defence, nay, verily, that you encourage and provoke him thereunto."’

This perſon, by name Ezekiel Daw, was one of thoſe itinerant apoſtles called Me⯑thodiſts, who preach ſub dio to the country [172] folks out of trees, and being a man ſtrong in zeal and loud of lungs, was followed with great avidity: his appeal was not unattended to, and the priſoner was ordered to proceed in his defence.

‘"I muſt ever lament,"’ reſumed Henry, ‘"my neglect in forgetting to demand of Bow⯑ſey the fatal inſtrument I had entruſted to his keeping; but when theſe facts ſhall be inveſti⯑gated at a ſuperior tribunal, and I am brought to the bar to plead for my life, I ſhall call upon theſe men who now depoſe againſt me, to declare upon their oaths, whether they diſcover'd any other weapon in my hand, ſave only the knife I had recover'd from the aſſaſſin."’

The Juſtice here put the queſtion to the parties, who jointly anſwered, that they did not obſerve any other weapon which the pri⯑ſoner had. ‘"And what need is there of any other,"’ replied the Juſtice, ‘"ſeeing that the mortal ſtab was given with this very knife."’—‘"Let the body be inſpected,"’ ſaid the pri⯑ſoner, ‘"and you ſhall find a violent contuſion on the head by the blow of a bludgeon; this was the firſt ſtroke which the unhappy man receiv'd, and this, it is to be preſum'd, brought [173] him to the ground."’—‘"How do you know that,"’ cried the Juſtice, ‘"unleſs you was preſent, and of conſequence acceſſary to the fact? Beware how you criminate yourſelf. Beſides, did not you fight with Thomas Wee⯑vil? did you not knock him down repeatedly? and was not his head bound up with a hand⯑kerchief in conſequence of the bruiſes he re⯑ceiv'd from your blows? What will any court of enquiry infer from contuſions on his head, but that he was indebted for them to you? Once more I tell you to beware how you criminate yourſelf: Nemo tenebatur pro⯑dere ſeipſum."’

‘"If when I ſpeak the truth,"’ reſum'd Henry, ‘"the truth is either ſo diſtorted by quibble, or ſo colour'd by circumſtance to the com⯑plexion of guilt, as to be turn'd againſt me, I am indeed unfortunate, but not afraid to meet the conſequences, whilſt my heart acquits me. Recollect, Sir, that you have call'd upon me to plead; ought you not then to hear my plea with the patience of a judge, and not to traverſe it with the ſophiſtry of an advocate, who is feed for puzzling and brow-beating the party he is oppos'd to? A bloody and felonious act is committed; I am brought be⯑fore [174] you as the perpetrator of it; a villain, whom I ſeiz'd in the commiſſion of it, but who eſcap'd me and is fled, was known to bear enmity againſt the ſuffering party, as ſome here preſent, if they pleaſe, can teſtify; I ſaw that villain lurking about the ſpot where the miſchief happen'd, and had my apprehen⯑ſions of his evil deſigns againſt the perſon in queſtion; I met that unfortunate perſon before he enter'd the fatal place; I made known to him my apprehenſions, warn'd him of his dan⯑ger, and advis'd him either to take ſome other road homewards, or to accept of me as a com⯑panion and a guard: he treated my friendly warning with contempt, and abſolutely forbade me to accompany him: I retir'd, but not to a diſtance, for my fears augur'd miſchief: I heard the blow which fell'd him to the ground, and without a moment's delay ran to his re⯑lief; I found him proſtrate, ſtabb'd, and wel⯑tering in his blood; I ſeiz'd the murderous villain by the throat; he had that very knife and the canvaſs purſe in his hands; they dropt to the ground; I ſtoop'd to ſecure the knife in my own defence; in that moment, by a ſud⯑den jerk, he extricated himſelf from my hold, and in the ſtruggle I receiv'd this ſprain, which [175] diſabled me from purſuing him. This is the ſimple detail of facts, which, unfortunately for me, are ſo combined as to leave me without a witneſs to the truth of what I aſſert, unleſs the wounded man ſurvives to recollect what has paſs'd: I hear it aſſerted by ſome preſent that he is dead; I hope that is not the caſe, and that you will think it right to be certified of the fact before you commit me to priſon; I have alſo heard very unjuſt inſinuations againſt the young woman, whom I am accus'd of treating with indecent familiarities, Suſan⯑nah May: I take Heaven to witneſs that no familiarities, which ought to affect her repu⯑tation, have ever paſs'd between her and me: they did indeed ſee me ſalute her affectionately at parting, for I hold myſelf much indebted to her humanity; and if upon that innocent liberty they are malicious enough to found an aſperſion on her good fame, I do not envy them their triumph."’

He now made an obeiſance to the Juſtice, and ceaſed from ſpeaking.

CHAPTER X. Solvuntur Tabulae.

AS ſoon as the priſoner had concluded his defence, the Juſtice and his clerk re⯑tired into another room to conſult together upon his commitment. The impreſſion which the foregoing defence made upon the hearers was not in all caſes unfavourable to the plead⯑er; ſome were inclined to believe him inno⯑cent, many were ſtaggered by his relation, and not a few of the ſofter ſex were melted into tears by his language and addreſs, though they knew not how to decide upon his argu⯑ment.

Ezekiel Daw betrayed great agitation, deep⯑ly groaning in the ſpirit, yet refrained from words. In the interim, a poor widow, the mother of Suſan May, who picked up a ſcanty livelihood by compounding a few ſimple me⯑dicines for the poor villagers, had ſtept home, and now returned with ſome ſtuff in a bottle, which ſhe gave to Henry for his ſprain, ſay⯑ing, as ſhe preſented it to him, ‘"God knows the truth; thou may'ſt or thou may'ſt not be [177] guilty, yet I give it thee in charity, for truly thy hurt is great, and thou art in grievous tor⯑ture."’

This unexpected inſtance, that there was one humane breaſt to be found, which harboured pity for his hapleſs condition, ſtruck him with ſuch tender yet joyful ſurprize, that with a heart too full for utterance, and eyes over⯑flowing with tears, he took the gift in ſilence, fixing a look upon the donor, which ſpake all that tongue-tied gratitude could convey.

The poor widow, whom awe and reſpect had kept ſilent before the Juſtice, now ad⯑dreſſed herſelf to the perſon who had ſpoke ſo ſlightingly of her daughter, and demanded if it was not a baſe and cruel thing to blaſt the character of a poor girl as he had done, in the hearing of all her neighbours. ‘"As for this ſtranger lad,"’ added ſhe, ‘"I know him not, God only knows what he may be in heart; but though he were all or more than you deſcribe him to be, he has done juſtice to my child, and I thank him for it: if he has murder'd a man, to be ſure it is a heinous and a horrid crime, but it is no leſs a baſe and cowardly action in you to ſlander an innocent [178] poor girl, who has neither father nor brother to ſtand up for her."’

Before the defamer could collect his thoughts for a reply to this appeal, Ezekiel Daw, the preacher, had once more put himſelf forward in an attitude to ſpeak, and all eyes being upon him, expectation held the aſſembly mute, when he delivered himſelf as follows:

‘"Verily, brethren, the charity of this poor widow to an afflicted ſtranger, and the word which ſhe hath utter'd in reproof of ſlander, have been a comfort unto my heart, and a refreſhment, as it were, of my bowels in the Lord: and thou, John Jenkins, who art here⯑by rebuked for an evil tongue, humble thy⯑ſelf, I exhort thee, John Jenkins, before this the mother of the damſel, whom thou haſt made evil report of, and be humbled in thy pride of ſpeech, keeping a better watch in time to come upon the door of thy lips. Slander, my good neighbours, is a wicked thing; be⯑ware of ſlander, for it is filthy, it is abomi⯑nable; it biteth ſharper than the tooth of the cockatrice; it is more deadly than the tongue of the aſp: away with it therefore, away with it from amongſt you! O John, John, knoweſt [179] thou not the calling whereunto thou art called in this place of trial, where thou art ſummoned in the ſight of God to render up the truth in fair and honeſt teſtimony, be it unto the life, or be it unto the death of this thy fellow crea⯑ture arraigned before the magiſtrate? What had'ſt thou to do, John Jenkins, to impeach the teſtimony of that poor damſel, to whom the priſoner was diſpoſed to appeal, becauſe thou didſt ſurpriſe her in the tender moment of parting from this her fellow-ſervant, con⯑cede unto him the kiſs of peace? or what if I ſhould grant it were the kiſs of love? Be⯑hold, the youth is of a comely viſage, and ſaving this ſuſpicion under which he ſorrow⯑eth, verily I pronounce him to be of an inge⯑nuous aſpect; ſo art not thou, John Jenkins, for the countenance of the ſlanderer is not open and erect; he caſteth his eyes down to the ground; he lurketh about in ſecret places, ſeeking whom he may devour, and of a truth he doth devour them, when he getteth them privily into his net. Brethren, I would fain ſpeak more copiouſly to you on the heinouſ⯑neſs of ſlander, but neither the time nor place will admit of it; but, on the Lord's day next, God willing, I purpoſe more at large to de⯑ſcant [180] upon the topic: in the mean time, let the example of this poor widow be unto you a leſſon of charity and good works; for ſhe ſcrupled not to pour oil upon the wounds of the way-faring man and ſtranger, not examin⯑ing whether he had fallen amongſt thieves, or was himſelf the thief, but doing it in the very bowels of mercy and chriſtian commiſeration, kindly compaſſionating his anguiſh, as one fel⯑low creature to another not pronouncing upon his guilt, as you ſeem forward to do, but leaving it to God and his country to acquit him, or condemn.—And now, I warn thee, John Jenkins, againſt a certain thing to which thou art no leſs addicted than to back-biting; I mean mockery, and an idle faculty of turn⯑ing ſerious things, and even ſacred, into ridi⯑cule, gibing and jeering at thy more pious brethren, who are patient of thy taunts; and why? verily, becauſe they deſpiſe thee, and hold thee as a very ſilly fellow: make not thine idle companions merry at my coſt; ſcoff not at me, John Jenkins, nor put thy ſenſual fancies to my account, as if I had given war⯑rant to familiarities between young people of different ſexes: though the kiſs of peace, of friendſhip, nay of love itſelf, may be innocent [181] and void of offence, yet mark me, neighbours, I recommend it not, eſpecially to the adult; I ſay unto you, as the wiſe man ſaith, ‘"Give not your lips unto women, for in the lips there is as it were a burning fire; for ye know that a whore is a deep ditch, and a ſtrange woman is a narrow pit."’’

Ezekiel Daw had ſcarce concluded this ha⯑rangue, when the Juſtice and his clerk, having broken up their council, entered the room. The warrant under the hand and ſeal of Blach⯑ford was now completed, and the conſtable di⯑rected to take his priſoner into ſafe cuſtody, and deliver him into the hands of the keeper of the county gaol. And now his worſhip was about to break up the aſſembly, when Eze⯑kiel once more ſtood forward, and begged leave to ſay a few words on the ſcore of hu⯑manity, touching the condition of the priſoner. ‘"Say on, Ezekiel,"’ quoth the Juſtice, ‘"but be not long-winded, for we have already de⯑voted much time and pains to the examination of this buſineſs."’

‘"May it pleaſe your Worſhip,"’ ſaid Eze⯑kiel, ‘"to be reminded that the day is now far ſpent, and the county gaol lieth at a conſider⯑able diſtance, wherefore I do humbly con⯑ceive, [182] ſeeing the unhappy youth, whom you have thought fit to commit thereunto, is forely maimed and aggrieved, that you will not find it needful to ſend him forth upon his way this evening; furthermore, I do with all ſubmiſſion take leave to ſuggeſt unto your Worſhip, that this his wounded and painful condition may move your humanity to recom⯑mend unto the keeper of the gaol, not to load his limbs with fetters, one of which is already, by the viſitation of Providence, ſufficiently diſ⯑abled to anſwer all the purpoſes of confine⯑ment, and ſecure him from eſcape, which I underſtand to be the only ſalvo that the law of the land acknowledges as any juſtification for that barbarous and elſe unwarrantable practice. Now, if it pleaſe your Worſhip to empower your poor ſervant in Chriſt to ſig⯑nify this your deſire unto the gaoler (who, permit me to obſerve to you, is but of a mer⯑cileſs fraternity) I do purpoſe, God permitting me, to accompany this poor creature unto the priſon, yea, even into the dungeon thereof, unleſs I am otherwiſe let and withſtood in ſuch my purpoſed viſitation; which being permit⯑ted, I will then and there impart unto him ſuch your worſhip's charitable admonition, [183] and alſo do my utmoſt to move his bowels of mercy till he ſhall thereunto accord."’

‘"Ezekiel,"’ cried the Juſtice, ‘"I have heard you with great patience; but I ſhall not think fit to make more waſte of my time in liſtening to a methodiſt's ſermon, which has nothing to do with the buſineſs in queſtion, now diſmiſſed and done with: the fellow muſt go to gaol, and it muſt be left to the diſcre⯑tion of the gaoler how to deal with him when he is there."’

‘"I am unlearned, Worſhipful Sir,"’ replied Ezekiel, ‘"and eaſily perſuaded of my own deficiencies, yet I had hope you would have been diſpos'd to pardon my poor manner of ſpeaking, ſeeing that I ſpoke humbly as I ought, and in chriſtian charity for a fellow creature, whom, if guilty, we have no right to torture, if innocent, every call to protect and ſpare; but if theſe words are offenſive to your Worſhip's ears, and the motives ſuch as your Worſhip does not approve, I will be no longer tedious unto you: I ſtand corrected, and am ſilent."’

At this moment Henry caſt a look upon his humble advocate, which guilt never coun⯑terfeited, and ſenſibility could not exceed; it [184] was as much as heart could ſay to heart; the words which accompanied it were few and ſimple.—‘"God reward you for your good⯑neſs!"’—was all that he could utter; and let my reader aſk his heart if there was need of more.

The Juſtice now retired, the conſtable and his aſſeſſors laid their hands upon the priſoner, and a cord being provided for ſecuring his arms, they were proceeding in a very rough manner to apply it, when Ezekiel, who kept a watchful eye upon their proceedings, cried out in a loud tone of voice—‘"I take God to witneſs againſt you, if you treat him with any wanton cruelty: he is your priſoner, it is true, but the law holds no man guilty till conviction. The truth will come to light! the truth will come to light!"’

In the very inſtant, whilſt theſe prophetic words were on his lips, behold Alexander Kinloch haſtily entered the room, and calling out to the people, who were handcuffing the priſoner, bade them to deſiſt from meddling with that guiltleſs perſon.

Aſtoniſhment ſeized the whole company. Ezekiel Daw could not contain his joy.—‘"Beautiful are the feet of thoſe who bring [185] glad tidings of peace,"’ he exclaimed in a tranſport.—‘"What talk you of the feet!"’ cried Alexander, ‘"beautiful indeed is the hand of the ſurgeon, beautiful is his art; aye, and you may think yourſelves happy that I am here living amongſt you to dreſs your wounds, and heal your hurts, and ſnatch you as it were out of the very jaws of death, as I have done by Thomas Weevil. A beautiful figure any one of you wou'd make with a deep gaſh in the ſkull, and another in the ribs, if there was nobody but Mother May to dreſs your ſores; fore gad, ſhe wou'd cook a dinner for the worms before the parſon cou'd ſay grace to it; but ars medendi artium ars eſt: now there is none of you knows what that means, and yet they are Hippocrates's own words, and he that finds them out, finds out more than any here will have the wit to diſ⯑cover. A pretty ſet of heads truly are your's, my wiſe neighbours, to let the villain go looſe, and tie up the innocent man. Why, Bowſey is the rogue that did the job for Tom Weevil; this poor lad was his reſcuer and de⯑fender; aye, and wou'd have ſav'd him from all manner of hurt or harm, if he wou'd have liſten'd to his warning; but then, indeed, I ſhould not [186] have had the credit of bringing him to life again, nor he the pleaſure of being cur'd by my hands. And now, maſter conſtable, you will do well to betake yourſelf to his worſhip, and move him to revoke his mittimus, for here comes old Thomas Weevil himſelf, and he will verify every word that I have been telling you."’

The miller now made his appearance, and entering the juſtice's private chamber with Kin⯑loch, there gave ſuch an account of the affair, from the authority of his ſon, whoſe head, though roughly treated, had not been deprived of recollection, as made it neceſſary for Blach⯑ford to give orders for ſetting Henry at large.

Great was the joy and exultation of Eze⯑kiel Daw upon this occaſion, and not the leſs for the credit he took to himſelf in having given proof of his ſuperior ſagacity in diſco⯑vering the innocence of the ſuſpected per⯑ſon, in ſpite of all the circumſtances urged againſt him. It is, however, to be lamented, that the ſtir and buſtle of the crowd was now too great to admit of Ezekiel's being heard, who had ſo fair an occaſion of diſplaying his eloquence; but though he frequently called [187] for attention, crying out,—‘"Hear me, neigh⯑bours, hear me I beſeech you; I am a man of few words,"’ yet all was in vain, they neither gave ear to his words, nor is it quite ſo certain that they would have been only a few, had they given ear to them; ſo the mat⯑ter dropt, and his eloquence was ſtrangled in the birth.

CHAPTER XI. When the Heart is right, the Man will be re⯑ſpectable, though his Humours are ridiculous.

WHEN old Weevil returned from Blach⯑ford's chamber with the order of re⯑leaſe, he came up to Henry, and taking him cordially by the hand, declared before all pre⯑ſent, that it was to his courage and humanity he ow'd the preſervation of his ſon's life; he lamented the hurt he had got in his defence, offered him his houſe, purſe, and every aſſiſt⯑ance in his power; confeſſed that the whole blame of the fray on the green reſted with his ſon, and added with an oath, that he had been cruelly dealt by, both then and in the preſent caſe, and that he had told Juſtice [188] Blachford as much to his face,—‘"For why?"’ cried he; ‘"'tis a ſin and a ſhame, to give evil for good to this poor lad, who in the ſhort time he has been a ſtranger amongſt us, has ſav'd his maſter from drowning, and my boy from being murder'd; and what has he got for it?—why truly, he has been ſtock'd, maim'd, and impriſon'd.—Shame upon ſuch treatment! ſay I; nay, I'm not afraid to ſay, and I care not who hears me; ſhame upon ſuch juſtices! and now they tell me,"’ added he, addreſſing himſelf to Henry, ‘"your maſter has turn'd you away: if ſo, my lad, come to the mill, and ſo long as there's a wheel that turns, you ſhall never want a day's work, and a day's pay."’

Henry thank'd him for all his offers, but deſired to ſet him right about his maſter, from whom he had received the kindeſt treat⯑ment; and as for leaving his ſervice, that, he aſſured the miller, was entirely his own act and deed, for which he had certain reaſons, that by no means applied to the perſon of Doctor Cawdle.—‘"No, no,"’ ſaid Kinloch, ‘"we know well enough which way thoſe reaſons look, and that perſon, I can tell you, is in a terrible taking at your leaving us: as [189] for the Doctor, he will give you a hearty wel⯑come; and for my part, my good lad, I have ſuch a ſoft ſide towards you, that if you will buckle to the buſineſs, and obſerve what I ſhall teach you, I will make a man of you, and perhaps enable you in time to perform as great a cure as I hope to perfect on the body of neighbour Weevil's ſon, who, by the Doctor's indiſpoſition, is happily fallen under my hands."’

The crowd now diſperſed, and evening be⯑ing advanced, Henry's ankle withal in no condition for journeying, he was conſtrained to forego his engagement to Suſan, and ac⯑cepted the friendly invitation of Ezekiel Daw, to paſs the night at the cottage of Mother May, where that good creature took up his abode.

When Ezekiel had refreſhed his gueſt with ſuch humble viands as his ſtore contained, and Goody May had again fomented his ankle, Henry, having now appeaſed two impor⯑tunate ſolicitors, pain and hunger, began to make thoſe grateful acknowledgments which his heart ſuggeſted, till he was ſtopped ſhort by both parties at once, who ſilenced him by proteſting they would not be thanked for do⯑ing [190] nothing more than common humanity re⯑quired of them to do.—‘"As for me,’ ſaid Ezekiel, ‘"I declare unto you in verity, that this hath been unto me an occaſion of triumph and ovation, and if thou, Henry, had'ſt turned out other than a true man and an honeſt, I would hardly have been perſuaded to put faith in the index of the human heart any more; but thou haſt verified the hand-writing of nature in thy features, and my bowels did not yearn towards thee without reaſon. Truly, young man, my heart rejoiceth in thy de⯑liverance, and great is my joy that thou art found innocent in the ſight of thine enemies; therefore will I ſing and give praiſe with the beſt member that I have; and thou, Goody May, although thy pipe is but feeble, ſhalt bear thy part in the melody."’

This ſaid, the good man uttered a dolorous hum, by way of pitch-note, which was echoed by dame May in a ſhrill octave, and then, delivering out the firſt line of John Hopkins's 108th pſalm, he ſet up his note with ſo loud and naſal a twang, as made Henry almoſt jump from his ſeat, and with more fervency than melody, chanted forth the aforeſaid pſalm, accompanied after a faſhion [191] by the dame, till having travelled together through Sichem and the vale of Succoth, they found themſelves deeply engaged in the fol⯑lowing ſtanza, viz.

When behold, Alexander Kinloch, without any ceremony, bolted into the room, juſt in time to hear Ezekiel roar forth his intended tri⯑umphs over the land of Paleſtine, upon which, in a harſh north-britiſh key, ſo totally at diſ⯑cord with the pſalmody as to bring it to a ſudden ſtop, he inſtantly cried out,—‘"What the plague poſſeſſes you now, brother doctor, to be triumphing over Paleſtine at ſuch a rate? if you ſet up your howl there, let me tell you, the Turks will ſoon ſtop your pipes with a tight cord round your gullet, and a ſhort dance at the end of your ſong. Why, man, I know the ground every inch of it: when I was ſurgeon's mate of the old Dread⯑nought, I was in the thick of the infidels at Scanderoon, and Saint John D'Acre, and Alexandria, and where not. Zooks and blood! [192] if you was as bold as Preſter John, being a Frank as you are, they would ſet you on the back of a ſcurvy aſs, and buffet you through the ſtreets for their ſport. No, no, friend Daw, be advis'd by a brother ſurgeon, and ſtick to Old England while you can; here you may ſing pſalms, and preach ſermons, and ſcare old women into fits, by propheſying the end of the world out of trees and turnip carts, but meddle not with Mahomet, till you are prepared for a ſhort trip into Paradiſe, with a bowſtring round your throat."’

Ezekiel Daw, in his early years, had been trained to the art of handling the peſtle, and pounding drugs in the rural laboratory of a petty retailer of medical wares; he had there acquired as much knowledge in pharmacy and ſurgery, as ſerved him to ſet up Goody May in the humble art of curing broken ſhins and bloody noſes, by which ſhe picked up a pittance amongſt her poor neighbours, and ſometimes entrenched ſo far upon Doctor Cawdle's practice, as to adminiſter a doſe of buckthorn or jalap, for ſcouring the bowels of the peaſantry, after a drunken bout or ſur⯑feit at a Chriſtmas feaſt. This was not alto⯑gether overlooked by Kinloch, though he [193] held her art in too much contempt to make public his complaint of it; ſtill he took all occaſions that fell in his way of giving her a dab of his ridicule, as we have already in⯑ſtanced, and this was not confined to her only, but extended to her friend and teacher, Eze⯑kiel, whom in his gayer moments (and this now preſent was pre-eminently of that ſort) he dignified, in the way of irony, with the title of Brother Doctor; and indeed that wor⯑thy perſon was very generally ſtiled by his poorer neighbours, particularly thoſe of his his own flock, not ludicrouſly, but reveren⯑tially, Doctor Daw.

He was a thin ſpare man, of a pale and fallow complexion, about the age of fifty, up⯑right in his perſon, and ſtiff as a hedge-ſtake, with yellow perpendicular hair; he was by nature iraſcible, and of a bilious habit, but, by long temperance and religious ſelf-correc⯑tion, had humbled and ſubdued his ſpirit ſo as to be patient under inſults; in ſhort, he was a creature compounded of moſt benevolent and excellent qualities, with a ſtrong tincture of enthuſiaſm over all; in the mean while it muſt be owned that Ezekiel had no objection to a little amicable controverſy; and there is rea⯑ſon [194] to believe, that if he had any leaning to one ſide more than the other in the handling of a queſtion, it was to that ſide where his own opinion took poſt.

It was therefore no ſmall proof of his con⯑troul over himſelf, that though he was thus cut ſhort in his pious melody by the North Briton, yet he was content to paſs it off with a ſimple remark to his viſitor, that he was under a miſtake in ſuppoſing he had any de⯑ſign of undertaking a voyage to the Holy Land, (properly ſo called) his humble endea⯑vours aſpiring no higher than to keep himſelf holy in the land where he lived; with this in⯑tent he had been giving God thanks in an hymn for the deliverance of the guiltleſs youth there preſent; ‘"and I truſt,"’ added he, ‘"thou didſt not jeer at the matter of the hymn itſelf, but ſimply at the unworthineſs of the performer."’ Then, turning to Kinloch, with a complacent ſmile, he ſaid, ‘"And thou too, brother Alex⯑ander, art entitled to a bleſſing, not only as being the bearer of glad tidings, but the in⯑ſtrument, as I hope, under Providence, of ſaving the life of our wounded neighbour."’

‘"Yes, truly,"’ cried Kinloch, with a ſigni⯑ficant nod, ‘"the man may thank Providence [195] for falling into my hands, and not thoſe of ſome others, who ſhall be nameleſs; but I be⯑lieve, friend Ezekiel, after all, he muſt be in⯑debted to my ſkill for his cure, and to nothing elſe, for if I were to leave my patients to the care of Providence—"’ ‘"Scoff not at Provi⯑dence,"’ quoth Ezekiel, interrupting him, ‘"nor give thyſelf the glory, let thy ſkill be what it may. I ſpeak not in diſparagement of thy ſkill, friend Kinloch, but there is one, with⯑out whoſe helping grace we can do nothing praiſe-worthy: I myſelf, (far be it from me to vaunt of my own performances) have done ſomething in the medical way, yet did I never hand a doſe to the lips of a patient without a previous ejaculation to Providence that it might operate for his benefit."’—‘"And you had reaſon,"’ rejoined the man of medicine; ‘"for when irregulars preſcribe, 'tis the mercy of Providence if their patients eſcape; but in the regular practice, ſhould a man follow theſe vagaries, he would be the ridicule of the Fa⯑culty: we know the effect of our medicines, and apply them confidently and timeouſly; and when the life of the patient is quivering on his lips, muſt fall to without waiting to ſay grace: had you, like me, been in the heat of [196] an action at ſea, when all is ſmoke and thun⯑der and blood and brains around you, you would find ſomething elſe to do beſides preach⯑ing and praying and ſetting up your pipes to the tune of Sternhold and Hopkins."’

‘"Vent not thy jeſts at pſalmody and prayer,"’ replied Ezekiel, exalting his voice, and riſing from his ſeat, as was his manner when in ear⯑neſt diſcourſe: ‘"Haſt not thou read how Saul was delivered from the evil ſpirit by the harp⯑ing of David? Nay, is it not affirmed, in the hiſtory of our own country, that holy monarchs have had the power of healing the king's evil with a touch?"’—‘"Yes,"’ anſwered Kinloch, ‘"but I no more believe it than I do that you can ſet a broken bone by a ſtave of Sternhold."’—‘"Well, well,"’ rejoined Ezekiel, ‘"if thou art reſolved to be faithleſs againſt ſacred proof, thou wilt not deny the efficacy of muſic againſt the ſting of the tarantula."’—‘"Indeed but I will,"’ cried the other; ‘"and I hold the notion in like contempt with ſtories of the black art and old women's fables. Why, man, I have ſojourn'd in the countries where thoſe reptiles are found, and I give it you upon my word for ſo mere a flam, that I had rather ſuffer the bite of the creature itſelf than the [197] noiſe and nonſenſe of the pretended cure. In ſhort, my good Ezekiel, let us talk a little reaſon, and wave all canting for a while: every man in his own way: you are for King David, I am for Hippocrates; you are for glad'ning the heart of man with pſalms and canticles, I am for curing his ailments with plaiſters and potions: there's work enough for each, and neither of us can do both at once."’

‘"Pardon me,"’ interpoſed Henry; ‘"I think a man may do the duty of a Chriſtian and that of any other art or profeſſion under heaven: the church does not call upon you above one day in ſeven."’—‘"And if the bell was chiming in one ear,"’ ſaid Kinloch, ‘"and a woman in labour crying out in the other, which would you have me turn to?"’—‘"Certainly to the woman,"’ replied Henry; ‘"and I doubt not but our good Ezekiel would break off, and run to ſave a fellow-creature from drowning, tho' he were in the middle of a prayer."’—‘"Aſſuredly I would,"’ cried the preacher; ‘"but that will not decide the caſe; if no man ab⯑ſented himſelf from God's worſhip but upon ſuch good and ſubſtantial reaſons as theſe which have been mention'd, your churches wou'd be a pretty deal fuller than they are: [198] there would then be no call for ſuch ſuper⯑numerary teachers as myſelf. But whilſt there is ſuch a parcel of idlers amongſt our com⯑mon people, who make every thing a pretence for hanging back from their regular duty, it may be well for the community that there are ſome like myſelf, who will be at the pains of gathering up the ſtragglers, and compelling them to come in, though it be from the high⯑ways and hedges."’

‘"Thou haſt ſaid it in a word,"’ cried Henry, reaching out his hand to the preacher, ‘"and art a candid ſoul; he that, hearing this, ſhall attempt to turn thy humble piety into ridicule, muſt have a heart of ſtone."’

Theſe words put an end to the controverſy; and honeſt Ezekiel, lifting a ſtone pitcher by the ear, which he had placed upon the ta⯑ble, filled out a can of ale to each of his gueſts, and after for himſelf; then ſhaking Alexander by the hand, with a ſmile of perfect reconciliation and benignity, cried, ‘"Come, brother Doctor, here's a cup of thanks to you, and a ſpeedy recovery to your patient."’

This gave a turn to the converſation; the occurrences of the day were now diſcuſſed; Weevil's wounds were ſcientifically deſcanted [199] upon by the journeyman ſurgeon, who, know⯑ing Ezekiel's ignorance of the learned lan⯑guages, and not ſuſpecting Henry of any ac⯑quaintance with them, took occaſion to inter⯑lard his diſcourſe with ſcraps of barbarous La⯑tin, not forgetting in the mean time to give a proper ſprinkling of his own praiſes, with a fly ſtroke every now and then at his maſter Zachary ſtill doing penance for his ducking at the ford. He was earneſt with Henry to re⯑turn to the ſhop, encouraging him to it by many reaſons, and promiſing him a ſpeedy de⯑liverance from Jemima, whoſe caſe he pro⯑nounced upon as deſperate. Henry ſhook his head at this, and ſaid no more than that he ſhould pay his duty to the Doctor as ſoon as his ſprain would permit him. This again drew ſome learned demurs from Alexander as to Goody May's embrocation of camphorated ſpirits of wine and bullock's gall, which Eze⯑kiel, on his part, as learnedly defended. The pitcher in the mean time was emptied; and then Alexander, recollecting a multiplicity of buſineſs, took his leave.

‘"Child,"’ cried Ezekiel, as ſoon as Kin⯑loch had departed, ‘"the good dame and I have provided for thy repoſe under this roof; thou wilt find a bed comfortable and cleanly, altho' [200] it be but an humble one: the hour indeed is yet early, but thou haſt had a toilſome day, and art maimed withal; a little reſt, with the good woman's fomentation, will ſet all to rights; yet, before we part, I muſt not forget to commend thee for the prudent and pious rebuke thou didſt give to our neighbour Kin⯑loch, when he ſpoke ſcoffingly and irreverently in thy hearing; I muſt no leſs applaud thee for the brevity of thy reply, for thou art yet too young and unlearned in theſe matters to handle them argumentatively and at large: it well becometh thee to diſtruſt thine own abili⯑ties for that taſk; but when I have put my thoughts together, and digeſted them at lei⯑ſure, I will more fully inſtruct thee how to ſilence all ſuch cavils as the ſcorners can op⯑poſe to thee, and will give thee ſuch rules and leſſons as ſhall fortify thy faith againſt all that he, or any other unbeliever, can invent to ſhake it."’

Henry made a ſuitable reply; Ezekiel ſtalk'd away with dignity to his cockloft; the hoſpitable dame conducted our hero to a little cabin, where ſhe had prepared a bed for him, and the peaceful cottage was ſoon huſhed to ſilence and repoſe.

CHAPTER I. A Diſſertation, which our Readers will either ſleep over, or paſs over, as beſt ſuits them.

AN author will naturally caſt his compo⯑ſition in that kind of ſtyle and character, where he thinks himſelf moſt likely to ſucceed; and in this he will be directed by conſidering, in the firſt place, what is the natural turn of his own mind, where his ſtrength lies, and to what his talents point; and ſecondly, by the public taſte, which, however much it is his in⯑tereſt to conſult, ſhould not be ſuffered to be⯑tray him into undertakings he is not fitted for.

Novels, like dramas, may certainly be com⯑poſed either in the tragic or comic caſt, ac⯑cording to the writer's choice and fancy. Tales of fiction, with mournful cataſtrophes, have been wrought up with very conſiderable effect; I could name ſome of the pathetic ſort, which are uncommonly beautiful and [202] deeply intereſting; their ſucceſs might well en⯑courage any author, who has powers and pro⯑penſities ſuitable, to copy the attempt; on the other hand, examples muſter ſtrongeſt for the ſtory with a happy ending: middle meaſures have alſo been ſtruck upon by ſome, and novels of the tragi-comic character aptly and ingeniouſly deviſed, which, after agitating the paſſions of terror and pity, allay them with the unexpected relief of happineſs and good for⯑tune in the concluding ſcenes.

By all or any of theſe channels, the author may ſhape his courſe to fame, if he has ſkill to ſhun the ſhoals of inſipidity on the one hand, and the rocks of improbability on the other; in one word, if he will keep the happy mean of nature. Exquiſitely fine are thoſe ſenſations, which the well-wrought tale of pity excites; but double care is required to guide them to the right point, becauſe they are ſo penetrating: whoever ſtirs thoſe paſſions in a guilty cauſe may do infinite miſchief, for they ſink into young and tender hearts, and where they ſink, they leave a deep and permanent im⯑preſſion; they are curious inſtruments in the hand of the artiſt, but murderous weapons in the poſſeſſion of the aſſaſſin.

[203]Cheerful fictions, with happy endings, are written with more eaſe, and have leſs riſk as to the moral; they play about the fancy in a more harmleſs manner; the author is ſeldom ſo careleſs of his characters as not to deal out what is termed poetical juſtice amongſt them, rewarding the good and puniſhing the un⯑worthy; pride and oppreſſion are rarely made to triumph ultimately; engaging libertiniſm ſeldom fails to reform; and true love; after all its trials, is finally crowned with poſſeſſion.

The mixt or compoſite ſort, which ſteer between grave and gay, yet are tinctured with each, deal out terror and ſuſpenſe in their pro⯑greſs; artfully interwoven into the ſubſtance of the fable, for the purpoſe of introducing ſome new and unforeſeen reverſe of fortune at the ſtory's cloſe, which is to put the tortured mind at reſt. This demands a conduct of ſome ſkill; for if the writer's zeal for the intro⯑duction of new and ſtriking incidents, wherein conſiſts the merit of this ſpecies of compoſi⯑tion, be not tempered by a due attention to nature, character and probability, the whole web is broken, and the work falls to the ground: in good hands it becomes a very pleaſing production, for the curioſity is kept [204] alive through the whole progreſs of the nar⯑rative, and the mind that has been ſuſpended between hope and fear, at laſt ſubſides in perfect ſatisfaction with the juſt and equitable event of things.

A novel may be carried on in a ſeries of letters or in regular detail; both methods have their partiſans, and in numbers they ſeem pretty equally divided; which of the two is the more popular, I cannot take upon myſelf to ſay; but I ſhould gueſs that letters give the writer moſt amuſement and relief, not only from their greater diverſity of ſtyle, but from the reſpite which their intermiſſions afford him. Theſe advantages however have a counterpoiſe, for his courſe becomes more circuitous and ſubject to embarraſſment, than when he takes the nar⯑rative wholly into his own hands; without great management and addreſs in keeping his dates progreſſive, and diſtinctly methodized, his reader is expoſed to be called back and puzzled; and as the characters who conduct the correſpondence muſt be kept aſunder, the ſcene is oftentimes diſtracted, where we wiſh it to be entire, or elſe the intercourſe of letters is made glaringly unnatural and pedantic by compreſſing the diſtances from which they are [205] dated, and putting two people to the ridicu⯑lous neceſſity of writing long narratives to each other, when converſation was within their reach.

For myſelf, having now made experiment of both methods, I can only ſay, that were I to conſult my own amuſement ſolely, I ſhould prefer the vehicle of letters: this however muſt be acknowledged, that all converſations, where the ſpeakers are brought upon the ſcene, are far more natural when delivered at firſt hand, than when retailed by a correſpon⯑dent; for we know that ſuch ſort of narratives do not commonly paſs by the poſt, and the letter, both in ſtyle and ſubſtance, appears ex⯑tremely ſtiff, tedious, and pedantic. Upon the whole, I ſhould conjecture that the writer is beſt accommodated by the one, and the reader moſt gratified by the other: I hope I am right in my conjecture as to the reader's preference of the method I am now purſuing, elſe I have choſen ill for myſelf, and gained no credit by the ſacrifice.

CHAPTER II. A Morning Viſit, which produces a ſuſpicious Situation.

WITH the firſt dawn of the morning, the diſconſolate Suſan May ſet out in ſearch of her beloved Henry, whom ſhe had eagerly expected the evening before, and whoſe breach of promiſe ſhe was at a loſs to account for. A thouſand anxious thoughts occupied her mind, and the ſuſpicion that he had now totally renounced her was not the leaſt of her alarms. She went directly to her mother's cottage, and, having met no one by the way, was ignorant of the events which had cauſed her diſappointment.

Ezekiel Daw was an early riſer, and had already ſallied out; but Henry, to whom Goody May had hoſpitably reſigned her bed, was ſtill buried in profound repoſe, and ſleep⯑ing off the fatigues of the preceding day. The cottage door being open, and no ſurly porter to guard it, the damſel, without let or hindrance, made ſtrait way to the little cham⯑ber [207] where her mother ſlept, and entering it without noiſe, to her great ſurpriſe diſcovered not the good old dame within the ſheets, but the youthful object of her paſſion, faſt in the arms of Morpheus, and glowing with the roſy tints of health and beauty. It was a ſcene for eyes leſs intereſted than thoſe of Suſan to con⯑template with admiration; ſhe gazed upon him with rapture and delight. A conſider⯑able time ſhe ſtood fixt and motionleſs, ba⯑lancing in her mind betwixt the propriety of retiring out of the chamber and the pleaſure of remaining in it. The longer ſhe indulged her ſenſes in the contemplation of his perſon, the leſs inclined ſhe was to ſacrifice the enjoy⯑ment of them: love and deſire ſuggeſted to her a variety of expedients, which timidity and diſcretion would not yet permit her to accord to. Curioſity was urgent with her to be reſolved how it came to paſs that Henry ſhould be ſleeping in her mother's bed. This ſame curioſity prompted her to wake him, and love was forward to inſtruct her in the mode; a gentle preſſure of his hand effected the wiſhed-for purpoſe. He ſtarted, waked, and haſtily cried out—‘"Ah, Suſan, is it you? How came you hither?"’—This was enough [208] to introduce an explanation, which in few words told all that either party was intereſted to be informed of. Events ſo full of terror to the feelings of a heart ſenſitive as Suſan's, though related ſimply and without exaggera⯑tion by the object of her affection, had ſo agi⯑tated her, that either feigning or really feeling inability to keep her feet, ſhe had ſuddenly ſunk down upon the ſide of the bed, and by an action ſeemingly involuntary, claſped one of his hands in both her's, whilſt lamenting over his ſufferings with ſighs and tears of ſympathy and condolence.

When the tale was at an end, and his deli⯑verance announced, the fond girl raiſed her eyes to heaven in ſilent thankfulneſs, and then glancing them upon the youth with an ex⯑preſſion that left nothing in her heart untold, dropt lifeleſs as it were upon his neck, and laid without motion in his arms.

In this moment truth compels me to ac⯑knowledge that the forbearance even of Henry was ſore beſet and ſtaggered under the attack. Nature (ſhame upon her!) played a treach⯑erous part to undermine his reſolution; ſhe hurried through his veins like a ſpell, raiſed a tumult in his heart, and made every nerve in [209] his frame tremble with her touch. Reaſon, indeed, the governor of the citadel, and con⯑ſcience, the centinel of the ſoul within it, were upon their poſt, but uncollected and ſurpriſed, and ſcarce half-armed for a defence, when, in the moment of danger, their guardian ſpirit ſent a reſcue in the perſon of the rural apoſtle, Ezekiel Daw himſelf, who no ſooner darted his viſitatorial eye upon the bodies of the two perſons proſtrate on the bed, and folded in each other's arms, than having diſcovered that one of the ſaid bodies belonged to the male and the other to the female ſex, he ſhrieked out in a key of horror and ſurpriſe—‘"Child⯑ren of the ſerpent! impure veſſels of perdition! what in the name of Beelzebub are you about? Looſe your embraces, I command you, and re⯑nounce the ſinful temptations of the fleſh! Oh Henry! Henry ! ſon of Belial! have I for this ſtood forth in thy defence! have I for this combated the allegations of the witneſſes who accuſed thee of incontinence with this dam⯑ſel! and muſt I now revoke the good opinion I had conceived of thee! Inconſiderate youth, haſt thou never read of the continence of Jo⯑ſeph? haſt thou never been told of that other illuſtrious perſon (I forget his name) in Pagan [210] ſtory, who fled the allurements of a beautiful captive? Wilt thou yield in virtue to a hea⯑then? wilt thou be outdone in chaſt forbear⯑ance by a worſhipper of filthy idols, by one of the Gentile nations of a reprobate genera⯑tion, a child of wrath caſt out from the re⯑demption of Iſrael, and ſealed to everlaſting torment in the fires of hell? Can you tell me that this damſel, ſightly although ſhe be, ſhall vie in charms with Potiphar's wife? I tell thee ſhe is no more to compare with Potiphar's wife, than a crow to a peacock. And thou, Suſan May, I have noted thee, Suſan May, for tiring thy hair, and bedecking thy perſon with lures and traps to catch the wandering eyes of men; I have reprov'd thee for it, but my admonition hath been loſt upon thee; thou haſt wantonly array'd thyſelf, Suſan May, and becauſe nature hath beſtow'd upon thee a comely form, thou haſt ſtudied to ſet it off by the artifice of dreſs, whereas thou oughteſt in all decent care to have conceal'd it from the ſight of men, to have cover'd it with the veil of modeſty, yea, even to have diſguis'd and disfigur'd it, rather than to let it be unto thee a ſtumbling block, and an occaſion of fall⯑ing."’

[211] ‘"Pardon me, ſir,"’ cried Suſan, ‘"I am not fallen in the manner you ſuppoſe; I was ſorrow-ſtruck with the account of what Henry has ſuffer'd ſince I ſaw him, and my affliction overpower'd me. I believe I fell into a kind of fit, and ſo he caught me in his arms. I hope it is neither ſin nor ſhame to ſympathize with the unfortunate and innocent. If to love him be a crime, I am guilty indeed."’—‘"What telleſt thou me of love?"’ reſumed the preacher; ‘"thou art too young and un⯑learn'd to know what love means: thou ſhou'd'ſt be taught that by them who are older and wiſer than thyſelf; I have ſtudied it, child, and revolv'd it in my mind, and I do pronounce upon experience and reflection, that the true and only love is the fulfilling of the law; therefore, tell me not that thou loveſt this youth, for thou haſt no ſuch thing about thee; I do aver that thou haſt a war in thy members, and where war is, how can love exiſt?"’

Henry now interpoſed, and in an humble tone gently requeſted Ezekiel not to chide the damſel, who was not in the offence, having entered his chamber in the preſumption of finding her mother there; and he furthermore [212] moſt ſolemnly aſſured him, that their conver⯑ſation had been ſtrictly innocent. ‘"Heaven forbid,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I ſhou'd be ſuch a villain as to repay the hoſpitality of the mother, by doing wrong to the daughter. Did you know me, I flatter myſelf theſe aſſeverations wou'd be needleſs; you wou'd not doubt my honour; but if you ſtill ſuſpect me as being a ſtranger to you, this worthy girl is not ſuch, and I ſhou'd hope you wou'd be ſlow to believe her wanting in virtue and diſcretion, merely be⯑cauſe her tender heart is ſuſceptible of pity and compaſſion. What ſhe has told you is perfect truth; my ſad ſtory affected her; ſhe ſunk upon the bed, and I receiv'd her in my arms. Is there a man living who wou'd not have done the ſame? I am ſure you wou'd, for I have good reaſon to believe your arms are ever open to the feeble and afflicted."’

‘"Child,"’ replied Ezekiel, ‘"I believe thee; I cannot help believing thee; there is ſome⯑thing in thy countenance that extorts from me my good opinion, and I give perfect credit to thy words from the impreſſion I receive by thy looks; but now that the damſel no longer needeth thy ſupport, prudence warneth thee to deſiſt from a conference, which may pro⯑duce [213] another ſinking on her part, and more embracing on thine; in place of which I do counſel thee to turn thyſelf on thy pillow, and compoſe thy ſpirits, that ſo thou mayeſt atone for the wandering of thy thoughts by medita⯑tion and prayer: meanwhile the damſel, whoſe eye betokeneth a diſturb'd imagination, ſhall withdraw with me, that I may breathe into her mind the words of peace, foraſmuch as I perceive the evil one yet worketh in her, whom it now behoveth me to put to flight."’

Ezekiel now took his unwilling diſciple by the hand, and led her into the cottage kitchen, where, having ſeated her on one ſide of the chimney, and himſelf in a huge wicker chair on the other, he began the following exhorta⯑tory diſcourſe:

‘"I will ſpeak unto thee, damſel, of love, whereby thou wilt gain inſtruction how to think rightly of it in future, and avoid that falſe notion which hath miſled thy young and inexperienced imagination. Thou didſt ſay, that if to love thy friend Henry were a crime, thou waſt guilty indeed: now to love him as a brother is thy duty; if thou doſt that, there is no crime in thy love: ſearch thine heart therefore, and if thou doſt there diſcover any [214] other emotions or yearnings towards the youth than thou mighteſt innocently indulge towards a brother, or a ſiſter, or a friend of thine own ſex, baniſh thoſe ſenſations at a word, for they are of the evil one; verily I pronounce them to be abominable, and not to be excus'd."’

‘"But what method ſhall I take to baniſh them,"’ ſaid Suſan?—‘"By mortifying the fleſh with faſting,"’ replied Ezekiel, ‘"and giving thyſelf up to holy exerciſes."’—‘"Indeed, ſir,"’ cried the poor girl, ‘"I never neglect my prayers; but then I always pray for Henry; and as to faſting, if I was to ſtarve myſelf to death, I ſhou'd never get him out of my thoughts."’—‘"Go to,"’ exclaimed Ezekiel, ‘"thou art a nonſenſe girl to prate to me in this faſhion. Wilt thou, who art no better than an unfledg'd goſling, barely out of the ſhell, pretend to argue with me, who have weigh'd, and conſider'd, and perpended all theſe mat⯑ters? aye, let me tell thee, and experienc'd them alſo, for I will now relate to thee what occur'd unto myſelf: When I was ſtripling, and work'd as hireling to my maſter the apo⯑thecary, his niece, a ſightly damſel like thy⯑ſelf, came one evening into the ſhop, whilſt I was at the mortar, and being not a little taken [215] with my aptitude in handling the peſtle, me⯑thought ſhe caſt the eyes of affection upon me; ſhe approached near unto me, and with the moſt condeſcending familiarity, graciouſly leant her arm upon my ſhoulder; in that in⯑ſtant I began to feel the ſtirrings of the ſer⯑pent tempting to unlawful deſires.—‘'Eze⯑kiel,'’ quoth ſhe, ‘'thou art an induſtrious lad; but doſt thou not think thou cou'dſt find more pleaſing amuſement than that of pound⯑ing theſe ſtinking drugs?'’—‘'Miſs,'’ ſaid I, ‘'the drugs may be unſavoury, but honeſt in⯑duſtry is ſweet, and tendeth to obtain the grate⯑ful odour of a good name.'’ With that ſhe ſeis'd the peſtle in her graſp, and wou'd have wrench'd it from my hand. I reſolutely main⯑tain'd my hold, and bade her to avoid the ſhop, and not interrupt me in my duty—but how now, child! where are thy thoughts a gad⯑ding? thou doſt not mark me."’

‘"Oh! yes, ſir,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"I do; but what anſwer did the young lady make to you?"’—‘"Not a word,"’ quoth Ezekiel; ‘"not a ſyllable; but with a toſs of her head and a ſneer, that gave me to underſtand ſhe was of⯑fended at my plainneſs, turn'd out of the ſhop, and never ſaid a civil thing to me again. Learn [216] henceforth, child, from this example, to repel thy unruly paſſions in their firſt approach, for the victory is eaſy; face the tempter and he will fly from thee."’—‘"Dear ſir,"’ ſaid Suſan, ‘"if I was not afraid of angering you, I ſhou'd make bold to ſay a few words with your leave."’—‘"Say on,"’ quoth Ezekiel, ‘"in God's name."’—‘"You are very good to me, and I know you always adviſe me for the beſt, but though I'll do all in my power, I ſhou'd be a hypocrite if I was to ſay I will do all that you bid me: conſider, every body has not the wiſ⯑dom and reſolution that you have; you are a man, I am a weak woman; I cou'd no more give Henry the anſwer that you gave to the apothecary's niece, than I can fly in the air. Lackaday! when once love lays hold of the heart—"’ ‘"Lays hold of a fiddle ſtick!"’ cried Ezekiel; ‘"it is your buſineſs not to let love lay hold on any thing; you muſt drive him to a diſtance."’

At this inſtant Henry entered the room; Suſan's eyes gliſtened with joy; Ezekiel's ex⯑poſtulation vaniſhed from her thoughts; even his peſtle and mortar no longer ſounded in her ears; ſhe had no ſenſes but for the object in her ſight.

[217]Dame May entered the cottage; ſhe ran to her daughter, took her in her arms, and wel⯑comed her home; ſhe was the darling of her mother: Henry's honeſt nature could not al⯑low him to ſuppreſs any thing that had paſſed between himſelf and Suſan in her mother's ab⯑ſence. When he had related this to the good dame with all that air of ſincerity that was natural to him, ſhe, like Ezekiel, immediately aſſured him of her entire belief in every thing he had ſaid, and without qualifying it after Doctor Daw's manner, with any admonitory inferences, ſhe candidly obſerved, that nothing was more natural than for young folks that liked each other, to ſteal a kiſs when it came in their way, and no harm done: ‘"For why?"’ added ſhe, turning to Ezekiel, ‘"we muſt not forget that we have been young in our day as well as they."’

This was ſuch point-blank hereſy againſt the doctrines of the good man, juſt now incul⯑cated, that he ſtared with amazement upon Dame May; ſhe, who had only nature and not one ray of philoſophy to guide her, was not aware of the reproof ſhe was open to, and before Ezekiel could pump the words up out of his throat, exclaimed—‘"Lord love [218] your ſweet heart, Mr. Daw, you are ſurely the beſt ſoul living, but you don't conſider what it is to be young; why love in them is as it were a ſecond nature, and for us to argue againſt it is all one as though we were to preach againſt the light of the ſun."’

‘"Hold your tongue, woman,"’ cried Eze⯑kiel; ‘"it is not for an ignoramus like you to talk about preaching. Have I ſpent my breath for nought? am I become like ſound⯑ing braſs and a tinkling cymbal? are you a preacher, or am I? have you the gift, have you the calling, have you the election? Si⯑lence, vain woman! and be in ſubjection to the higher powers. I have told thy daughter that ſhe is in nowiſe to think of love, it becometh not young people ſo much as to meditate thereupon; and wilt thou now tell her that it is as it were a ſecond nature? Wilt thou provoke the cravings of thy child, till, like the horſe-leach's daughter, ſhe crieth out, Give, give?"’

Dame May perceived that ſhe had nettled the good man without intending it, and there⯑fore began to ſoften his anger, by aſſuring him that ſhe never meant to caſt a reflection upon his preaching, to the contrary of which, ſhe [219] had always affirmed that there was nobody to compare with him in the neighbourhood, nay, ſhe might ſay not in all the county, for a ſermon; but ſhe hoped there was no offence in ſuppoſing he had not turned his thoughts to love-matters.

‘"There lies your miſtake,"’ quoth Ezekiel, ‘"for of all the human infirmities it is that which I have ſtudied with the moſt calm and deliberate attention, having never in any in⯑ſtant of my life given way to it myſelf, and of conſequence am the fitteſt perſon on that ac⯑count to give good counſel to others, who are betray'd into that unpardonable weakneſs."’

Here Henry ſmiled; but what paſſed in his thoughts to provoke that ſmile, as he did not diſcuſs, we ſhall not preſume to conjecture. Goody May proceeded after her placid manner to prepare for breakfaſt: Suſan beſtowed ſome ſtolen glances upon Henry, which did not altogether promiſe an implicit obedience to the injunctions of her ſpiritual paſtor, and might fairly raiſe a doubt whether ſhe had made even the ſmalleſt progreſs in a reform, by diſmiſſing him from her thoughts. Eze⯑kiel was not the quickeſt obſerver of theſe tokens, that ever lived, and had moreover at [220] this moment fixed his attention upon a ſmoak⯑ing baſon of freſh milk-porridge.

CHAPTER III. Fortune begins to ſmile upon our Hero.

ALEXANDER Kinloch having viſited his patient at the mill, called at the cottage, and made ſo favourable a report of his own wonderful performances, and the good night's reſt that he had procured for the wounded man, that little doubt was now entertained of his ſpeedy recovery. In fact, good fortune, and the critical interpoſition of Henry, had done more for him than all the art of Alex⯑ander, for the knife had ſimply glanced upon his ribs, and made a fleſh wound, neither deep nor dangerous, and the blood which it drew, though formidable in appearance, was eventu⯑ally no more than the young miller in his ſtate of inflammation could well ſpare, with profit to his habit and conſtitution.

Kinloch delivered a meſſage from Doctor Cawdle, deſiring Henry to come to him, as he [221] was yet confined to his chamber; he alſo re⯑peated his prognoſtication that Madam Jemima was in a haſty decline.—‘"Say you ſo,"’ quoth Ezekiel, ‘"why then ſhe is in the propereſt place to meet with good advice: her ſpouſe no doubt will exert all his ſkill in her behalf."’—‘"Her ſpouſe indeed!"’ cried Kinlcch, ‘"poor creature! what can he do? I had prepar'd a medicine for her, compounded of ſpecifics ſovereign in her caſe, which is neither more nor leſs than an inordinate uſe of ſpirituous liquors acting on an atrabilious habit."’—‘"Then what can ſave her but the muzzle?"’ reſumed Daw.—‘"What can ſave her!"’ echoed the medical underſtrapper, ‘"my re⯑medy cou'd have ſav'd her; a compound of all antidotes againſt hard drinking; a butt to ſheath the ſpicula of intoxicating potations. Know you not that there is a ſecret in nature, by the application of which men can ſwallow ſolid fire? ſo is there a preparative in medi⯑cine againſt the effect of liquid fire. This by deep reſearch I had diſcover'd and compound⯑ed, when the deſperate ſuicide hurl'd it in my face; the very odour of it wou'd have clear'd a brain, though inflam'd with the fumes of the brandy-bottle: other remedies I had pro⯑vided [222] auxiliary to my grand attack, but theſe alſo ſhe rejected, and now ſhe is conſuming away by inteſtine fires, for I have done with her."’—‘"I am ſorry for it,"’ quoth Henry, ‘"for I fear ſhe is in no fit condition for dy⯑ing."’ ‘"Truly I believe not,"’ anſwered Kin⯑loch, ‘"yet I pronounce her a dead woman; and I never yet knew any one of my patients, when I have ſaid that, fail to make my words good. She pretends that her election, as ſhe calls it, is ſure; but by the dread ſhe ſhews of quitting this world, I ſhou'd much doubt if ſhe has very hopeful proſpects of the next."’—‘"I ſhall make bold to talk to her on that ſubject,"’ ſaid Ezekiel.

Here the converſation was cut ſhort by the arrival of a poſtchaiſe at the cottage-door, be⯑longing to the Lady Viſcounteſs Crowbery. Dame May inſtantly diſcovered the perſon of her noble viſitor, and ran out of the houſe to pay her accuſtomed devoirs. Kinloch in the meanwhile, with his uſual plea of buſineſs, haſtened away; Suſan prevented Henry from the like eſcape, by telling him Lady Crowbery called frequently on her mother, but that ſhe did not expect ſhe would come in: Ezekiel [223] ſaid the ſame, ſimply obſerving that it was ſome charitable errand, for that worthy lady did a world of good.—‘"Oh! ſhe is the beſt lady breathing,"’ repeated Suſan; ‘"ſhe has a heart for every body that ſuffers wrongfully, and I will lay my life ſhe has been told of Henry's hard treatment, and is come for ſome good purpoſe to enquire about him: as ſure as can be I have gueſs'd it, for ſhe is this moment getting out of her poſtchaiſe, and coming into the houſe."’

Henry had his leg upon a ſtool, but before Lady Crowbery made her appearance, he had raiſed himſelf upon his feet, and bowed re⯑ſpectfully on her entering: the noble viſitor immediately fixed her eyes upon him; and then turning to Dame May; who followed her, ſaid, ‘"This is the young man we have been ſpeaking of: ſit down, if you pleaſe; you have ſtrained your ankle, and I will not allow you to ſtand upon it on my account—ſit down, or you will oblige me to go."’ She then made a gracious acknowledgement to Suſan, and ſeated herſelf oppoſite to Henry. After a ſhort ſilence, ſhe began, apparently with ſome de⯑gree of agitation, to queſtion him about the events of the preceding day: he briefly and [224] modeſtly related them as he was bidden.—‘"I think,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"had I been in Mr. Blach⯑ford's place, and you had told this ſtory in your defence, as you have now repeated it to me, I cou'd not have heſitated to acquit you; but after all,"’ added ſhe, ‘"we ſhou'd not complain of him for wanting eyes, for juſtice you know ought to be blind."’—‘"But not deaf,"’ ſaid Ezekiel—‘"Right,"’ replied Lady Crowbery; ‘"I am apt to think there is a tone in truth, that no impartial ear can well miſtake. But you, Henry (that, I underſtand, is your name) ought not only to be acquitted as guiltleſs of the crime charged upon you, you ſhou'd be honour'd and rewarded, for an action that beſpeaks your heroiſm and hu⯑manity. I hope you have too much gallantry, to refuſe a lady's favours. I deſire you will accept this purſe from me; you well deſerve it, brave young man, and what is more I ſuſpect you want it, and I have it to ſpare."’

If the grace of giving in any degree con⯑ſtitutes the value of a gift (which doubtleſs it does) this gift came recommended by a manner, that might well apologize for our hero's receiving it with tears of ſenſibility, and bluſhes that beſpoke a modeſt nature over⯑powered [225] by gratitude. He did not ſpeak, but he preſſed his lips upon the purſe, as he took it from her hand; perhaps his aim was at the hand itſelf, but reſpect ſtopped him ſhort, and he was awed from the attempt. He turned his eyes upon the countenance of his bene⯑factreſs, and beheld beauty in its wane, be⯑nevolence in it's meridian. It ſhould ſeem that forty years had not yet paſſed over her head, but of thoſe it was too plain that a por⯑tion had been unhappy: her form was ſtill elegant in the extreme; what it had loſt in ſubſtance, it had gained in delicacy, and the inroads of ſicklineſs and ſorrow upon the freſh⯑neſs of her charms were atoned for by ſo in⯑tereſting a character of pale and tender ſenſi⯑bility, that none but a man of groſs taſte would have thought that youth and health were wanting to render the perſon of Lady Crow⯑bery more attractive.

‘"I deſire,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"you will apply this ſmall ſum to your immediate occaſions; and as I have your future fortunes at heart, I muſt refer you to Mr. Cawdle for advice, who has my inſtructions to talk with you on the ſub⯑ject: take no meaſures, however, till you have ſeen him, and as ſoon as you are able to uſe [226] your ankle, loſe no time in calling upon him."’ This ſaid, Lady Crowbery took a haſty leave, ſtept into her carriage, and departed.

‘"Am I in a dream,"’ ſaid Henry, as ſhe turned from the door, ‘"or is this a reality? if ſo, what am I to think of it?"’—He ſpread the contents of the purſe upon the table, and then turning to Ezekiel, demanded if he could account for this extraordinary preſent, from a perſon to whom he was totally unknown?—‘"Very naturally,"’ replied Ezekiel; ‘"the Lady Crowbery hath large means, and a large heart. She was a wealthy heireſs, and her fortune, independant of her Lord, is very con⯑ſiderable: ſhe leads a life of retirement here in that gloomy manſion, which you may ſee from the Pariſh Green, receives little com⯑pany, runs into no wanton expences, and em⯑ploys the ſuperfluities of her ſeparate income in well-choſen acts of charity. Having heard of your gallant behaviour to Miller Weevil, and the cruel treatment you received from our Juſtice here, where is the wonder ſhe ſhou'd ſingle you out as an object worthy of her bounty?"’

‘"But is there not,"’ reſumed Henry, ‘"ſome⯑thing more than commonly liberal, in beſtow⯑ing [227] ſuch a ſum upon a mere ſtranger, only becauſe he did what humanity requir'd of him, to a fellow creature? Here are twenty guineas, if I have told them right; ſuch benefactions are not often heard of."’—‘"I ſhou'd hope,"’ replied Daw, ‘"that is no abſolute proof they are not often beſtow'd; true charity vaunteth not itſelf: therefore put up thy money, and be at peace; I dare ſay ſhe hath had more plea⯑ſure in giving, than thou haſt in receiving it."’ To this Henry replied, ‘"That from what he obſerved in Lady Crowbery, he fear'd ſhe had no great proportion of pleaſure in her lot, affluent though it was, for he never remark'd a countenance more ſtrongly trac'd with me⯑lancholy."’

Ezekiel ſhook his head, and was ſilent. Goody May, with leſs reſerve, took up the ſubject, and ſtopt not till ſhe had exhauſted a long chapter of lamentations over her dear lady, as ſhe called her, concluding it with a pretty ſmart philippic againſt my Lord, which the good apoſtle, after many efforts, with dif⯑ficulty put a ſtop to.

Suſan in the mean while had ſeized every opening to throw in her word of praiſe, when⯑ever Lady Crowbery was ſpoken of: her [228] eyes teſtified the joy ſhe took in Henry's good fortune, and ſhe ventured to predict he wou'd hear of further kind purpoſes in his favour, when he call'd upon Doctor Cawdle: ‘"For I know,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"that my Lady paſſes many of her good deeds through his hands, and comes frequently to his houſe, where ſhe has long private conferences, which my miſtreſs us'd to be very curious about, and wou'd fain have ſet me upon liſtening, if I wou'd have been concern'd in ſuch ſhabby dealings: Very likely,"’ added ſhe, ‘"my Lady may in⯑tend to take you into her own ſervice, for I have been told that her footman is about to leave her, and ſettle in a public-houſe."’—‘"Poh!"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"her footman in⯑deed! Come, Henry, if your leg will carry you to the Doctor's, I'll accompany you thither, and then we ſhall ſee how matters will turn up."’

Henry declared he found his ankle ſo much ſtrengthened, that with the help of Ezekiel's arm he would undertake the walk. Dame May furniſhed him alſo with a ſtout crutch-ſtick, and thus ſupported on each hand, he confidently ſallied forth.

CHAPTER IV. There are Secrets in all Families.

WHILST we leave our lame hero on his ſlow march to Zachary's caſtle, we will inform our readers of a few particulars, re⯑lative to the lady we have lately introduced into our hiſtory, which may probably account for that air of melancholy, which Henry con⯑ceived he had diſcovered in her looks.

Cecilia Viſcounteſs Crowbery was the daughter of Sir Andrew Adamant, a wealthy baronet of ancient deſcent. He became a widower ſoon after her birth, and had no other child: ſhe was beautiful, accompliſhed, and with Sir Andrew's leave might be one of the richeſt heireſſes in all England. Sir Andrew was a lofty man, circumſpect in his oecono⯑my, and of a ſequeſtered turn, living immured in his hereditary caſtle, far diſtant from the capital, in the central parts of England.

At the county races the fair Cecilia, then turned of ſixteen, was permitted to make her firſt appearance in a public aſſembly. A young cornet of dragoons, by name Delapoer, the [230] cadet of a noble family, well known to Sir Andrew, had the honour of dancing with her. The graces of a fine perſon, engaging addreſs, and the flattering attentions he paid her in the dance, made a conqueſt of her young and yielding heart. Sir Andrew could not alto⯑gether decline the honour of his viſits, but that of his alliance he was in no humour to accept; nay, ſo little diſpoſed was he to adopt the younger ſon of a needy baron, that he peremptorily commanded his daughter never to name him in his hearing, nor even to think of him any more. The firſt part of this command ſhe ſtrictly obeyed; the latter ſhe was ſo far from complying with, that when all hope vaniſhed of conquering his objec⯑tions, ſhe reſolutely overcame her own, and ſet off with him on a tour to Gretna Green.

The ſame impetuoſity of youthful paſſion, that drove them upon this deſperate project, hurried them into imprudencies in the courſe of it: they were overtaken by Sir Andrew on the way, and Cecilia was torn from her lover's arms, in the laſt ſtage of her journey, too ſoon for the completion of the ceremony, too late for the reſcue of her innocence. The burthen of her woe encreaſed daily, till it [231] ſwelled to a ſize too big for concealment: Zachary Cawdle, then practiſing in the neigh⯑bourhood of Sir Andrew, was ſecretly em⯑ployed in confidential ſervices, and a male in⯑fant, the hero of this hiſtory, was uſhered into the world.

Sir Andrew's diſcretion did not deſert him on this trying occaſion: provident in his mea⯑ſures, he took every means of attaching Za⯑chary to his intereſt, and binding him to ſe⯑crecy. Cecilia travelled for her health, attended upon by him as family phyſician. A tour upon the continent reſtored her to all the freſhneſs of her maiden bloom, and Zachary had all the credit of a cure which nature juſtly might have claimed ſome ſhare in.

In the neighbourhood of Sir Andrew Ada⯑mant reſided a very worthy clergyman, of the name of Ratcliffe, on a benefice which had been given him by the Baronet: to him alſo the ſecret was confided, and the infant left at his door as a foundling: he chriſtened it by the name of Henry, and brought it up with great care and tenderneſs in his own family. Had Sir Andrew been diſpoſed to have given his daughter to the Honourable Mr. Delapoer when her ſituation was made known to him, [232] it was then too late, for that young officer had quitted his cornetcy of dragoons and betaken himſelf to India, where the intereſt of his fa⯑mily had procured him an eſtabliſhment, and all correſpondence ceaſed between him and Cecilia. In about two years after the birth of Henry, Lord Crowbery paid his addreſſes to Cecilia, and was accepted by Sir Andrew, who gave him a conſiderable ſum with her on the marriage, and at his death bequeathed his whole landed eſtate in truſt to Cecilia and her heirs, in default of which it was to be at her diſpoſal. It was now about twelve years that Sir Andrew had been dead, and from that pe⯑riod Lady Crowbery had privately remitted to Mr. Ratcliffe a liberal ſtipend year by year for the education of young Henry; but in all this time, though ſhe had meditated on a variety of ſchemes for gaining a ſight of her ſon, ſhe had not yet found courage to put one of them into execution ſince the very year of her fa⯑ther's death, when Ratcliffe made her a viſit at the family manſion, on the pretence of buſi⯑neſs, and brought Henry with him, then a child of ſix years of age. On this occaſion her maternal feelings were ſuch as to expoſe her to very imminent danger, and effectually [233] prevented her from hazarding another inter⯑view under the jealous eye of her Lord, whoſe temper, after the death of her father, ſoured by his diſappointment of an heir, and diſcon⯑tented with the proviſions of the will in her fa⯑vour, was ſo totally changed, that from this time her life was made wretched by his treat⯑ment of her: the circumſtance of her elope⯑ment, which during Sir Andrew's life never once eſcaped his lips, was now frequently caſt in her teeth, and ſometimes with dark and diſ⯑tant inſinuations attached to it, which ſeemed to intimate that he was not without ſuſpicion of the conſequences that followed that event; and certain it is, that, in ſpite of all Sir An⯑drew's precautions, whiſpers had been circu⯑lated about the neighbourhood at the time, un⯑favourable to Cecilia, which probably ſome ſpiteful tatler might have breathed into his ears, when it was underſtood amongſt his hangers-on that any ſtory they could pick up to the diſparagement of his unhappy lady, would be an office flattering to his ill-humour, and a ſtep to his favour.

Under theſe terrors, ſurrounded by ſpies, and continually watched by a jealous tyrant, who never ſuffered her to paſs a day out of [234] his ſight, it cannot be wondered at if Lady Crowbery had never ventured upon any pro⯑ject for indulging herſelf with a ſight of her ſon, nor riſqued the danger of diſcloſing to a young man, of whoſe diſcretion ſhe could have no poſitive aſſurance, the important ſecret of his birth.

When ſhe underſtood, from the ſtory of what had paſſed in the village, that a young man had been carried before Juſtice Blach⯑ford upon a falſe charge, who pleaded to the name of Henry and none other, an anxious curioſity tempted her to ſee him. Though ſhe had no reaſon to ſuſpect her ſon had either left his faithful guardian, Mr. Ratcliffe, or been abandoned by him, yet the name he gave in with ſuch an air of myſtery to the Juſtice, (which had been reported to her) dwelt ſtrongly on her imagination, and the very firſt glance of her eyes upon him in the cottage-kitchen revived in her memory the traces of thoſe features ſhe had once, and only once, fondly contemplated. Trembling with agita⯑tion, and fearful to provoke a diſcovery ſhe had not ſpirits to encounter, ſhe did not dare to aſk him any queſtions, more eſpecially be⯑fore witneſſes, but gave him her purſe, ſcarce [235] knowing what ſhe did or ſaid upon beſtowing it, till, upon better recollection, ſhe perceived there was nothing left for her but to eſcape as quickly as ſhe could, and refer him for what elſe might follow to her confidential friend, Doctor Zachary Cawdle.

Henry in the mean while was not totally without ſome faint ſhadows of a recollection that he had ſomewhere, and on ſome occaſion, at a time long diſtant, ſeen her before. Of a Lady Crowbery he was pretty certain he had heard mention, though Ratcliffe himſelf pro⯑bably never named her in his hearing, for in matters of honourable ſecrecy no man living was more guarded. This idea however only floated in his brain, and he made no diſcovery either to Ezekiel or Goody May of what was paſſing in his thoughts, though openings enough were given him by the talkative dame for enquiries on his part, had he been diſpoſed to make them.

Lady Crowbery haſtened from the cottage-door to Zachary's, impatient to communicate to him her ſuſpicions that in the perſon of his ſervant Henry ſhe had diſcovered her ſon. ‘"It cannot be, Madam,"’ replied Zachary, ‘"the name deceives you: it catches your ear, [236] as it did mine, when I hir'd him."’—‘"But his looks, his age, his voice, his whole air and perſon accord with it."’—‘"That muſt be fancy,"’ he again obſerved; ‘"what can you remember of the countenance of a child of ſix years old, whom you have not ſeen theſe twelve years? I might as well find a likeneſs for him, who never ſaw him ſince he was a babe at the breaſt."’—‘"So you may think,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"but I look upon him with the eye of a mother; and I tell you, Zachary, he is the very picture of his father."’—‘"Well, Ma⯑dam,"’ anſwered he, ‘"that I ſhall not diſpute with you, for that will not decide the point in queſtion; but here is a letter that will: this I received not many days ago from par⯑ſon Ratcliffe, and if you pleaſe I will read it to you."’—‘"By all means let me hear it,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"how came you not to ſhew it to me before?"’—Zachary told her he had been from home ſome days, and ſince his return confined to his chamber; and then added, ‘"You will find by this letter that he was living in the higheſt favour and eſteem with his preceptor; how can we ſuppoſe that he ſhould appear in a week's time at this diſtance from his home a needy, naked wanderer, preſenting himſelf [237] to be hir'd by the firſt charitable perſon that would give him food and lodging?"’—‘"Hea⯑ven only knows,"’ replied the lady; ‘"I con⯑feſs it is moſt improbable: but what is the date of your letter?"’—‘"It has no date,"’ ſaid Zachary; and I ſuſpect has been written at ſeveral intervals; but with your leave we'll read it through, though it is ſomewhat of the longeſt, and rambles, as you'll perceive, in his deſultory manner."—‘"I am well acquainted with his manner,"’ replied the lady, ‘"and like every thing that his heart dictates and his pen expreſſes: ſay no more therefore, but begin."’

Zachary unfolded the letter, put on his ſpectacles, and read as follows:—

Zachary having concluded the letter, waited in ſilence for Lady Crowbery to ſpeak. After a conſiderable pauſe, obſerving her ſtill buried in thought, he ſaid, ‘"I don't wonder if your Ladyſhip is puzzled how to make the hero of this letter and my poor Henry one and the ſame perſon."’—‘"'Tis difficult enough to re⯑concile it to probability,"’ replied Lady Crow⯑bery, ‘"I do confeſs to you; and I believe I [241] muſt relinquiſh my diſcovery. Likeneſſes are no certain rules to go by; yet here is a concur⯑rence of circumſtances in name and age, and, give me leave to ſay, in nobleneſs of nature: Had my Henry been in this young man's ſitua⯑tion, cou'd he have acquitted himſelf more no⯑bly? therefore, at all events, let me know the hiſtory of this youth, for were it only for his name's ſake, and the impreſſion which his countenance made upon me, I am reſolv'd to be his friend. Draw from him the ſtory which he ſo myſteriouſly with-holds, and if (which is ſtill poſſible) ſome fatal combination of events ſhou'd have reduc'd my child to this diſtreſsful ſtate, I ſtill muſt bleſs the hand of Providence for guiding him to my protection, and, at whatever riſque, will meet the diſpenſa⯑tion, and fulfil the duties of a mother. Ne⯑vertheleſs it will behove us to be circumſpect, for I am encompaſs'd with hoſtile and ſevere inſpectors: ſhou'd you therefore unexpectedly find my firſt impreſſion verified, let not ſur⯑priſe or curioſity lead you into diſcoveries that would involve us all in danger; but keep the ſecret of his birth untold till we can find or form occaſion fit and mature for our reveal⯑ing it."’

[242]This ſaid, and promiſe made on Zachary's part to be attentive to her inſtructions, Lady Crowbery took her leave, and departed.

CHAPTER V. Our Hero relates his Adventures. A religious Controverſy concludes with a Battle.

OUR hero and his friend arrived at the Doctor's gate as Lady Crowbery's car⯑riage drove from it. Ezekiel ſate down in the ſhop with Alexander Kinloch, whilſt Henry attended Zachary's ſummons up ſtairs. He found the fat ſon of Apollo ſitting in his night⯑gown and cap, and was welcomed with many hearty congratulations for his eſcape out of the talons of the juſtice, on whom Zachary be⯑ſtowed many opprobrious terms, which we have neither leiſure nor inclination to repeat. He touched briefly upon Henry's leaving his ſer⯑vice, but ſo as to convince him he underſtood his motives, obſerving by the way, that Mrs. Cawdle was now ſo ill, that he apprehended her to be in danger; ‘"but ſhe will take no⯑thing,"’ added he, ‘"that Sawney Kinloch pre⯑ſcribes [243] to her, ſo that ſhe has that chance for life ſtill; for my part, I'm in no condition to attend upon her."’

Zachary had made Henry ſit down to reſt his leg: he now began his ſtring of interro⯑gatories. Had he got any ſervice or ſituation in view? None. Would he come back to his old quarters? Henry ſhook his head, bowed, and was ſilent. Obſerving this token of diſ⯑ſent, Zachary ſmiled, and ſaid, ‘"I ſuſpect, young man, you have more honeſty than good policy; I doubt you did not take proper pains to recommend yourſelf to your miſtreſs: the ſaints pay well when they are pleas'd, and I gueſs you do not abound: Have you any money in your pocket?"’ Henry exhibited the purſe, and named the donor. ‘"So, ſo!"’ cried the Doctor, ‘"that's a great ſum for a poor fellow; I ſuppoſe you never ſaw ſo much money together before."’—‘"I have not always been in want,"’ replied Henry. ‘"Then I ſuppoſe your parents may have fail'd, or come into trouble, or ſtept aſide, perhaps, and that may be the reaſon you don't chuſe to publiſh your name; but you need not fear me, for I am no tell-tale."’—‘"Nor I neither,"’ replied Henry. ‘"Humph!"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"I believe that [244] moſt readily; but methinks it ſhould be no rea⯑ſon with you for refuſing to confide in me, by which you might make a friend, and ſuch an one perhaps as cou'd render you more ſervices than you may be aware of."’ He then proceed⯑ed to aſk, ‘"Had he a father living?"’ He had loſt the only father he ever knew. ‘"I don't comprehend you,"’ ſaid Zachary; ‘"was he not your real father? Have you no other name than Henry? Was you never called Henry Fitz-Henry?"’ The young man ſtarted at the queſtion, and looked him earneſtly in the face. Zachary proceeded—‘"Did he know a clergy⯑man in the weſt of England, of the name of Ratcliffe?"’—‘"Did I know him!"’ exclaimed Henry; ‘"his memory will be ever dear to me: whilſt he liv'd I never knew ſorrow."’—‘"Good Heaven!"’ cried Zachary, ‘"is my friend Ratcliffe dead? How ſorry am I to hear it! Oh, that I had been with him in his ſickneſs!"’—‘"Alas!"’ replied Henry, ‘"you cou'd have been of no uſe to him; his caſe defied all art; his death was inſtantaneous, a fall from his horſe; an unmanageable, accurſed animal threw him from his back, diſlocated his neck, and in a moment extinguiſh'd a life moſt dear, moſt precious, moſt divine, if man can merit that [245] expreſſion."’—‘"And you are the foundling he was ſo fond of?"’ ſaid Zachary.—‘"I am that diſconſolate being,"’ replied Henry, the tears ſtreaming from his eyes. ‘"Be comforted,"’ ſaid the honeſt accoucheur, whoſe heart was ſympathiſing with Henry's, for he loved Rat⯑cliffe, and had a tender ſoul; ‘"be comforted, my dear good child, and accept of me in place of your departed friend, unworthy, I confeſs, to be his ſubſtitute, but ſtill a zealous, a ſincere one, as you ſhall find me. Ratcliffe I lov'd; he was the beſt of men; I know how dear you was to him; therefore you are dear to me; though he had more experience of your worth than I have, his obligations to you cou'd not be greater than mine are; for my life you have ſav'd, and alas! alas! it was not in your power to ſave his. I'll not deceive you by profeſ⯑ſions; try me; truſt me; you ſhall not be diſ⯑appointed, or repent that Providence has brought you hither.’

‘"I think it was the hand of Providence,"’ replied Henry; ‘"for what elſe cou'd reſcue me from ſuch diſtreſſes as I have encounter'd ſince I left my patron's manſion? As ſoon as I had ſeen his corpſe committed to the earth, I found myſelf a ſolitary being in the world, [246] without a friend, without a name, without a parent that wou'd own me, or at whoſe door I cou'd apply for ſuccour and relief. The houſe of my benefactor I neither cou'd nor wou'd abide in: I pack'd up a few clothes, and with what little money I had about me, ſet out upon my adventures with a ſervant of my deceaſed friend, who was going to London. The army was the reſource I had in medita⯑tion. Daily labour I was not uſed to, private ſervice my ſpirit revolted from, and a ſoldier's muſket was at leaſt an honourable, though a ſlender maintenance. On the road, it was my hard fortune to be attack'd by footpads: whilſt my comrade ran off, I ſtood my ground, and made reſiſtance to the robbers; being ſingle, I was overpower'd by numbers, and left for dead, ſtun'd with the blow of a bludgeon on my head. A paſſenger had the huma⯑nity to take care of me, and brought me to his houſe; he was a grazier, and held a farm on the ſkirts of Hounſlow-heath. I ſoon re⯑covered from the blow, but I had loſt my all; for the villains had ſtrip'd me even of the clothes I had on: with this man I paſs'd a few days, did what work I cou'd in the houſe as well as field, but there was certain work [247] within doors which I wou'd not do, and falling under the reſentment of his wife, a woman of an outrageous temper, I was ſo repreſented to him, that he diſmiſs'd me with ignominy from his doors, pennyleſs and friendleſs. In this ex⯑tremity I call'd to mind a certain good old wo⯑man, who had been a ſervant of Mr. Ratcliffe's, and nurs'd me in my infancy, living, as I underſtood, at this very town hard by, where happily I firſt met with you: thither I bent my courſe, and the rather as I had a diſtant hope that ſhe could tell me ſomething that might guide me to my parents, for I cou'd well remember being often told by her, when I was of an age to take notice of ſuch things, that I was a gentleman born; that I had as good blood in my veins as the beſt man in the county, and ſuch ſort of vague prattle as nurſes talk to children, and perhaps might mean nothing; yet it was a twig to catch at, and I had no better help within my reach. When you accoſted me in the market-place, I had juſt then enquired her out, and found my only hope was loſt; ſhe had been dead ſome years. This with other ſorrows will account for the deſpair you found me in; it was a ſtate little ſhort of abſolute inſenſibility; your voice [248] recall'd me to ſome recollection; you reſcued me from total deprivation of my reaſon. What has befallen me ſince, I need not repeat; you know it all; and thus you have the faithful ab⯑ſtract of my ſhort but ſad hiſtory."’

The diſcovery being now compleat, and Lady Crowbery's conjecture fully verified, Zachary took ſome time to reconnoitre the ground he was to go upon, before he ventured to advance a ſtep. Having thrown himſelf back in his eaſy chair, and held a ſhort council with his wits, he at length broke ſilence, and, with a gracious ſmile, began by reaſſuring Henry of his favour and ſupport. ‘"Heaven forbid,"’ he ſaid, ‘"that one ſo beloved and protected by his friend ſhould be reduc'd to labour for his livelihood; he bade him think no more of that, he wou'd take his fortunes on himſelf; and as he was determin'd not to let him ſink from his former ſituation, the firſt thing he recommended him to do was, to equip himſelf with ſuch neceſſaries as he had occaſion for, ready made up from the warehouſe at the neighbouring market town. Take ſomebody with you,"’ ſays he, ‘"(either Ezekiel or the old woman) to ſhew you the proper ſhop, and rig yourſelf out in gentleman's apparel; then let [249] me ſee you, and what you have laid out from your fund I will replace. As to my houſe, it is your own, if you chuſe to make uſe of it; if not, and you prefer remaining where you are, we can eaſily make it up to the good people, who give you ſhelter; and I muſt candidly confeſs you will be more likely to find quiet and content in your cottage than under this roof with a certain perſon that ſhall be name⯑leſs."’

Scarce were theſe words out of his mouth, when a violent noiſe from the chamber of Jemima put a ſtop to all further converſation. The ſound was like the craſh of glaſs, and it was followed by a loud and ſhrill ſcream, which conveyed to Zachary's ears the well known accent of his beloved's voice in its higheſt and moſt diſcordant key. ‘"Bleſs us!"’ cried he; and ſtarting from his chair, made his way as nimbly as he could to his conſort's apart⯑ment, followed by Henry: upon opening the door the fragments of a glaſs bottle lay ſcat⯑tered on the floor, ſprinkled with a liquor which ſaluted his noſtrils with the veritable odour of Nantz: in another quarter of the chamber, Ezekiel Daw was diſcovered with a waſh-hand baſon in his hand, the former con⯑tents [250] of which he had ſent back to their proper owner, who, though drench'd with the polluted ſtream, was foaming with rage, and preparing herſelf for another onſet.

As both parties were high in wrath and ſtrong in vociferation, it was not eaſy to collect any thing more of the fracas, than that the glaſs bottle had been vollied by the fair hand of Jemima at the ſcull of the apoſtle, and he, with happier aim, had beſtowed upon her the miſcellaneous contents of the baſon. There was little doubt that the controverſy had been of the religious ſort, though not conducted with all the temper diſputants on ſuch a ſub⯑ject ſhould preſerve. The lady was evidently full of the ſpirit, and Ezekiel's zeal, though not quickened by the ſame flames, was certainly not of the lukewarm ſort. He had been of⯑ficious in preparing her for the other world, and ſhe had done her beſt to ſend him thither before her. Jemima contended for election and grace, which ſhe backed with the argu⯑ment of the brandy bottle launched at his head; Ezekiel preached regeneration, repentance, and a new life, which he illuſtrated with the in⯑ference of the waſh-hand baſon. Had Jemima's ſyllogiſm not miſſed its conſequence, it would [251] undoubtedly have been of that claſs, which cer⯑tain logicians denominate the knock-down ar⯑gument. Ezekiel's was applied ad verecundiam; rhetoric of a milder ſpecies, yet not leſs effi⯑cacious, having reduced his opponent to a ſituation, in which any reaſonable perſon would have bluſhed at being ſeen.

The only way to make peace was to part the combatants, and this was done by Henry, who took his friend Ezekiel under the arm, and by force, rather than perſuaſion, conducted him off the field of battle. The eyes of Jemima caught a glimpſe of him, whilſt en⯑gaged in this office, and that one glimpſe tended more to allay her rage, than all the ſedatives, which Zachary's art could have ad⯑miniſtered; but this it effected by a revolu⯑tion rather than a reform; for whilſt it calmed one ſtorm, it raiſed another: ſhe now grew mawdlin, and began to whine and whimper in a piteous ſort; the old woman was ſummoned to provide a change of clothes, and Zachary, glad to devolve his attentions upon Bridget, made a courteous exit, and retired to his chamber.

Jemima in the mean time proceeded in the taſk of repairing the damages, which her perſon [252] and apparel had incurred in her conteſt with the preacher, muttering revenge between whiles, and meditating projects for another in⯑terview with the youth, whoſe appearance had encouraged her with hopes that he might yet be won to continue in her ſervice; and as no means ſeemed ſo likely to decoy him as a re⯑conciliation with Suſan, ſhe determined with⯑in herſelf inſtantly to ſtart a negotiation for that purpoſe.

CHAPTER VI. Is any Merry? Let him ſing Pſalms.

WHILST Henry walked ſlowly home⯑wards with his friend Ezekiel, he was fain to lend a patient ear to an entire recapi⯑tulation of the learned controverſy, which had, like moſt other controverſies of the ſort, ex⯑aſperated both parties, and convinced neither. The good man had now the whole argument to himſelf, and managed it after his own liking, without interruption, branching it out into ſo many digreſſions, and commenting upon it as he went on ſo diffuſively, that it may well be [253] doubted if his companion was one whit the wiſer, eſpecially as his thoughts were pre-en⯑gaged by the events that had paſſed in his con⯑ference with the Doctor. Ezekiel's new-birth, though ſtrongly inſiſted on by him as the one thing needful in Jemima's deſperate ſtate of health and morals, did not at that moment intereſt Henry quite ſo much as the new ſcene of things, which now ſeemed opening upon him with more auſpicious hopes than he had hitherto ventured to indulge. Nothing ſtruck Ezekiel with ſuch ſurprize, (as he frequent⯑ly remarked to Henry) nothing ſeemed to him ſo unnatural in the behaviour of Je⯑mima, as that ſhe ſhould be offended with him for an act of kindneſs, ‘"to which,"’ added he, ‘"I proteſt unto you, I was mov'd by no other conſideration than that of rendering her all the ſervice in my power; for, having heard that Mr. Kinloch had pronounc'd upon her caſe, I came in pure charity and good will to ap⯑priſe her that ſhe had not many days to live, and for this my friendly office the ungrateful huſſey treated me as you ſaw; but ſome na⯑tures are not ſenſible of any kindneſs you can ſhew them."’

When they arrived at the cottage, Dame [254] May and Suſan had ſpread the board with clean linen, and a homely, but comfortable, meal, and welcomed them with a ſmile, that would have recommended worſe fare. Ezekiel, who had the hoſpitality, though not the purſe, of a biſhop, gave a nod of approbation to the wo⯑men, and a hearty greeting to his companion. He then drew himſelf up to an erect poſture, and, with much ſolemnity, began a grace, that would have ſerved for the dinner of a cardinal, and which held his meſſmates by the ears long enough to cool the meat and tantalize their hunger: a polite preacher might have diſ⯑patched a modern ſermon in the time Ezekiel took to warn his hearers how they indulged their fleſhly appetites; which exhortation he had no ſooner finiſhed, than he cried out, ‘"Fall to, my good friends, with a hearty ſtomach, and much good may it do you!"’—an inference not exactly correſponding with the doctrine of the text, but probably better ſtomached by the hearers than any part of it, and more readily obeyed.

When hunger was appeaſed, and the frag⯑ments ſet by, Ezekiel, turning to his gueſt, ſaid, ‘"Methinks, friend Henry, thy coun⯑tenance beſpeaketh a cheerful heart; and verily [255] it gladdens me to behold it; for the face of an honeſt man is the index of his thoughts. The maiden alſo, who ſitteth beſide thee, ſeemeth to participate in thy good ſpirits, which is to me a ſure token that I have not beſtowed la⯑bour in vain upon her; for whereas the eye of the lover is ſullen and ſad, her's on the con⯑trary is bright and joyous: our good dame alſo is merry, and in ſooth ſo am I; for I ex⯑perience ſomething at my heart, which augurs better days: not that I complain of time paſt in my own particular; Heaven forbid! I am thankful for my lot, and contented therewith. It is not the rich man's gold that is to be envied; it is his opportunity of doing good therewith that I covet; to cheer the widow's heart, to cheriſh the helpleſs orphan, to em⯑ploy the labouring poor, ſuccour them in ſickneſs, and wipe away the tear from the cheek of the mourner, theſe are the voluptu⯑ous enjoyments, theſe the real luxuries of life, which the great may revel in; this is their bed of down, their feaſt of dainties, and their flow of pleaſure. But do they not too often let theſe joys eſcape them? Alas, I fear they do! They give, indeed, but do they bleſs withal? They ſcatter to the importunate and undeſerv⯑ing [256] bounties that would give life to the in⯑duſtrious, and people a whole neighbourhood. Oh, Henry! if ever thou art favour'd with the gifts of fortune, forget not, I conjure thee, that thou waſt once the pooreſt of the poor."’

‘"Behold, I am the favourite of fortune,"’ cried the youth, putting his purſe on the table, ‘"and no longer pooreſt of the poor, therefore hear me at this moment declare, that never in any future period of my life, whilſt I am poſ⯑ſeſs'd of memory, will I fail to bear in mind the ſad degree of helpleſs penury in which this unſolicited bounty found me, and leaſt of all will I forget your goodneſs to me, my ge⯑nerous friends, your charitable protection in the hour of trial; and ſee! here are the means to add ſome comforts to this beloved circle, and yet provide me with all I am in want of."’

‘"What!"’ exclaim'd Ezekiel, ‘"ſhall we do good to our fellow creatures and be paid for it by filthy lucre? Shall we ſerve two maſters at a time, praiſe God with our lips, and wor⯑ſhip Mammon in our hearts? Periſh all ſuch double-minded hypocriſy! be far from me ſuch phariſaical eye-ſervice! No, young man, the maſter I ſerve is able to recompence me, and him only will I worſhip."’

[257]He now began to tune his voice to thankſ⯑giving, and gave out Mr. Addiſon's beautiful hymn:—

The chorus was now full, for both Henry and Suſan here could bear a part, as the words were familiar to them; and had not honeſt Daw and the Dame, in their zeal, effectually drown⯑ed the more melodious voices of the younger choriſters, the concert would have been more tuneable than it was; but Ezekiel roared with might and main, and the old woman blew the trumpet through her noſe with ſuch a twang, that the cottage echoed with the din, and to add to the craſh, the cow-boy, who was then in the act of driving the pariſh herd from their common, hearing the chorus, put the horn to his mouth, and ſtopping directly before the cottage window, ſent forth ſuch a determined blaſt, in malicious uniſon with Goody May's noſe, as had well nigh overthrown the gravity of Henry and Suſan, in ſpite of all their re⯑ſpect for Ezekiel, and the pious taſk they were employed upon: very different was the ef⯑fect it took with him, for no ſooner had he [258] wound off his cadence with the accompani⯑ment of the ſaid cow-horn, than he ſallied from his caſtle, and angrily demanded of the lad what he meant by winding his horn in ſuch a manner under his window, purpoſely to diſ⯑turb and ridicule him in his devotions.

The lad, who was brother to that John Jenkins, whom Ezekiel had taken to taſk at the Juſtice's, ſtared at him with a contemp⯑tuous grin, and gave no anſwer. ‘"Doſt thou laugh in my face,"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"thou un⯑ſanctified cub? I know thee, Joe Jenkins, I know thee well, and all thy kin, for a genera⯑tion of ſcorners: fie on thee, reprobate! fie on thee!"’—he was proceeding, when the ſaucy rogue, without any apology, ſlily put the horn again to his mouth, and turning it towards the orator, gave him ſuch another dolorous blaſt in his ear, as drove him back into the cottage, almoſt deafened with the twang. What was to be done? The preacher was too much a man of peace to chaſtiſe him with his fiſt, and as for his tongue, loud though it was, it made no battle againſt the horn and the horn-maſter, who by long practice had acquired the art of giving ſuch a tone to it, [259] as nothing but the patient ears of a cow could ſubmit to be tortured with.

Here ſome of my readers may remark, that Henry ought to have turned out in ſup⯑port of his friend; but they will be pleaſed to recollect, in extenuation of his omiſſion, that he had ſufficiently ſmarted for his fray with the miller; that the ſtocks were in his ſight, as well as his remembrance; and that he was at this very time ſo diſabled with a ſprained ankle, that he could as ſoon have caught the birds of the air, as the nimble-heeled muſician: if none of theſe reaſons will ſuffice to exculpate him, I have none elſe to offer, except that he was juſt now engaged in a converſation with Suſan, which though conveyed by the eyes, in a language not altogether ſo ſonorous as the horn, was not leſs intelligible, and pro⯑bably more intereſting to both parties, than what was paſſing without doors: in ſhort, there was an interchange of looks, which Goody May either did not underſtand, or underſtand⯑ing did not ſee occaſion to interrupt.

It cannot be diſguiſed, that Suſan May had thoughts in her head that did not entirely ſquare with thoſe ſelf-denying maxims, which Ezekiel Daw had piouſly laboured to impreſs [260] upon her: ſhe had the advantage both of years and experience over the youth, upon whoſe heart ſhe ſeemed to level her attack: three years of her life ſhe had paſſed in the ſchool of Mrs. Cawdle, who was herſelf no mean proficient in the arts of intrigue; and though ſhe had now renounced that ſervice, it may well be doubted, if there were not other motives for her making this ſacrifice, than purely the moral merit of the act itſelf. Of her paſſion for Henry ſhe had given un⯑equivocal proofs, not only in her interview with him, which Weevil and his party broke up, but in that alſo, which Ezekiel interrupted. With a perſon uncommonly attractive, ſhe had a heart peculiarly ſuſceptible; and when ſhe repulſed the attack of Juſtice Blachford, it was probably more the reſult of an utter diſ⯑like of his perſon, than of any fixt and conſti⯑tutional abhorrence of his propoſals. Such was her ſuperiority over every girl of the vil⯑lage in point of charms, that not one amongſt them could retain her ſweetheart, if Suſan's eye once glanced encouragement upon him; but this ſhe ſeldom condeſcended to, and then only in the way of a little ſly revenge for their ſpite and malice againſt her; real liking ſhe [261] beſtowed on none; their clowniſhneſs, and her ambition, rendered her inexorable to all ſuch ſuitors; but to the graces of Henry's perſon ſhe had nothing to oppoſe; there was a traitor in the fortreſs of honour, that had he been diſpoſed to have ſummoned it, would have been found a very buſy agent for a ſurrender.

Hence it came to paſs, that Ezekiel Daw had no ſooner bolted from his caſtle to repri⯑mand the obſtreporous muſician, whoſe ac⯑companiment had ſo annoyed him in his pſal⯑mody, than Suſan May availed herſelf of the lucky interval to glance a look at her beloved Henry, that plainly ſpoke the diſpoſition ſhe was in to profit by ſuch an opportunity, and the good will ſhe bore to the cow-boy for ſupplying her with the preſent one, however ſhort: it fairly told him, that if Ezekiel had not ſo critically interpoſed to reſcue her from his arms on a late occaſion, ſhe could have found in her heart to have forgiven him, and would have met the conſequences without ac⯑cuſing her ill fortune. Mirth and good cheer had warmed the heart of Henry; the chilling blaſts of poverty were for the preſent diſ⯑perſed; Suſan's eyes were too plain-ſpoken for him to miſs their meaning, and his ſpirits [262] too much exhilarated to be totally inſenſible to the purport of it. Ezekiel, however, ſoon returned, and the ſcene was changed.

When the affair of the cow-boy and his horn had had its proper ſhare of diſcuſſion, the party began to talk over the buſineſs of providing Henry with the neceſſaries he was to purchaſe; and it was determined to go the next morning to the neighbouring market town, which being upon the coaſt, and a port for ſmall veſſels, was furniſhed with all ſuch articles as he was in want of, ready made: the diſtance did not exceed two miles, and Henry was of opinion he could walk thither in the preſent condition of his ankle, by the help of a ſtout ſtick, which ſtood in the corner of the room, and was in fact the paſtoral ſtaff of the itinerant apoſtle Ezekiel, who alſo of⯑fered to accompany him, and render him his farther help by the way. Suſan, it may be ſuppoſed, was not backward in her tenders, and having been in the practice of making fre⯑quent purchaſes for Mrs. Cawdle at a certain ſhop of all ſorts in the aforeſaid place, was a party by no means to be left out of the ex⯑pedition. The order of march was therefore finally ſo arranged, that Suſan, under guard [263] of Ezekiel and Henry, ſhould ſet out with the firſt of the morning, leaving Dame May in charge of the cottage, and alſo to provide the meal that was to cheer them on their return.

A council was next held for lodging the company, male and female; and whereas their barracks were not quite ſo roomy as might be wiſhed, it was not without ſome arguing pro and con, that it was at laſt ſettled, that the mother and daughter ſhould occupy the bed in which Henry had repoſed himſelf the night before; that Ezekiel ſhould keep his own quar⯑ters in the cockloft to himſelf alone; and that a certain couch, which preſented itſelf as a ſuc⯑cedaneum ready for ſervice, in Dame May's chamber, ſhould be brought into the common room, and, with the help of a mattraſs, con⯑verted into a crib bed, for the ſole uſe and be⯑hoof of Henry their gueſt.

Theſe regulations made and agreed to, the parties drew themſelves together in a circle round the hearth, where a few embers ſerved to light Ezekiel's pipe, whilſt the Dame took her knitting and Suſan her needle, when a converſation enſued, which ſhall be recorded in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VII. Our Hero gratifies the Curioſity of his Hoſt.

‘"METHINKS,"’ cried Ezekiel, taking the pipe from his mouth, ‘"there is a time, friend Henry, when honeſt men ſhou'd underſtand each other, and throw aſide con⯑cealment: now I do not think thou canſt charge me with an importunate curioſity in thy particular, having been content to know thee by none other name, than what thy ſpon⯑ſors gave thee at thy baptiſm, ever ſince thou refuſedſt to plead to the queſtion of the Juſtice. Thou wilt ſay, peradventure, that charity maketh no conditions; that the good Samari⯑tan needed not to enquire the name of him, who had fallen amongſt thieves; and true it is, that I did not thereupon ſhut my bowels of compaſſion againſt thee, becauſe thou didſt withhold an anſwer to the magiſtrate's demand; yet having now conſorted with thee at bed and board, and lived with thee as it were with mine own familiar friend, it ſeemeth meet no longer to diſguiſe from us thy name and hiſtory, ſeeing that we may either do thee leſs [265] or more than juſtice, by our vague conjectures, for whilſt we are in darkneſs we are liable to ſtumble."’

‘"True,"’ replied the youth, ‘"your con⯑cluſions are juſt, are your friendſhip gives you a right to know all of me that I know of myſelf; yet can I give you little better ſatis⯑faction than I gave to the Juſtice, though I ſhall not content myſelf with the ſame ſhort anſwer as I made to him. The obſcurity, which involves my birth, is a ſecret impene⯑trable to me; and as I know not what name I have a right to take, I do not venture upon any. If I have a parent yet living, whoſe eye can trace me to my preſent poor condition, there may ſtill be hope of it's amendment, for I have not always been thus loſt and neglected; at all events it will behove me ſo to act in this my humble and reduced condition, that the reaſons, which obtain for the obſcurity I am kept in, may not owe their continuance to my miſconduct and diſgrace; ſo ſhall it be to their ſhame only, who conceal my birth, and not to mine, if it is never revealed in any future time."’

‘"Aye,"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"and it will be to their everlaſting condemnation in the life to [266] come; for how can they expect to be receiv'd into the lot of the righteous, who abandon their offspring, and profeſſing themſelves to be rational creatures, reſponſible to their Creator, neglect thoſe natural duties, which even the brutes inſtinctively fulfil? We will grant what ſeemeth probable to be the caſe, that thou art what is vulgarly called baſe-begotten; what then? the baſeneſs is not thine, but their's who ſo begot thee. Is this a reaſon, that to the crime of bringing thee into the world unlaw⯑fully, they ſhou'd add that of abandoning thee unmercifully? Woe, treble woe to all ſuch ſinful monſters!—But proceed, for thy narra⯑tion is intereſting."’

‘"That I appear to you,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"at preſent in the light of a deſerted being, I can⯑not wonder; but rather ſuſpect it is owing to the fatal accident that deprived me of ſupport by the ſudden death of my protector, than to any abſolute dereliction of me by my un⯑known parents, if I have any ſuch now living. The excellent perſon who educated and main⯑tain'd me from my infancy, was a clergyman, moderately beneficed, and I never heard that he had any other means than his church-pre⯑ferment; I muſt believe therefore that he was [267] ſecretly furniſh'd for the purpoſe, elſe indeed I ſhou'd have been a burthen greater than he cou'd have borne, for I was carefully and in⯑dulgently brought up in the abundance of every thing that cou'd contribute to my com⯑fort and improvement. If he knew the ſecret of my birth, he kept it faithfully, for he never open'd the ſlighteſt hint of it to me; and as his death was inſtantaneous, by a fall from his horſe, all communication through his channel was ſhut upon me at once; and having neither right, means, nor inclination to keep my ſta⯑tion in a houſe, that with my benefactor's de⯑ceaſe devolv'd upon a ſucceſſor, I threw my⯑ſelf upon the world too haſtily perhaps in point of prudence, for certainly till that period I never knew misfortune. Upon the whole, I join with you in believing that I am illegiti⯑mate."’

‘"Yes, verily,"’ anſwered the preacher, ‘"thou wert born in ſin, for the world is full of fornication and all manner of uncleanneſs a the age is groſs and carnal; the ſons and the daughters of Belial revel in the face of the ſun: in vain doth the preacher cry out to the ſtrangers and pilgrims upon earth to abſtain, they ſtop their ears; he crieth in vain; they [268] will not liſten to his voice, preach he never ſo wiſely. For my part, I am hoarſe with preaching to this adulterous generation; my tongue cleaveth to the roof of my mouth with crying out to the daughters of the land to poſſeſs their veſſels in ſanctification, but in vain; though I warn them late and early, they heed me not; my whole flock is gone aſtray, every hedge witneſſeth to their diſhonour; the damſels are like the kids of the goats in coupling time, the young men like fed horſes in the morning, every one neighing after his neighbour's wife, whilſt I, if a wake or a fair or the ſound of the pipe calls them off, though in the midſt of a ſermon, am left by myſelf like a lodge in a garden of cucumbers."’

Henry ſmiled; Suſan looked archly under his eyelids. Ezekiel, good man, had ſtrayed away from the topic they were upon in the true ſpirit of digreſſion, but having at length come back to the track, after a few whiffs for the benefit of recollection, he demanded of Henry, if he had rightly underſtood him, that the perſon who had taken charge of him, was a clergyman of the church of England?—Henry informed him that he was a clergyman [269] of the eſtabliſhed church, and one that was an ornament to his profeſſion; an admirable preacher, a deep ſcholar and a ſound divine.—‘"Humph!"’ quoth Ezekiel.—‘"A man,"’ continued Henry, ‘"of exemplary morals, unblemiſh'd honour and a heart as gentle as the dew of heaven."’—Ezekiel applied to his pipe with double diligence, and was enve⯑lop'd with a cloud of ſmoke.—‘"Whilſt he liv'd I knew no ſorrow; I had no other teacher; he was at once my preceptor, friend, and father."’—‘"I believe it,"’ ſaid Ezekiel.—‘"He was ſuch a friend as perhaps no father now diſ⯑cover'd cou'd replace."’—‘"None ſuch, I dare ſay, will be diſcover'd,"’ replied Ezekiel: ‘"Are thine eyes darken'd? Doſt thou not at once diſcern that thou art Iſhmael, the ſon of the bond-woman, and like him caſt out into the wilderneſs, to ſeek thy fortune, without por⯑tion or inheritance?"’—‘"You ſpeak by allu⯑ſion,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"and I may not rightly interpret your meaning; but if you ſuppoſe that I am the natural ſon of that exemplary divine, you do me too much honour, and him great injuſtice; therefore baniſh all thoſe ſuſ⯑picions from your mind at once, and though I cannot expect you to reverence his charac⯑ter [270] as I do who knew it, I do expect that you will not wound my feelings by ſuggeſtions ſo unworthy of it. Don't let me appear gap⯑tious by what I now ſay, but the reſpect which my experience of his virtues has engrafted on my heart, will not ſuffer any ſtain to be caſt upon his memory; to him I owe the ſenſe and conviction, of this and every other prin⯑ciple of rectitude and juſtice; and if I deviate from it, the tranſgreſſion will lie at my own door: but I truſt I ſhall not ſo offend againſt his inſtructions, as to grieve his departed ſpirit; and as I have endur'd adverſity with tolerable reſignation and compoſure, I hope, if it ſhall pleaſe Heaven to reverſe my lot, I ſhall not be found wholly undeſerving of proſperity."’

Ezekiel knocked the aſhes out of his pipe, and ſate ſilent in profound meditation—Suſan ſighed and kept her eyes fixt upon her work,—Goody May went on with her knitting, ob⯑ſerving however by the way, that a mother who neglected her own offspring was worſe than an infidel. At length Ezekiel, awaking from his reverie, remarked, that he had ſome⯑where read, or elſe been told, of a certain ſon in the like myſterious circumſtances, who had either married his own mother, or had a child [271] by her, he could not exactly ſay which, but he remember'd it was a very ſhocking ſtory.—‘"Whichever it was,"’ Henry replied, ‘"it wou'd not be his caſe; there was one ſure way to eſcape ſhipwreck, by never going to ſea."’ Here Suſan glanced a look at him, which ſeemed to ſay, Make no raſh reſolutions.—Goody May in her natural manner ſaid, ‘"Well, well! I can vouch for it you are not my ſon."’—‘"Nor any body's relation in this company, I dare ſay,"’ added Suſan.—Ezekiel next, with much gravity, put in his proteſt againſt the poſſibility of any claim being made upon him, for reaſons which he ſhould keep to himſelf; and concluded by ſaying, ‘"He did not doubt but the ſin laid at the door of ſome high-born huſſey, for he believ'd from his heart there were many dark doings amongſt them; few of them he fear'd were like good Lady Crow⯑bery; ſhe was a non-ſuch, a pattern of pu⯑rity."’—This led him into another digreſſion, in which he took a circuit round the neigh⯑bourhood, which ſet him down at the next door with Juſtice Blachford, who, he obſerved, was keen in ſpying out ſmall treſpaſſes in others, and overlooking great ones in him⯑ſelf.

[272] ‘"Aye, ſo the people ſay,"’ cried Goody May; ‘"but who believes them? Did not they ſcandalize my poor dear child, no longer ago than yeſterday, when Henry was before his worſhip? I am ſure, if I thought any harm of Mr. Blachford in that way, I ſhou'd not have liſten'd to the offer he made me this very morning for my Suſan; yet ſuch a place as Mrs. Locket's, the houſekeeper, for a young woman out of ſervice as ſhe is, does not fall to every body's lot: I am certain the late gentle⯑woman made a pretty penny by it, aye! and went as handſomely the whilſt as the beſt ſhe in the county."’

‘"Went as handſomely!"’ repeated Eze⯑kiel; ‘"what doſt thou infer from that, good dame, but that ſervants dreſs out of character, and ſhew the world they either ſpend more than they earn, or earn more than their wages?"’

A converſation was now ſtarted between the Doctor and the Dame, which branched out into many diſcuſſions not very edifying, were I to attempt the relation of them, in all which the hero of our hiſtory had little inte⯑reſt, and took no part: Suſan indeed could have told a tale of Juſtice Blachford, that [273] might have ended the debate at once, but ſhe was in the firſt place under promiſe of ſecrecy, and in the next not in the humour to unfold it before the company preſent.

Upon the whole it was plain, that although Ezekiel mingled much good reaſon with many oddities, yet the worldly advantages of a gainful place, and the ſoothing meaſures Blachford had taken to inſure an intereſt with the mother of Suſan, had their due influence with her, notwithſtanding all that the hazard of the ſituation, or the ſincerity of honeſt Daw, could object to deter her.

CHAPTER VIII. Love and Ambition are no Friends to Sleep.

THE day was now cloſing, and twilight faintly ſerved to uſher the ſeveral parties to their repoſe; the couch was ſpread in the kitchen for Henry, in which taſk the fair hands of Suſan had the principal ſhare; and Ezekiel aſcended to his loft.

All, who have experienced the effects of love [274] or ambition, will acknowledge that neither of theſe paſſions are endued with any ſopo⯑rific qualities: whilſt Suſan's thoughts were kept awake by one, her mother's imagination was haunted by the other: the image of Henry ſtretcht upon his pallet in all the cap⯑tivating bloom of youthful beauty formed a glowing viſion in the buſy fancy of that fond damſel, which baniſhed ſleep: whilſt the warm imagination of the fond mother pictured her beloved daughter in the ſtate and dignity of houſekeeper to Squire Blachford, with all the inſignia of her office about her; the keys at her ſide, pickles and preſerves, preſſes filled with linen, and ſtores of all ſorts in her charge, with humble houſemaids waiting to obey her nod—and reſt was no leſs baniſhed from her eyes. Each party being thus poſſeſſed by her ruling paſſion, they proceeded to vent their meditations in a kind of dialogue, or rather of alternate ſoliloquy, in which both exclu⯑ſively indulged their own favourite ideas, yet neither perceived that ſhe was talking to her⯑ſelf.

‘"Well, to be ſure,"’ cried Suſan, ‘"ſome people in the world muſt be abſolutely void of feeling; they muſt be monſters in nature, who [275] abandon their own child: in my opinion, be they what they may, they might be proud to acknowledge ſuch a ſon as Henry."’

‘"Very true,"’ quoth the mother; ‘"and the more I think of it the more I am con⯑vinc'd, notwithſtanding all that Mr. Daw can ſay to the contrary, that it will be the wiſeſt thing you can do to cloſe with the Squire's propoſal. Why, lack-a-day! ſuch offers don't come every day."’

‘"Search the kingdom through,"’ continued Suſan, ‘"you ſhall not ſee a finer, ſhapelier, lovelier figure in ten thouſand, nor one that, in ſpite of his poor apparel, has more the air of a gentleman."’

‘"I dare ſay,"’ reſumed the Dame, ‘"that what with perquiſites and preſents, and ſuch like fair comings-in, you will make it worth you a good twenty pounds a year, aye belike, and more than twenty; why, 'tis a fortune, girl; and he ſaid he would not haggle with you about wages."’

‘"I'll bet a wager, when he is dreſs'd in his new cloathes to-morrow, there will not be ſo charming a fellow in this county, nor the next to it. Oh! mother, let preacher Daw talk till [276] he is hoarſe, he ſhall never talk me out of my ſenſes."’

‘"No, to be ſure, girl, you are of an age to carve for yourſelf; beſides, what can he know of theſe matters?"’

‘"Nothing,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"nothing in nature; you heard him ſay he had reaſons of his own why Henry cou'd not be his ſon: O' my conſcience! I believe him, poor man; thoſe reaſons of his are ſoon gueſs'd at: he knows no more about it than this bed-poſt; nay, not ſo much, for how ſhou'd he come at it?"’

‘"Lack-a-day!"’ reſumed the dame, ‘"he is a goodly pious creature; but he forgets that young women have their fortunes to make."’

‘"Aye, and their pleaſures to purſue,"’ ad⯑ded Suſan, ‘"though, with his good-will, they ſhou'd do nothing but ſing pſalms and hear ſermons; if he had his way, he wou'd be for locking us all up like nuns in a cloiſter."’

‘"Well, well then, follow your own fancy, and don't heed what he ſays to prevent it."’

‘"That's my good mother,"’ quoth the hap⯑py girl, nimbly turning herſelf about; ‘"i'faith I'll follow your advice, and not regard what [277] he ſays to the contrary. A fine piece of work he made forſooth about nothing, only becauſe the dear lad gave me a civil kiſs, and ho harm done!"’

‘"I told him there was no harm,"’ rejoined the Dame, ‘"I told him he was too ſtrait-lac'd in thoſe matters; and I dare ſay, if the Squire offers at any ſuch liberties, your own diſcretion will take care no harm ſhall follow it; one wou'd not loſe a friend for ſuch little freedoms, ſo long as they are inno⯑cent ones."’

‘"The Squire, indeed!"’ cried Suſan; ‘"name him not, filthy creature, I abhor and deteſt him, and had rather a toad ſhou'd touch me than he; but Henry—"’

‘"What has got in your head now?"’ replied the mother, ſomewhat peeviſhly; ‘"I am talk⯑ing to you of Squire Blachford, and you are rambling about Henry: I am recommending a good place to you, and your thoughts run a gadding after the lad in the next room. Ah! Suſan, Suſan! thou wilt always be a gill-flirt, hankering and hankering for everlaſting after the young fellows, but don't forget the main chance, my girl; remember ſervice is no in⯑heritance; make hay, as the ſaying is, while [278] the ſun ſhines, and don't let a good thing go by you."’

‘"It may be a good thing in one ſenſe,"’ ſaid Suſan, ‘"but there is a very bad thing be⯑longing to it. I know the Squire full well, and for what baſe purpoſes he makes this offer: he wou'd have me be to him as Mrs. Locket was, whom he's tir'd of, but I ſcorn it; I wou'd ſooner beg my bread round the world with Henry than ride in my coach with ſuch a naſty, black, old, heartleſs wretch as the Squire. Ah! mother, mother, all his kindneſs to you is but coaxing and cajoling to make a fool of you, and ſomething elſe of me. If you had but ſeen what he did yeſterday."’—‘"Why, what did he do?"’ eagerly exclaim'd the mo⯑ther, ‘"you frighten me out of my wits."’—‘"'Twas well I frighten'd him out of his,"’ re⯑plied Suſan, ‘"by ſcreaming and ſtruggling, and forcing him to let me looſe, or I know not what wou'd have happen'd; but I got out of his clutches, and made him let Henry out of the ſtocks, or I wou'd have expos'd him to the whole neighbourhood. But now, mother, don't ſay a word of what I've told you, for I gave him my promiſe I wou'd not tell of it; nor wou'd I have open'd my lips, if you had not [279] preſs'd me about his offer, which I am ſure you wou'd not now wiſh me to accept."’

‘"Not for the wealth of the world, my child,"’ replied the good Dame, ‘"wou'd I have you take a ſervice on ſuch terms. Well, of a certain that man muſt have the cunning of the devil in him, for he talk'd to me in ſuch a ſtile, that I no longer believ'd any one of the bad ſtories that are told of him, but took them all to be mere ſpite and malice; and when Mr. Daw talk'd againſt him a while ago, I took his part, and was angry with the good man for liſtening to ſuch fables: Alack-a-day! what a world is this we live in!"’

Dame May had now got into the moralizing vein, the lulling quality of which ſoon began to take effect; her words died away in drowſy murmurs, the viſions of ambition faded from her ſight, and the gentle god of ſleep no longer needed ſolicitation to befriend his aged votary after the accuſtomed ſort.

Half of his taſk was ſtill unfiniſhed; the bright eyes of Suſan were not ſo willing to be cloſed, nor could he ſtill the throbbing of a young high-paſſioned heart, which panted for other conſolation than his ſoft quiet could be⯑ſtow. [280] The wanderings of fancy were not ſo eaſily allayed, and projects upon projects roſe in ſucceſſion to puzzle and perplex her brain: but even meditation and the thoughts of love will yield at laſt to Nature's kind reſtorer, balmy ſleep; and though, perhaps, there were other arms in which ſhe would more gladly have re⯑poſed herſelf, the love-ſick damſel fell at length into the embrace of that deluſive power, which has nothing to beſtow but dreams and viſions and unreal ſhades.

CHAPTER IX. A domeſtic Scene in upper Life.

LET us now ſteal away with ſilent tread on tiptoe from the pallet of the ſleeping damſel, to viſit the more ſplendid but leſs peaceful chamber of the Lady Crowbery.

Upon her return from Zachary's, ſhe crept up to her room, hoping there to paſs a few undiſturbed moments of private meditation, for her heart was full, and her thoughts unſettled; in ſpite of the letter ſhe had lately heard read [281] to her, ſhe could not diveſt herſelf of the firſt impreſſion which the ſight of Henry had made upon her heart. In his features ſhe perſiſted to believe that ſhe had recognized the picture, which memory had preſerved of her child, matured but not obliterated by time; and the longer her mind pondered upon it, the ſtronger her perſuaſion grew, though againſt probabi⯑lity, that ſhe had diſcovered her ſon in the per⯑ſon of this myſterious ſtranger. His name, age, form, nay his very voice, ſtruck her ear as conveying the ſame tones, only deepened by manhood; in ſhort ſhe ſurrendered herſelf to this idea, which, like a ſpell, poſſeſſed her ſenſes, and diſſolved her into tears.

At this moment a meſſage from her Lord ſummoned her to his preſence: unſeaſonable though it was, ſhe well knew no excuſes for delay would be allowed, and ſhe inſtantly obey⯑ed. She found him with Blachford and two other perſons, the one an attorney who ma⯑naged his eſtate, and the other a captain of marines, who bore his name, and was acknow⯑ledged as a near relation. Bloated by the flattery of theſe his conſtant ſattelites, and ſe⯑cluded from the reſt of the world, his pride, ſelf-conſequence and ill-humour were without [282] controul; and as nothing met his eye of which he was not the lord and maſter, he was be⯑come the deſpotic tyrant of the ſphere in which he moved. Blachford found it convenient to court his favour, for his property extended far and wide over the neighbourhood; and ſuch intereſt as is attached to property he could not fail to poſſeſs, and did not ſcruple to exert. Blachford's ſmall eſtate was ſurrounded by his lands and manors; the countenance of Lord Crowbery was alſo the more to be coveted, becauſe he lived upon very diſtant terms with every other gentleman in the neighbourhood. He had been giving the Peer an account of Henry, and the ſeveral circumſtances that had come out at his examination. In telling a ſtory he had an art of ſhaping it to his purpoſes, and on theſe occaſions any one might have ſuppoſed him to be upon the beſt terms with truth, ſo free did he make with it. He ſpoke of his priſoner's behaviour as highly inſolent and contumacious, and though of neceſſity he had releaſed him upon Weevil's evidence, yet he ſtill conſidered him as a ſuſpicious charac⯑ter; he obſerved, that it was not impoſſible but the whole might have been an artful colluſion between him and Bowſey; and though the [283] law would not bear him out in committing him to priſon, it was no rule to him in matters of opinion, and as far as that went, he for one could not bring his mind to acquit him of the guilt.

Whilſt Henry and Ezekiel were upon their viſit to Zachary, Blachford had been with Goody May upon the ſubject of the houſe⯑keeper's place, and by her he was told of Lady Crowbery's coming to her houſe, and of the bounty ſhe had beſtowed upon Henry. This he now good-naturedly imparted to my Lord, not willing that any of her good deeds ſhould be loſt, extolling her charity, but doubting as to the worthineſs of the object it was employed upon. Appearances, he confeſſed, were apt to miſlead, and in no caſe more likely ſo to do than in that of the young man in queſtion, who, he muſt ſay, was one of the handſomeſt fellows he ever ſet his eyes on, and it was very natural on that account to feel a prejudice in his favour; he owned that he himſelf had ex⯑perienced it whilſt he had him under examina⯑tion; and if he, being a man, was ſenſible of it towards one of his own ſex, it was not to be wondered at if the ſofter heart of a woman was affected by it in the ſame, or even a greater degree.

[284]This was enough for all the ſpiteful purpoſes of Blachford; it was putting the match to the train of combuſtibles in the jealous boſom of the Peer; who muttering to himſelf ſomething not quite diſtinct enough to be clearly over-heard by his company, rung the bell and diſ⯑miſſed a ſervant to his lady with the meſſage already reported.

Upon her entering the room he received her with a kind of ironical civility, expreſſing his hope that ſhe had had an agreeable airing: he next enquired where ſhe had been? To the apothecary's—And to no other place? She re⯑collected having ſtopped at the cottage of Goody May. And didn't ſhe recollect any thing more than ſimply ſtopping at her door? Cou'dn't ſhe recollect entering the cottage? Cou'dn't ſhe call to mind her own good deeds there perform'd, and the very generous method ſhe took of chearing the widow's heart, by let⯑ting her ſee how bountiful ſhe could be to a ſtranger and a vagabond at the very firſt ſight? The fame of her charity, he ſaid, had circulated through the whole village, and their demands upon her in future could not fail to be very high; for what was there which the reſident and induſtrious poor might not reaſonably expect [285] from one, who had ſo much to throw away upon the idle and undeſerving?—Her anſwer was very ſhort. She was always ſorry when her little charities were made matter of report; but ſhe perceived ſhe had ſome friend, (and here ſhe pointed a look at Blachford) who was not diſpoſed to let her ſlighteſt actions paſs un⯑noticed. She had indeed given a ſmall matter to the young man, who had been apprehended upon a falſe charge; and from the circum⯑ſtances, which then appeared, ſhe thought her⯑ſelf warranted to conſider him as an object deſerving of her charity. ‘"Nobody can doubt of your ladyſhip's motives,"’ replied my Lord with a ſneer; ‘"and no object, if I am rightly inform'd, can be better qualified to ſtir up the ſoft ſenſations of charity in a female heart than the fellow in queſtion. I find he has been pretty ſucceſsful already in his ſetting out; but now that your ladyſhip has lent your hand to the good work, we may expect him to per⯑form great matters; whilſt you furniſh him with money and encouragement, he'll ſupply himſelf with amuſements amongſt the wives and daughters of our peaſantry, to the great improvement of the breed, being, I am told, as perfect an Adonis as was ever carted to the [286] gallows. One of our young pariſhioners, it ſeems, has been very charitable to him already, and left her ſervice for his ſake; I mean the daughter of that very woman, whom your ladyſhip honours with your viſits, and who at preſent condeſcends to inhabit a cottage of Mr. Blachford's, in which however I am in⯑clined to think her reſidence will not be of any very long duration, if my intereſt can obtain her removal; for my charity will not, like your ladyſhip's, be addreſs'd to one worthleſs indi⯑vidual, but have reſpect to the community at large, by clearing it of this fellow and his clan, who are in a fair way, with your kind aſſiſtance, to corrupt the morals of the whole hamlet, if not ſpeedily driven out of it."’

To this no anſwer was attempted on the part of the lady; ſhe well knew the quarter from which the ſpiteful information ſprung, and ſhe doubted not but this charge againſt Henry was equally groundleſs with all the reſt: ſhe was ſecretly reſolved, however, to aſcertain the truth, as far as it could be diſ⯑covered in Suſan May's particular; and now Blachford too late began to repent of his folly in ſtirring any queſtion about that young wo⯑man's [287] conduct, who had ſo much in her power to retaliate upon him: he gnawed his lips with vexation for having been ſo flippant on a ten⯑der ſubject; but cunning fellows are very capable of outwitting themſelves. The cap⯑tain and the lawyer kept cloſe; and whilſt my Lord was meditating a freſh attack upon the patience of his lady, a ſervant announced the arrival of viſitors, in the perſons of Sir Roger Manſtock and his daughter.

As our readers will have frequent oppor⯑tunities of making their own obſervations on the character of this gentleman, and alſo of his fair companion, we ſhall in this place diſcloſe no more of either, than that Sir Roger was a perſon of conſiderable weight and influence in the county, living hoſpitably, and cultivating the good eſteem of his neighbours rich and poor. He had married a younger ſiſter of Lady Crowbery's mother, and by her was left a widower with an only daughter, Iſabella by name, who now accompanied him on his viſit.

We have ſaid that Lady Crowbery's father left his eſtate in truſt for her uſe, and this truſt he devolved upon Sir Roger Manſtock, than whom he probably could no where have found a [288] fitter perſon, he being not only ſtrictly faithful to her intereſt, but as tenderly regardful of her happineſs as if ſhe had been a child of his own. Nothing but this love and regard for her could probably have brought him to the houſe of the Lord Crowbery, whoſe ſociety he diſ⯑liked and whoſe tyranny he deteſted. He was now called over upon a matter of buſineſs; the news of Mr. Ratcliffe's death had reached him, and the bearer of that melancholy intel⯑ligence was himſelf a ſuitor to ſucceed him in the living. As Sir Roger well knew the great eſteem Lady Crowbery had for the deceaſed, he did not think fit to broach his buſineſs in the hearing of my Lord or any of his com⯑panions; but having prefaced his requeſt with a proper apology to that noble perſonage, he retired with his niece and daughter to another apartment, and there diſcloſed to her, with all the precaution in his power, the fatal accident that had befallen her friend, an event which, under any circumſtances, would have been highly affecting, but in the preſent ſtate of her ſpirits was peculiarly ſo, combined as it now was with her ſenſations in regard to Henry, her mind being inſtantly ſmitten with the con⯑viction that he was her ſon. This incident, [289] though unknown to Sir Roger Manſtock, pro⯑duced effects that could not be diſguiſed, and he perceived her agitated to ſuch a degree, that he no longer thought of leaving her, as he at firſt intended, but very earneſtly deſired ſhe would permit either himſelf or his daughter to ſtay by her for the evening, if Lord Crow⯑bery would conſent to give them houſe-room.

To this kind offer ſhe thankfully acceded, ſaying, ‘"You are always good to me, and conſiderate of my unhappy ſpirits; knowing how unpleaſant a taſk I impoſe upon you, I ought not to be ſo ſelfiſh as to accept your kindneſs; but I do confeſs the ſociety of my dear Iſabella, if you can ſpare her to me one day, will be a comfort above every thing in life; but if you grant me this, you muſt add the further favour to it, and ſpeak to my Lord, for I dare not undertake it."’ She then aſked ſome ſlight queſtions reſpecting the perſon who brought the intelligence, and this ſhe did for the purpoſe of introducing an enquiry more intereſting—‘"Did he know what had become of the young man, whom Mr. Ratcliffe had adopted?"’ The Baronet replied, "That this had been one of the firſt things in his thoughts, [290] knowing as he did the affection which the de⯑ceaſed entertained for that young man, but that he could learn nothing more from his enquiries concerning him, except that he had ſuddenly diſappeared after the deceaſe of his friend, and had not ſince been heard of.

This was a circumſtance that ſeemed to her to carry conviction with it, and ſhe no longer doubted having diſcovered her ſon in the per⯑ſon of Henry. It was now in her power to ſecure to him the protection of Sir Roger Manſtock, without revealing the more im⯑portant ſecret of his birth, to which no one was privy but Doctor Zachary; ſhe determined therefore to communicate to him the ſeveral occurrences that had been paſſing in the vil⯑lage relative to Henry, and concluded by ſay⯑ing, ‘"It will be a very ſingular turn of for⯑tune, or I ſhould rather ſay of Providence, if it proves that I have diſcover'd this very foundling by the mereſt accident in nature, and that he is now in this pariſh, at the houſe of a poor widow, where I chanc'd upon, him this morning, in a ſtate of abſolute diſtreſs and indigence: ſhou'd he prove to be the relict of my lamented friend, I will take his future for⯑tunes upon myſelf, and in this undertaking I [291] hope I ſhall have your approbation and advice, for I am ſorry to ſay I foreſee great uneaſineſs from a certain quarter, ſomebody having taken the cruel pains to impreſs my Lord with very unjuſt prejudices againſt him already; and to confeſs the truth, at the moment when you and Iſabella arrived, I was under ſtrong rebuke for having beſtow'd a ſmall relief upon him, which that miſchief-making Blachford had reported after his faſhion, and in the art of aggravation I am ſorry to ſay he is exceeded by no one."’

Our readers will now be pleaſed to help us to the concluſion of this chapter, by kindly ſuppoſing that every thing proper to be ſaid on the part of the worthy Baronet was ſaid; that having taken leave of my Lord, and by his gra⯑cious permiſſion left the lovely Iſabella to ad⯑miniſter ſoft conſolation to her unhappy couſin, he is ſafely ſeated in his poſt-chaiſe on his re⯑turn to Manſtock Caſtle, having ten miles to meaſure homewards, and the evening faſt ap⯑proaching to it's cloſe.

CHAPTER X. Our Hero is ſeen in a very dangerous Situation.

THE ſun had now rear'd his glittering orb above the eaſtern waves, gilding their curled heads with orient gold, when Suſan, eager to prepare for the appointed ex⯑pedition, broke from the bands of ſleep, and unfolding to the god of day two brilliant eyes, whoſe luſtre ſeemed almoſt to vie with his, ſilently detached herſelf from the ſide of her ſtill ſnoring mother—for ſhe, ſweet nymph, diſdained the ſelfiſh practice of thoſe unfeeling and obſtreperous beings, who ſeem to think, when they have done with ſleep, that all the world ſhould wake: on the contrary with ſteps as light as goſſamour, ſhe trode ſlipper⯑leſs over the clay-bound floor, and throwing a looſe bed-gown over her, faſtening it at the ſame time with a ſlight knot round her waiſt, preſented to the ſylphs, if any were there at⯑tending, an object for which they would doubt⯑leſs have been content to have taken human forms, though they had forfeited immortality by the exchange.

[293]Thus half attired, ſhe raiſed the wooden latch, that was the only barrier betwixt her and the beloved youth, who occupied the ſolitary couch in the adjoining room, not entering like the nightly thief, with a malicious intent to ſteal upon his defenceleſs ſlumbers, and plun⯑der him undiſcovered, but for the harmleſs purpoſe of redeeming her own property, there depoſited and left at his mercy, of which ſhe recollected various articles, that had eſcaped her memory over-night, and which of courſe it now behoved her to reclaim. She drew the chamber-door after her with duteous attention, ſtill cautious how ſhe diſturbed her aged pa⯑rent in the enjoyment of her repoſe, and for a time, as if faſcinated by the charms of the ſlumbering youth, ſtood in fixt contemplation of his perſon, ſeeming to have loſt all me⯑mory of thoſe very objects, which ſhe came in ſearch of. Two or three looſe articles, not very eſſential to her dreſs, ſhe had already collected, when caſting her eyes upon the couch, ſhe diſcovered the ſkirt of a ſnow-white quilted petticoat, which ſhe had im⯑providently ſpread upon the very pallet, on which his limbs were ſtretched, and which certainly could not be recovered, without [294] wakening the ſleeping youth, then bodily ex⯑tended upon it.

In this caſe what alternative remained? It was clear to the dulleſt apprehenſion, that a young woman without a petticoat could not decently preſent herſelf to the eyes of a whole market-town, where ſhe was ſoon to appear: yet it could not be taken from under him by the moſt delicate addreſs without wakening him, and at the ſame time he could not be awakened and made to open his eyes, with⯑out diſcovering how much undreſt ſhe was, and how very thin the veil, that ſcarcely in⯑tercepted the entire diſplay of thoſe natural charms, that ſeemed to ſet at nought the ſlight defences, which in her preſent dilemma ſhe had been neceſſitated to entruſt them to.

Native modeſty and a ready wit ſuggeſted to Suſan the only middle way ſhe could purſue, in the ſtraits, to which ſhe was reduced: Henry himſelf was cloathed, if the jacket and trowſers heretofore deſcribed, may be termed a cloathing; there was no need, therefore, for any guard upon her eyes, and ſhe no ſooner wakened him by tugging at the petticoat un⯑derneath him, than apologizing in a gentle whiſper for the neceſſity ſhe was under of [295] diſturbing him, ſhe concluded by modeſtly requeſting him to ſhut his eyes, for that poſi⯑tively ſhe was naked, having nothing to throw over her but her gown.

Whether it is in nature for a young man to ſhut his eyes, when a lovely girl appriſes him of the conſequences of holding them open, I leave as a problem for the philoſophers to reſolve; and as I ſuſpect they muſt, in the ſpirit of their ſchool, decree for ſhutting out all proſpect of an object, ſo calculated to diſturb their ſyſtems, as Suſan now preſented, it is with ſorrow I am reduced to confeſs, that our hero did the very contrary to what they would have done, ſetting open his eyes upon the damſel, and fixing them with the broadeſt ſtare, betwixt ſleeping and waking, that their lids would admit of. Whether he was then dreaming with his eyes open, and thought it the viſion of ſome nymph or goddeſs, ſuch as young and fertile imaginations are apt to feign, where no ſubſtance is, I cannot decide; but this I know, that had he been a painter, ſuch as I could name, he had made the form immortal, and us who beheld it heathens and idolaters.

Suſan was too generous to repeat the cruel [296] injunction ſhe had before laid him under, but on the contrary, having once told him what he ought to do, left him to take the con⯑ſequences of not doing as ſhe adviſed. Sa⯑gacious and deeply intuitive men often tell us, that there are certain things, obſcure indeed to common beholders, which they can ſee with half an eye: this I preſume is a figurative way of ſpeaking, peculiar to theſe human lynxes; but without a figure I ſhould be temp⯑ed to ſay, that any man who had even leſs than half an eye, would have ſtrained hard for a glimpſe of thoſe charms, which burſt upon Henry's ſight in full diſplay. The wrapping-gown was either ſo ſcantily provided, or ſo ill diſpoſed to do it's office of concealment, that if form ſo beautiful could be indebted to any covering, Suſan's form had very little obliga⯑tion to the aforeſaid reluctant wrapper. Some readers may naturally ſuppoſe, that either the ſeverity of Suſan's countenance over-awed the curioſity of the youth, or that the modeſt con⯑fuſion it expreſſed, pleaded for his forbearance ſo irreſiſtibly, as not to be withſtood by any but a brutal nature: had it been ſo, Henry's taſk had been eaſy and his temptation light; but, truth to tell, both were aggravated by [297] every alluring action, every winning ſmile that love and beauty could aſſume. Here the philoſopher, whoſe ſtoic apathy had turned aſide from the ſight, may affect to triumph in his wiſdom, but it is now time to let him know, and learn by the example of this heroic youth, that true virtue, indignant of ſuch mean reſources, boldly dares to look upon the danger, which temptation plants before it; that, ſcorning to ſhelter itſelf like a coward in the dark, and ſhut it's eyes or even wink upon the foe, it prays for light like Ajax, that it may ſee to conquer, and enjoy the glory of a combat fairly won: ſo fared it with our hero; he boldly eyed the Syren coaſt, which he had reſolution to avoid. Perhaps ſome natural wiſhes ſtole upon his heart, his pulſe perhaps no longer temperately beat, and rebel paſſion mutinied within him; but he was maſter of his ſoul, and mildly addreſſing himſelf to the alluring damſel, conjured her to return to her apartment, nor conſpire with opportunity and ſtrong deſire to degrade him into a villain, and make him loathſome to himſelf for ever.

The commanding tone of determined vir⯑tue is not to be reſiſted. The fair one bluſhed, looked wiſhfully upon him; ſhe ſaw no change [298] or ſhifting in his countenance; ſhe hung her head, ſighed, deſpaired, and obeyed: yet be⯑fore ſhe took the parting ſtep, ſhe pauſed, looked back, and turning a countenance upon him, beautiful though in anger, firmly pro⯑nounced,—‘"We meet no more."’

The tone in which theſe words were ut⯑tered, the look that accompanied them, the cutting recollection of his obligations to her for the generous pity ſhe had ſhewn him in his paſt diſtreſſes, theſe and a flood of tender paſſions burſt ſo ſuddenly upon him, that ſpringing from his couch (which at the ſame time broke under him with a horrid craſh) he cried out to her to ſtop, and ran to take her in his arms. She had the door in her hand, and immediately the voice of Goody May was heard, crying out—‘"Villain, wou'd you violate my daughter?"’—Theſe dreadful words ſtruct the ever-open ear of Ezekiel, now de⯑ſcending the ſtairs, who inſtantly annexing conviction to the charge of the mother, added another ſpectre to the groupe, ſtanding ſpeech⯑leſs and aghaſt, with a huge woollen night-cap on his head, and his breeches in his hand.

The tears, the terror, the diſhevelled habit of Suſan, ſeemed to warrant the ſuſpicion of [299] no worſe a deed, than the mother had an⯑nounced. Ezekiel's lips quivered with rage, whilſt he demanded, in a voice almoſt inarti⯑culate, an account of what had paſſed; vowing that the violator of innocence ſhould anſwer with his life. Henry now ſtept forward, and directing a ſtern look firſt on the mother of Suſan, and next on the preacher, delivered himſelf as follows;"—

‘"Are you mad, to treat me in this man⯑ner, to accuſe me of theſe crimes, to ſuſpect me for a hypocrite, a defiler and a villain? Is it ever to be my fate to be arraigned of actions, which my ſoul abhors? Was it not enough to be apprehended for the murder of a man, in whoſe defence I riſqued my life? Muſt I alſo be thought guilty of violating that chaſtity, which I would die in the protection of? If you conclude me ſubject to be tempted by beauty, can you not ſuppoſe that I am capa⯑ble of being awed by innocence? Look at this form, he muſt be a monſter that defiled it; ſurvey theſe charms, they wou'd wither, they wou'd be blaſted, and no longer have the power to engage and pleaſe, were they ſtain'd with diſhonour and diveſted of modeſty. By how much the more lovely they are now, in [300] their pure and virgin ſtate, ſo much the more revolting they wou'd become, if they had loſt the grace of virtue, and degenerated from that chaſtity, to which they owe their ſweetneſs and attraction. I am a ſtranger to you both, it is true; I am a ſtranger to myſelf; and all the little that I know of this unhappy ſelf, I have imparted to you: what then? I am a man, I am your fellow-creature, I have like you a heart, that feels and has a ſenſe of honour, juſtice and gratitude. You have been kind and bountiful and hoſpitable to me; this amiable, this generous girl was my firſt, my beſt, my warmeſt friend: the indignity that I ſuffer'd ſhe deliver'd me from; the ſervice that I quitted, ſhe voluntarily renounc'd; in my poverty and deſpair ſhe tender'd me her all, the earnings of her labour ſhe wou'd have ſhar'd with me—with me, an unknown, outcaſt, miſerable being: Are theſe bounties to be repaid by ſeduction? Are they not rather charities, affections, pledges to be treaſur'd in my heart? They are; I cheriſh them with equal love, with equal ardour and affection; and I declare to truth, that were I now a man, that had a name and ſtation in ſociety—but as I am, I only can conjure her, for her own re⯑poſe, [301] to baniſh me and my ſad ſtory from her thoughts for ever. To invite her to miſery I ſcorn; to ſeduce her into guilt, if it were in my power, which I truſt it is not, I abhor; but to ſuppoſe me capable of the diabolical crime of violating her.—Oh! horrible!—It chills my very ſoul; I ſhudder at the thought."’

This ſpeech wrought an immediate and entire converſion in the minds of thoſe, whom appearances had ſtaggered, and ſhame for her haſty exclamation ſmote the heart of the good dame ſo forcibly, that ſhe ſeemed to think ſhe could never do enough to atone for her injurious ſuſpicion. She declared ſhe ſhould henceforward ever repoſe ſuch perfect confi⯑dence in Henry's honour, as nothing ſhould induce to harbour a thought to the contrary; that, ſo far from being afraid to truſt her daughter in his company, ſhe ſhould, on the contrary, be happy that her girl had ſuch a friend to protect and adviſe her; and ſhe ſin⯑cerely hoped what he had now been ſaying (which in her opinion, and ſhe dare ſay in Mr. Daw's alſo, was very proper and very fine) would have it's due weight with Suſan, and make her more guarded in her conduct for the future.

[302]Ezekiel, during this harangue, had ſtept aſide to equip himſelf with certain appendages to the perſon, which to man in a civilized ſtate have by cuſtom long eſtabliſhed been held as indiſpenſable. Suſan in the mean time made her defence, which briefly conſiſted in an explanation of the errand which had brought her into the room where Henry ſlept; ſhe was not in perfect humour with her mother for the glance ſhe had given at her unguarded conduct, and with ſome ſmall trace of contempt in the look ſhe dealt to Henry, obſerved, that for all that ever had paſſed, or was ever likely to paſs, between Henry and her, ſhe needed neither reproof nor warning; ſhe believed ſhe was not more ſafe with her mother than with him.

Ezekiel now made his appearance; his head was ſtill mounted with it's woollen tiara, which reſembling certain ſketches I have ſeen of his holineſs the Pope's triple crown, gave a lofti⯑neſs and dignity to his figure, of itſelf natu⯑rally erect and ſtiff, that had a ſtriking effect upon his air and attitude; whilſt he predi⯑cated as follows,—‘"Thou haſt well ſpoken, good and virtuous young man, as the ſpirit that worketh in thee to edification hath given [303] utterance, and verily I pronounce that the ſeed, which the ſower of all grace and godli⯑neſs hath ſowed in thine heart, falleth upon good ground, and beareth fruit abundantly. What thou haſt ſaid of a chaſte and modeſt ſeeming in virgins, ſet apart unto ſanctification, I the rather commend thee for, ſeeing thou haſt touched it lightly and humbly as be⯑cometh a novice, inexpert as thou muſt needs be in the miniſtering of ſuch prudent exhor⯑tations and reproofs, as men older and more experienced than thyſelf are fitteſt to apply, and which I ſhall take prompt and ſpeedy oc⯑caſion of ſo doing. And now I will ſtay you all no longer, for the morning advanceth, and the occupations of the day demand that I ſhou'd conclude, ſeeing that it is in part de⯑voted to the ſervice of this our friend and inmate, for whoſe better equipment we have undertaken to provide; and thou, Suſan, as I now for the firſt time perceive, art almoſt, if not altogether, unprepared for the expedi⯑tion, being as it ſhou'd ſeem in thine outward adornments very little removed from a ſtate of nature."’

The parties now ſeparated; the women to their chamber, Ezekiel to his loft, whilſt Henry [304] was left to his meditations, not a little pleaſed that the preacher had ſo unexpectedly cut ſhort his exhortation.

CHAPTER XI. Our Hero engages in an Expedition where he is expoſed to freſh Dangers.

FEW victories have coſt more pains in the earning than this which Henry had now gained over himſelf and the tempting all⯑urements of his fair aſſailant. Being now at leiſure to purſue his meditations, he ſeated him⯑ſelf in Ezekiel's wicker chair, like a Roman conqueror in his triumphal car, from whence he could proudly look down upon the rebel paſſions, reduced from formidable foes to van⯑quiſhed ſlaves, and proſtrate at his feet. Still he was ſenſible it behoved him to ſecure their allegiance by ſtrong meaſures of coercion; for whilſt he was fortifying his ſpirit againſt future temptations, Suſan was arming her perſon with all the artillery that her ſimple, but not inelegant, toilette could ſupply.

[305]Few that make dreſs a ſcience could have hit that happy ſtile of nymph-like character which her unſtudied taſte had ſtruck upon, in⯑ſtinctively contriving to give every natural grace its faireſt form and faſhion: in ſhort, when perfectly accoutred, ſhe was a champion in the liſts of love to make the firmeſt heart tremble at the ſight of her; and though, in deference to Ezekiel's judgment, I muſt ex⯑cept Potiphar's wife, yet, ſetting her apart, I ſhould doubt if Suſan had any other ſuperior upon record for a coup-de-main. Malicious fortune was all the while laying other traps and pit-falls for the perſecuted virtue of our youth⯑ful hero, and the pious preacher himſelf was unintentionally drawn in to be an acceſſary in the plot; for having avowed his deſign of edi⯑fying his hearers with a dehortatory diſcourſe againſt love and the indulgence of the paſſions on the next Lord's Day, he had accidentally recollected that Saturday had ſtolen a march upon his memory, and that he was now upon the very eve of that important undertaking: in the mean time the more he ruminated upon the wide field of matter into which his ſubject would carry him, the more work he found cut [306] out for his hands, and the more preparation on his part neceſſary. He was aware he ſhould have an audience to deal with not over-well diſpoſed towards edification on this particular topic, and rather hard of hearing at the beſt: he had kept a ſort of flying camp about the enemy's quarters, and frequently beat them up in ſmall ſkirmiſhes without much ſucceſs to boaſt of; they ſtill lay entrenched in their faſt⯑neſſes, lurking about in ambuſh behind walls and hedges, where they made battle, in ſpite of all he could do to diſlodge them; he deter⯑mined therefore to draw out all his ſtrength for this one deciſive ſtroke, and finally rout them out of their hiding-places.

Now this ſtate of mental preparation ap⯑peared to him, upon reflection, ſo totally in⯑compatible with his expedition to the ſlop-ſhop, and the inferences of coats, waiſtcoats, ſhirts and breeches thereunto appertaining ſeemed ſo ill to claſs and coincide with the hoſtile meaſures he was actually concerting againſt the aforeſaid coats, waiſtcoats, ſhirts and breeches, that he plainly ſaw both things could not be done at once, and which to aban⯑don gave him little heſitation to decide: he [307] therefore came down to Henry, peremptorily proteſting againſt the ſlop-ſhop and all which it contained. Goody May had the province of the kitchen purveyance under her care, and the pot to plead for her excuſe: Suſan had neither thoſe culinary concerns in charge as her mo⯑ther had, nor, like Ezekiel, any hoſtilities in meditation againſt love and the paſſions, with whom, on the contrary, ſhe was in perfect league and combination; ſhe was therefore no natural ally for Daw's purpoſe, and not wanted by her mother.

The alternative therefore was ſimply this, either Henry muſt go alone, or tête-à-tête with Suſan. Now what could Henry do by himſelf in a ſlop-ſhop? As far as coat, waiſt⯑coat and breeches went he might, peradven⯑ture, fit them on better without Suſan's help⯑ing hand than with it; that part of his buſineſs he might get through paſſably well, but in the linen-trade he was an arrant ignoramus, and the damſel a conſummate adept; ſhe knew to the breadth of a nail what was meaſure for a ſhirt, and the quality ſhe was no leſs perfect in;—he knew as much of the matter and no more, than the king of Pelew, (Heaven bleſs [308] him!) whoſe wardrobe will not fill a nut⯑ſhell. Of courſe, therefore, Suſan muſt go, or nothing can be done; there is no choice in the caſe; and where is the mighty objection all the while? The walk is not long; the day is fine and fair, and Suſan is ready dreſſed for the expedition: Henry, alas! was but a ſhabby 'ſquire in point of apparel, but that was a fault which would be remedied before he came back, and nature had given him per⯑fections which poverty could not diſguiſe.—So forth they went together.

I hope my readers will not urge with any critical aſperity an objection to this jaunt of Henry's on the ſcore of his ſprained ankle; if we are to ſuppoſe him recovered from it, cures no leſs extraordinary have been as rapidly per⯑formed in hiſtories of this ſort, and I lay claim to all the privileges which my fraternity enjoy; but I had rather have it underſtood that his good-will to the walk with Suſan was ſo great, that, notwithſtanding his cure was incomplete, he was determined, in the vulgar way of ſpeak⯑ing, to put his beſt foot foremoſt, and truſt to fortune for the conſequences.

There were two roads to the town, one [309] public and familiar to Henry, having travelled it with his maſter Zachary, when he got the drenching at the mill; the other private, ſhady and ſequeſtered, though ſomewhat circuitous: which of theſe to take was now the queſtion. Love and Suſan ſeemed to point to the crooked path; prudence and diſpatch preſcribed the ſtrait one. The candid damſel fairly owned that her way would be the fartheſt about, but then it would be pleaſanter whilſt they were upon it: ſhe put him in mind of his ſprained ankle, yet ſhe hoped he felt no pain in it at preſent, her mother's recipe never failed of a cure: ſhe obſerved that the ſun threatened to be hot, and ſhe did not diſguiſe that ſhe was ſhy of over-heating herſelf. Now how ſhould pru⯑dence in the ſunſhine ſtand any chance againſt Suſan in the ſhade? A penny-poſt-man, nay even pedeſtrian Powell himſelf, though in the laſt mile of his foot-match, would have taken the very path that Henry did, and readily have preferred the fartheſt way about to the ſhorteſt way home.

They ſoon found themſelves entangled in a narrow defile between two hazel-hedges; when Suſan, pauſing on her ſteps, and glancing an arch look on her companion, ſaid, ‘"I can⯑not [310] not for the life of me conceive, Henry, what you was thinking of this morning, when you was ſo eager to get me out of your room: o' my conſcience, you was in ſuch a twitter to be rid of me, that I began to think I ſhould have been obliged to have left my petticoat behind me."’

‘"Had you ſo done,"’ cried Henry, ſmiling, ‘"I can only ſay you wou'd have been more formidable to all beholders without a petticoat than with one."’—‘"Not to ſuch beholders as you are, I ſhould gueſs,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"in any caſe."’

‘"Well, then,"’ reſumed he, ‘"to be more ſincere with you, I did think myſelf bound in prudence not to hold you any longer in diſ⯑courſe till you had got that ſame petticoat on, and every thing elſe about you that cou'd keep us both out of danger."’

‘"Oh! now I underſtand you,"’ ſhe replied; ‘"you was afraid my mother wou'd come in, and that I ſhou'd be in trouble on your ac⯑count. Lord love you! there was nothing to fear."’—‘"Pardon me,"’ anſwered Henry, ‘"there were your temptations and my weak⯑neſs to fear."’

‘"I don't rightly comprehend what danger you was in from either,"’ reſumed Suſan, ‘"unleſs [311] you hold with Ezekiel's opinion, that it is a ſin to love."’—‘"I am not quite convinc'd,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that there is any ſin in love, but I am very ſure that love may lead to ſin."’

‘"Yes, yes,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I agree with you that it is very ſinful and treacherous in any man to pretend love to a young woman, and after he has made a fool of her to expoſe and betray her; that's very ſcandalous behaviour, without a doubt. So is it an abominable thing for any man, like that naſty Blachford, to ſet his wits to work and lay traps for poor girls to bribe them to his wicked purpoſes, when he knows they muſt hate ſuch a black, old, ugly fright as he is, and only do it for the lucre of gain. I know enough of his wicked ways; ſuch a man as he is does not deſerve to live: but where two free hearts meet together in mutual fondneſs, and where there is no bri⯑bery or falſe dealing in the caſe, but all is fair and open, and good faith kept on both ſides, I ſhould be ſurpriz'd indeed if you or any man cou'd perſuade me to think that there was ei⯑ther ſin or ſhame in ſuch young people's lov⯑ing each other; and if they do love truly and ſincerely, I deſire to know in that caſe what they are to do?"’—‘"Marry,"’ ſaid Henry; [312] ‘"that is what they ought in honour to do, or do nothing."’—‘"Well to be ſure,"’ rejoined Suſan, ‘"that is one way; but ſuppoſe it does not ſuit them to marry, ſuppoſe it's impoſſi⯑ble; what's to be done then?"’—‘"Nothing,"’ replied Henry with a ſmile; ‘"I've anſwer'd that already."’

‘"Heyday!"’ cried the gallant damſel, ‘"that's a curious doctrine indeed, a fine way truly of returning evil for good. I ſhou'd hate and deſpiſe the man that treated me in that manner; I ſhou'd regard him as the pooreſt wretch that walks the earth."’—‘"Why then we'll talk no more upon the ſubject,"’ cried Henry, ‘"but, like friendly diſputants, kiſs and make it up."’—‘"'Tis more than you de⯑ſerve,"’ anſwered me; ‘"for though I muſt confeſs you are a dear good ſoul, yet you have the oddeſt notions of any mortal breathing; and as for love, you know no more about it than Ezekiel Daw."’—‘"Inſtruct me then,"’ quoth Henry, ‘"for love, like dancing, is an art that grown gentlemen may be taught by an apt profeſſor, by a very expeditious proceſs."’

Pleaſant companions make journies appear ſhort, and probably theſe young travellers found themſelves at the end of their's, before [313] they were tired of each other, or of the way. In the ſhop, which was a magazine of all ſorts, Henry fitted himſelf with a mourning ſuit of the beſt materials, not forgetting that mark of reſpect, to the memory of his deceaſed friend Mr. Ratcliffe: It ſate ſo neatly upon his per⯑ſon, that it ſeemed as if ſome lucky taylor, in a moment of inſpiration, had projected it for an ideal model of the moſt perfect ſymme⯑try and proportion. Suſan was not idle in her department meanwhile, and as the laſt hand of the artiſt had been put to every thing, the whole man was equipt from heel to head in a few minutes, as completely as if he had ſtarted ready capariſoned out of the earth, like the troops of Cadmus.

Our hero now felt himſelf once more re⯑ſtored to that appearance in ſociety, which he had ever been accuſtomed to, till misfortune, and the villainy of mankind, had reduced him to the weeds of poverty: he was therefore moving in his proper ſphere and character, and not ſtrutting like a lacquey in his maſter's cloathes. This did not eſcape the notice of Suſan, and her ſagacity immediately diſcerned that natural and eaſy air, which no upſtart can counterfeit, the unalienable inheritance of a [314] gentleman: ſhe now paraded over the market⯑place, not a little proud of her companion, and would not be put by from carrying him to her uncle the tonſor, who entertained them in his houſe with much hoſpitality, no lack of good cheer, and plentiful ſtore of chatter.

When all accounts were ſettled with the vender of ſlops, and the packages put into ſafe hands for conveyance to the village, Henry and his fair charge having refreſhed them⯑ſelves with a beverage, which the tonſor had himſelf manufactured from the produce of his bee-hives, they took leave of their hoſt and turned their faces homewards, by the ſame way they had come, the ſun being now riſing apace towards his meridian.

A form like Henry's cou'd not be quite concealed by the frock of a peaſant, yet it was doubtleſs ſet off to much greater advantage in the dreſs of a gentleman, and Suſan's eyes witneſſed the pleaſure ſhe took in contempla⯑ting the change now made in his appearance. It alſo gave a flow to his ſpirits and a freedom to his air, which gratified the gaiety of her nature, and made him more companionable and pleaſant by the way. Their diſcourſe was [315] lively; her railleries were not gravely an⯑ſwered as before, nor her playful coqueteries ſo coldly overlooked: a thouſand little dal⯑liances took place, a thouſand harmleſs knaveries interchangeably paſſed, as they ſaun⯑tered through the ſhade; and kiſſes were ſome⯑times ſnatched, ſometimes evaded with a'coy⯑neſs ſo arch and ſo alluring, as was better calculated to heighten her attractions, than to check his advances. She had plucked a wreath of bloſſoms from the hedges, which ſhe wove about her hat; he decked her boſom with violets and wild flowers fancifully diſpoſed, which he was now permitted to arrange, now prohibited, as the whim prevailed. Sometimes ſhe would ſtop, expoſtulate, turn back, or run aſide into the allies of the wood, and pretend to hide herſelf amongſt the branches; this was a challenge for a purſuit, and that never failed to be rewarded by ſome endearing favour, won with ſtruggles that enhanced it's value.

Their walk concluded, Suſan parted to the cottage, and Henry turned his ſteps to the houſe of Zachary, whoſe portico, embelliſhed with a rich ſky-blue ſcroll ſupported by two [316] gilded gallipots, informed the way-faring man and the world at large, that there the miſ⯑chances of human life might be relieved—for there dwelt ‘"Zachary Cawdle, Surgeon, Apothecary, and Man-Midwife."’