CHAPTER I.

THOUGH Charles betrayed no ſymptoms of un⯑eaſineſs in his face when he left the room, after the adventure at the inn, perhaps no heart ever was torn with more poignant diſtreſs. Love, prudence, and diſdain aſſailed his heart at once, and he went to bed abſorbed in a conflict of wretchedneſs, com⯑pared to which his laſt ſleepleſs reflections in the priſon at Lyons were rapture.

At that time his conſcious innocence and the [6] wrongs that were done him rouſed his honeſt forti⯑tude till it towered ſuperior to all poſſible conſe⯑quences. Now mark the difference: After taking the reſolution, upon the moſt laudable grounds, of never holding communication with thoſe who had traduced him, after fortifying himſelf againſt all the bewitching power of Annette's charms, after ſuſ⯑taining a long illneſs, cauſed and continued by thoſe fond and importunate whiſperings which would fain have ſtimulated him to clear himſelf, and reap the glory of obtaining his wiſhes by the defeat of his rival, after at length congratulating himſelf upon the full eſtabliſhment of his health, and in that his ſtaunch determination to abide by what he had reſolved, to fall into the moſt effectual means of opening a wound that had been all but mortal, and, at this time only cicatrized, was a trial one would think, under which his whole reſolution muſt for⯑ſake him. It would certainly be a trait of perfect nature if the reader found him the next morning familiarly at breakfaſt with Sir Sidney and his fa⯑mily. The very reverſe however happened, which I ſhall contend is fairly as natural, upon the prin⯑ciple of two veſſels, which ſtanding upon different tacks, may yet meet each other with the ſame wind. In ſhort, had his down been points of needles, he could not have ſhifted, twined, and turned himſelf [7] about with greater pain, nor at every new poſition have met with a more novel torment.

The charms of Annette, coupled with the morti⯑fying difficulties which ſtood between him and his hopes, wounded him on one ſide in a thouſand places, which ſhifting to avoid the ſaucy familiarity of Gloſs, and the humility into which he was thrown by Sir Sidney's injurious ſuſpicions and ill judged pride, gave it him home.

He ſaw, he felt, he found himſelf conquered by Annette. Her lovely, modeſt, ſpeaking, ſoul-diſ⯑ſolving perfections ſtood confeſſed, and he found himſelf their certain, evident, unequivocal victim: but was this to overcome ſo reaſonable a ſyſtem of independant integrity?—to throw down a ſtructure of honeſt, hopeful tranquillity, which it had taken him ſo much time and pains to rear?

In ſhort, toſſed about between ſuch violent and contending paſſions, he raved, ſighed, ſwore, wept, execrated his fate, and bleſſed his ſtars, till at length, his valet interrupting him with an account that the horſes were ready, he collected himſelf, roſe, mounted, and rode away before any perſon got up who could poſſibly ſtagger his now inviolable reſo⯑lution.

[8] He made for Paris with every poſſible expedition, where he endeavoured to loſe, in that ſtream of pleaſure, thoſe irreſiſtable bars to his happineſs which, ſpight of all his reſolution, preſented them⯑ſelves: ſo very difficult is it; in ſome caſes, for rea⯑ſon to eſtabliſh tranquillity.

After a month's ſtay at Paris, he returned to his native country, where he will now be ſeen in the character of an independant young man, without a ſingle friend or adviſer.

Here it will not be amiſs to recount that ſtrange train of accidents which brought about ſo extraor⯑dinary a meeting between Sir Sidney and our hero at Aix la Chapelle.

Emma, ſince ſhe found it in vain to tamper with Charles, determined, if poſſible, to get at ſome in⯑telligence of him through Figgins, who, contrary to her expectation—for ſhe thought it a forlorn hope, as we may ſee by her laſt letter—not only informed her of his motions, but corroborated his informa⯑tion, by ſhewing her ſome paſſages in his letters.

No ſooner had Emma heard of our hero's ſick⯑neſs, and danger of being taken off by a lingering conſumption, than, mad as it may appear, ſhe de⯑termined [9] to carry the whole family to be witneſs to their handy work. This was certainly a trait worthy of her ſagacity. She anticipated her ſuc⯑ceſs; and, enjoying her imaginary triumph, pictured to herſelf the dying lover revived by the gentle and tender attention of his miſtreſs, and entreated to life and happineſs by the returning indulgence of her relenting father.

The only difficulty was how to bring it about; but even this was no impediment to the genius of Emma. She revived the ſubject of Annette's mo⯑ther, which, ſince the information from Mr. In⯑got, had only been darkly ſpoken of through the medium of epiſtolary enquiry. Sir Sidney had, at times, talked of a trip to the ſouth of France, and Emma preſſed Lady Roebuck very hard to keep him to his intention: for which ſhe offered many notable reaſons. It would wear off the chagrin that had been cauſed by ſuch an alteration in the family hopes; it would enlarge the ideas of Annette, and if any lurking wiſh remained behind in favour of Charles, by employing her mind on new objects, it would diſpoſe her to receive with more alacrity the ſolicitations of Mr. Gloſs—for every body but herſelf ſuppoſed Charles to be in Italy—whom, Emma was of opinion, they ought to take with them, for reaſons beſt known to herſelf.

[10] In ſhort, this plotting jade had fairly formed a pretty feaſible plan of finiſhing this hiſtory, about the very time when, and near the very place where, I, who knew better things, thought proper to throw it into a new perplexity.

With very little importunity, Sir Sidney con⯑ſented to give the ladies this jaunt. They took the route through part of Artois, to Rhiems, and paſſed through Chalons to Dijon, near which city had lived the Count de Gramont, who was an old intimate of Sir Sidney, and through whoſe intereſt he now meant to make his enquiries. At this houſe they called, and, to the great ſurpriſe and ſorrow of the baronet, he found that the old count had, four years before, paid the debt of nature, and that his only ſon, whom Sir Sidney knew when a child, enjoyed now his title and his fortunes.

Sir Sidney was hoſpitably welcomed by the young count, who beguiled away a week of their time very agreeably. The family then prepared to continue their journey. No mention however would have been made of their intended enquiries, had not the young count previouſly, and luckily too, formed a deſign at this time to viſit Province where he in⯑ſiſted upon making his father's friend welcome at a ſmall eſtate in that quarter. The fact is, he had [11] fallen violently in love with Annette, and nothing could have kept him from ſoliciting her hand from her father but the evident certainty that Gloſs was intended to be the happy man. Standing pretty well however in his own opinion, and being a man of family and fortune, he had but little difficulty to perſuade himſelf he ſhould ſoon outſhine his rival, if he could contrive to be of their party a little lon⯑ger. Growing, however, more and more enamoured every hour, and not being able to ſtay till they ar⯑rived at their journey's end, he had, on that very day the reader and I were witneſſes to his diſgrace at Aix la Chapelle, ſuſtained a handſome, though poſitive, refuſal from Annette, and another from her father. Raging with diſappointment, he flew to wine for relief. This fired him ten times more, when coming to the inn, to bury his intoxication and his wretchedneſs in ſleep, he was ſtopt by his valet de chambre, who, being the factotum of his amours, promiſed him the accompliſhment of that which he never before had the temerity to think of, much leſs hope for. In ſhort, after telling him a hundred lies, to inflame him, he had the addreſs, by the help of the chamber-maid of the inn, to place him in a cloſet in the chamber where Annette was to ſleep. He ſaw her enter with Emma, who having ſet down the candle, began to look over ſome linen and other things for Lady Roebuck.—As [12] they laid acroſs her arm, ‘'Well really,' ſaid ſhe, 'there is no knowing what to wear in this ſame France; it is the ſtrangeſt, motley place—'’

‘'Nay,' ſaid Annette, 'there is a great deal to gratify one's curioſity. The thing I like leaſt in it is this troubleſome count. If he and Mr. Gloſs were where my poor Charles is, and he in their place, France would be a paradiſe to me.'’

‘'Come, come,' ſaid Emma, 'do not deſpair.'—’ ‘'Deſpair,' anſwered Annette, 'why ſhould I hope? Were he here, did he love me—and that I am afraid Emma he does not, be where he will—what would it avail me, deſigned as I am by the will of the beſt, though, in this caſe, the crueleſt, father for another?'’

‘'Don't be uneaſy about that,' ſaid Emma, 'I have a ſecret to cure your father and all the world of ſuch a folly as that would be. In ſhort I am much more pleaſed that Mr. Gloſs ſhould be in⯑tended for your huſband than any man in the world, ſince it muſt not be Mr. Hazard. I cannot ſay ſo much for the count, for he has a thouſand advantages over the other, and if Sir Sidney were not ſo attached to his parliamentary friend, we ſhould find ourſelves a good deal embarraſſed to [13] get rid of the other. A painter—and it is the ſame with an author, for words are figurative co⯑lours—can put that object in ſhadow which is a diſgrace to the groupe, but he would be blamed for doing this by one that ornaments it. But come, my ſweet lady, I hope you are nearer hap⯑pineſs than you think for. One thing is—but you muſt not betray it for your life—that Charles is not in Italy, and I hope it will not be long be⯑fore you ſee him!'’

‘'Not in Italy!' cried Annette, 'not long be⯑fore I ſee him! Do, my dear, my kind Emma, explain yourſelf.'’ ‘'My lady waits for theſe things,' ſaid Emma; 'I will tell you more when I return; till then be as happy in idea as the pleaſing picture I have drawn can make you.’ So ſaying, ſhe retired, with a view of going to Lady Roebuck.

Seeing there was no time to be loſt, the count, the moment this converſation was over, which he had liſtened to, but underſtood not a word of, came out of his hiding place, and ſurpriſing An⯑nette at the door, locked it, and began, as we have ſeen, to be pretty free with her. He was however ſo awed by her beauty, that he had very little ſhocked her delicacy when ſhe was relieved by our hero, [14] whom ſhe no ſooner ſaw, alarmed and confuſed as ſhe was, than ſhe could not help fancying—the fore⯑going converſation being ſtrongly in her mind—that the whole was one of Emma's romantic ſchemes. This, when they retired to reſt, ſhe ſcrupled not to confeſs to Emma, laying before her very ſtrongly all the conſequences of any premature deſign to de⯑ceive her father, which ſhe was ſure, if he diſco⯑vered, he would never forgive, and which could not fail, inſtead of mending their affairs, to leave them in a worſe condition than ever. She thanked her with warmth, with tenderneſs, with tears, for the attention ſhe paid to her wiſhes; declared that no one ever had a truer friend, but it was plain for⯑tune determined to perſecute her, and therefore all her kindneſs would be uſeleſs.

Emma was very much touched at Annette's good opinion of her, and thanked her for it in terms of ſincere acknowledgment. She lamented with her the great probability that indeed there was of her fuſtaining more perſecutions, but ſhe ſaid it was the lot of virtue to be eſſayed, but that, thanks to heaven, to thoſe trials it owed its purity.

She ſaid ſhe knew well the implacability of Charles's temper, which ſhe was convinced would not relax a tittle; but this, in ſome degree, ſhe [15] could not diſapprove; for he had been very ill treated.

Our hero's conduct indeed was, in Emma's opi⯑nion, the nobleſt ſhe had ever heard of; but then ſhe knew to what it was attributable. To ſay the truth, ſhe knew much more than the reader imagines; or perhaps knows himſelf.

Emma acknowledged that ſhe knew of his being in the ſouth of France, but that his coming there that afternoon was purely accidental: at leaſt ſhe knew nothing to the contrary: for that ſhe had not expected to ſee him till they came to Montpelier, where he had been for many months at the point of death, though it was plain he was now not only hap⯑pily recovered, but much handſomer than ever.

Night alone beheld thoſe bluſhes which ſuffuſed Annette's cheeks at theſe words. They were ex⯑cited by a flattering hope, but were as inſtantly diſ⯑ſipated by intruding fear, which changed the car⯑nation to a pallid hue, and ſtarted two pearly tears, that trickling from her beautiful eyes, loſt them⯑ſelves upon her pillow.

Emma ſaid that though Charles muſt now ſtand much higher in every body's mind than he had lately [16] done, yet it was plain Sir Sidney had felt himſelf treated with indignity, which would operate, in conjunction with the inſiduous arts of Gloſs, to Charles's great diſadvantage. They would ſee how⯑ever the reſult of matters in the morning. In the mean time, ſhe was glad the count's hopes were at an end; for as to Gloſs, ſhe begged her lovely young lady to make herſelf perfectly eaſy, for as he never could be her huſband, which ſhe would herſelf take good care of, rather good than harm would come of his hovering about her; for though a troubleſome inſect himſelf, he would ſerve to keep off others who were more ſo. She ſaid ſhe held it good doctrine to uſe evil agents to come at truth, and maintained that HOBBES is right where he ſays ‘'that it is law⯑ful to make uſe of ill inſtruments to do ourſelves good;' and adds, 'If I were caſt into a deep pit, and the devil was to put down his cloven foot, I would take hold of it to be drawn out.'’

The great object of Annette's concern was leſt Charles did not love her; which doubt Emma un⯑dertook to diſſipate. She ſaid it was impoſſible; he was the beſt and moſt charming young man upon earth, as was ſhe the moſt virtuous and lovely young lady; that ſhe was as ſure they were born for each other, as if ſhe read their hiſtory in the book of [17] fate; but that troubles, and many yet, they cer⯑tainly were born to encounter.

‘'Come, come,' ſaid ſhe, 'my dear Miſs An⯑nette, you are very well off: our whole affairs are a novel, I confeſs, but yours are not the diſtreſſes in which young ladies ſo ſituated generally find themſelves. Your father is not hard and boiſter⯑ous, like Weſtern; nor is Gloſs bewitching and ſeducing, like Lovelace. I can daſh his hopes in a moment, whenever I pleaſe. Comfort your⯑ſelf then, my dear lady: you have in me a firm, and, though not very old, yet I will venture to ſay an experienced friend; and I ſhall as ſurely pilot the veſſel into port, as that I am now con⯑ducting it with ſkill and foreſight, in ſpight of all the adverſe winds and beating waves that ſurround it.'’

Emma was now in her element. She ſoothed An⯑nette with every kind and friendly argument her in⯑vention—which was pretty fertile—could ſupply. She inſtanced all the ſimilar ſituations ſhe had read of, and proved to a demonſtration that happineſs was as certainly the ultimatum of Annette's fortune, as that the interval would be filled with many trials of her virtue, her temper, and her fortitude.

[18] Upon the whole, Mrs. Emma determined never again to give a hint of what ſhe had in agitation to Annette. Young and timid as ſhe was, who knew how far her prudence would be a ſecurity for her not betraying it. She plainly ſaw that though Charles could not be robbed of the palm he had ſo handſomely earned, yet, as Sir Sidney had expreſſed himſelf in terms of great warmth, after our hero had left the room, this was not the moment to preſs her preſent deſign.

After a variety of deliberations with herſelf, while Annette ſlept, ſhe determined to ſee Charles early in the morning, and adviſe him to follow their ſteps, till ſhe ſhould give him a fit opportunity of declaring himſelf; and in order to induce him to this, ſhe would lay him down the ſtrongeſt reaſons in her power, without trenching abſolutely upon ſome ſecrets which ſhe meant to make uſe of as a denier reſort, leſt he, from rage, ſhould make as bad an uſe of them, as Annette would from ſimplicity.

Having well digeſted this plan, ſhe commended herſelf to the arms of ſleep, where ſhe continued locked ſo long, that when ſhe came to enquire in the morning for our hero, he was ſome miles on his way to Paris.

[19] I ſhall now recur to the ſcene of action, out of which Mr. Charles was ſeen juſt now to ſtalk with ſuch conſcious dignity.

When Sir Sidney and the reſt firſt came into the chamber, they really did not know what to think of the matter, it was ſo ſudden and unexpected; but as ſoon as they heard the Frenchman's handſome accuſation of himſelf, and found it impoſſible that our hero could be any other than the champion of the lady, they really had the conſcience to give him credit for one worthy action; and, as truth has the knack of diſperſing falſehood in more ways than one, it all of a ſudden ſtruck Sir Sidney, that Charles muſt either be ſtrangely altered, or that report had not in all caſes done him juſtice; for that it was impoſſible, or at leaſt very unlikely, that any man ſhould hold ſuch a contrary diſpoſition, as to be a devil to-day, and an angel to-morrow.

Theſe were Sir Sidney's reflections. Lady Roe⯑buck's were ſtill kinder. Emma's were admira⯑tion, and Annette's tender, delicate, lively grati⯑tude; and, feeling thus, they really made a very pretty group for a picture.

Againſt the chimney piece ſtood the muſing [20] baronet, with his hand to his forehead. His beau⯑tiful daughter, who had accidentally fallen into an arm chair, held alſo her hand to her face, which however did not conceal her tears of indignation for her raviſher, or thoſe burning bluſhes full of love and thanks to her deliverer.

Lady Roebuck, though in aſtoniſhment too, by turns eyed her huſband, Annette, and Charles, with regards plainly intimating her perturbed and anxious ſenſations; while Emma, firm and collected, ſearched every eye, and would fain have pervaded every heart, to furniſh herſelf with arguments for that maſter-ſtroke ſhe was now meditating.

Our hero, as I have already deſcribed, was tranſ⯑fixed like a ſtatue; but it was rather like an inani⯑mate body, whoſe ſoul had left it, and fled to that heaven on which the eyes ſeemed to bend with re⯑luctant pleaſure.

As to the count, he had his head againſt the wall, without daring to look any one in the face.

Juſt at this critical moment every thing ſeemed to depend upon the firſt word that ſhould be [21] ſpoken, which unfortunately coming from the mouth of Mr. Gloſs, our hero's love gave place, or rather ſpur, to his reſentment, and ſo threw him off his guard as to occaſion that diſreſpect which he ſhewed to Sir Sidney, and his abrupt departure after⯑wards.

Sir Sidney never felt ſo ſenſible a mortification in his life. He was plainly upon the point of mak⯑ing ſuch advances to Charles as very likely would have led to a complete reconciliation. He had balanced, as we have ſeen, as to his deſerts, from the firſt moment he felt that warm ſenſation of ge⯑nerous gratitude for his daughter's protection.

This prepoſſeſſion in his favour, his perſon, which called to mind a thouſand partial ideas, did not a little contribute to ſtrengthen. How then muſt this fair proſpect of engendering good-will be un⯑timely deſtroyed, when ſuch a blight as our hero's terms of rebuke were held out to one who expected ſolicitation inſtead of defiance! His kind thoughts immediately receded, and reſentment filled their place; but, however, with ſo very little foundation, that he was obliged to ſearch for a new object to gratify it, and immediately inſiſted upon a full ex⯑planation from the count of his conduct.

[22] The count charged it very properly upon the raſ⯑cality of his ſervant, whom he inſtantly called up, paid his wages, and kicked out of the room: an example, were it more imitated, would ſave the honour of many young gentlemen of pleaſure.

The count then ſaid his crime could not be pal⯑liated, otherwiſe he would never ſtir from An⯑nett's feet till he had implored her pardon, nor from Sir Sidney's preſence till he had conſented ſhe ſhould be his. As it was, he would hide his diſ⯑grace in abſence, and never again preſume to ap⯑pear before a family whom he had treated—inſtead of the reſpect due to ſtrangers—with the ill manners and villany of a ruffian.

He further ſaid, he ſhould love the young gentle⯑man as long as he lived who had prevented his de⯑ſign, and, were not his influence all gone, he ſhould ſtrongly recommend him to Sir Sidney's friendſhip and conſideration.

With theſe words he took his leave, went to an⯑other inn, and the next morning left the town, about an hour after our hero.

A conduct ſo collected and uniform in one mo⯑ment [23] engendered a new plot in the imagination of Mr. Gloſs. ‘'My dear Sir Sidney,' ſaid he, 'this is the moſt bare-faced buſineſs, I ever ſaw in my life: don't you ſee it?'’

‘'Upon my word I do not even know what you mean,' anſwered the baronet.’

‘'Why, my dear ſir, nothing can be plainer:—The count, whoſe overſtrained complaiſance in⯑duced him to accompany us to Province, did it to ſerve his friend, which you may eaſily ſee by the latter part of his fine florid ſpeech. Mr. Hazard was not in Italy, but lurking about till you ſhould come to France. For this was Miſs Roebuck to be inſulted!—for this was ſhe to be reſcued!—for this was the ſervant to be kicked down ſtairs! for this was the champion to behave with inſolence to you!—and, finally, for this was he, by the re⯑pentant raviſher—juſt the laſt man in the world who ought to take ſuch a liberty—to be recom⯑mended to your favour and conſideration!!'’

Sir Sidney could not admit the entire force of this charge, though he could not deny but it was clear, connected, and ingenious; and indeed full of ſuch apparent probability, that it might have naturally ſtruck any body. It was however late, and as his [24] daughter at any rate was ſafe, and peace reſtored, before they hazarded any further conjectures, he thought it would be but wiſe to conſult their pil⯑lows. Thus Annette and Emma were left to them⯑ſelves, where paſſed that dialogue and thoſe delibe⯑rations already mentioned.

CHAPTER II.

WHEN it was known the next morning that both our hero and the count had left Aix la Chapelle, Sir Sidney, kept up to his belief by Mr. Gloſs, began in reality to think that the whole buſineſs of the night before was a concerted matter between thoſe two gentlemen. It wore ſo much the com⯑plexion of thoſe tricks he had heard of before, and was in every reſpect ſo like what he had been taught to think of the genius of our hero, that it ſcarcely admitted of a doubt. But, were this the caſe, what did it infer? Why, truly, becauſe all his friends would not believe him innocent of pranks that had been ſo ſubſtantiated, he muſt meditate an injury that ought never to be forgiven. Did not his haughty ſpeech at parting confirm it? For even ſup⯑poſe that he had no motive for what he did but common juſtice, nobody would in ſo diſdainful a manner refuſed to be thanked. No, the matter [26] was apparently very plain, and if really what it ap⯑peared, it only proved that he whom they had hopes of a penitent, had now given proof that he was incorrigible. But were it allowed to be poſſi⯑ble—which there was very little ground for—that all this ſtrange buſineſs ſhould have been the mere effect of chance, was it, even in that caſe, a proper thing to lie at the caprice and whim of an abſurd young man? Was it through pride and diſdain he meant to aim at conciliation? Did he expect to be begged and entreated to forgive? Had he ſo far forgot all the duties reſulting from thoſe motives which alone could worthily have excited ſuch con⯑duct as to think it ought to erect him into pride and haughtineſs? And, laſtly, had he the vanity to ſuppoſe that having left the town, be the motive what it might, any body would take the trouble to ſend after him?

Weighing all theſe conſiderations, Sir Sidney was determined to repay pride with pride, and though, if it ever came to his knowledge as a poſitive cer⯑tainty that Charles had acted in this buſineſs diſin⯑tereſtedly, he ſhould conceive himſelf under an obligation, he ſhould nevertheleſs look upon it as one of that ſort which a vain ſupercilious conduct had completely cancelled.

[27] Thus was the baronet at leaſt as firmly ſet againſt our hero as ever he could be againſt the baronet, and fully confirmed in theſe ſentiments, which Gloſs failed not to extol.

Lady Roebuck, Annette, and even Emma, though not obliged to acquieſce, were at leaſt prohibited from making objections.

To bring them to England as faſt as poſſible, where I am impatient to attend our hero, it will be only neceſſary to ſay a few words.

They kept on their way for Province, where Sir Sidney found every thing very much altered. The former abbeſs of the convent where Annette's mo⯑ther was ſuppoſed to have died, had been replaced ſome years, and her ſucceſſor could give no more account of the matter than that ſhe underſtood Miſs Le Clerc had gone to England, with permiſſion, ſome years before. In ſhort, ſhe told Ingot's ſtory, with the addition of her having returned, ſettled her affairs, made intereſt to be of a new order, more ſuitable to her circumſtances, to a certain convent of which order ſhe had retired at a diſtant town, where it was ſaid they might hear further tidings of her.

[28] Sir Sidney, finding Lady Roebuck and Emma very anxious to get at the bottom of this buſineſs—for as to Annette, ſhe was always taugh [...] to believe that her mother was dead—indulged t [...]eir curioſity, though this ſame town was out of their road to Pa⯑ris. The ſcent however was ſoon loſt, for Miſs Le Clerc had ſhifted her place of reſidence one more, and they either could not or would not give the ſmalleſt information weere ſhe was gone: they therefore got away expeditiouſly to Paris, at which city they arrived a few days after our hero had left it, and after paſſing away about five weeks very pleaſantly, returned in ſafety to their own coun⯑try.

Charles, in his way to Paris, to drive Annette from his thoughts, began to conſider in earneſt what he ſhould do in the world. He was young, had a tolerable right to think well of his abilities, and would very ſhortly touch a large ſum of money.—He had all his life employed his time induſtriouſly, and thought he ſhould now wrong his country and himſelf if he let his talents ruſt in indolence.

The ſublimeſt wiſh of his heart was to patroniſe merit. He ſhould not however, he feared, find him⯑ſelf rich enough. He muſt oke out his fortune then. To effect this, he hit upon fifty ſchemes, [29] but was not able to pitch on any thing he thought likely to anſwer his purpoſe, till he met with an Engliſh nobleman in Paris, who initiated him in the myſtery of preferment, and plainly ſhewed him all its devious and intricate paths.

Charles contemplated this road to fortune with eager pleaſure. His booby brother was a lord; his ſupercilious rival a member of parliament and a po⯑pular ſpeaker: ſhould he then live a mere obſcure private gentleman!

In ſhort, he bargained with the peer for a bo⯑rough. The peer, on their arrival in England, made the broomſtick, who was then member, va⯑cate his ſeat, by an acceptance of the Chiltern hun⯑dreds, and, at the expence of ſomething more than eight thouſand pounds, our hero found himſelf a member of the third branch of the legiſlature.

My lord, by convention, was to follow up Charles's initiation with his patronage, which had only the trifling condition annexed to it of always voting with the miniſter. A fortnight however did not paſs before the impoſſibility of this was made ſelf-evident.

He had conſented to the purchaſe of a borough, [30] becauſe he had been told that ſuch things are as openly ſold as ſhoes and ſtockings, or any other article that a man chuſes to appropriate to himſelf, upon paying its full value, or perhaps a little more, but to ſupport that it was noon-day at mid-night—or indeed any of thoſe many poſitions he was almoſt ordered to ſecond—to hold forth for three hours to the great detriment of his lungs, and, what is worſe, of his varacity, with a view, like legerdemain, of ſhewing a queſtion in every poſſible point of view but the right, and then ſanction this outrage on truth, this fraud on his own conſcience, by voting that it might be carried into a law, and ſo be ac⯑ceſſary to the multiplying of theſe outrages and theſe frauds to the detriment of his fellow citizens!—this was a condition he could not prevail on himſelf to fulfil, and therefore—at which he wondered, with⯑out cauſe—the parliament being diſſolved in about five months after he took his ſeat, our hero's bo⯑rough, notwithſtanding a freſh three thouſand pounds which he laid out in conteſtation—though how it ſhould be ſpent is aſtoniſhing, for the place had not above thirteen houſes—received its former member, Mr. Stopgap, who, as complaiſantly as before, in leſs than a twelve-month took again the Chiltern hundreds, that the borough might be pur⯑chaſed by a new bubble, who however bought it with better ſucceſs than our hero, for, by always [31] ſaying aye, he ſoon got a penſion well worth the money he had paid for it.

By the way, Charles's conduct in parliament was the moſt curious thing in nature. Having no bias but truth, his opinions ſeemed to wear a very motley and ſtrange appearance, to thoſe who were hack⯑neyed in the way of debate; but indeed he was, as Kiddy would call it, up with them; for even thoſe who argued on the ſame ſide, by having imbibed a paſſion for rhetoric, a quaintneſs of expreſſion, a vein of drollery, or ſome other quality of embelliſh⯑ing and flattering truth out of the very form they ought to wiſh it ſhould wear, appeared to him the moſt unhandy handlers of an argument that could be conceived. In ſhort, he was an innovator, and nobody was ſorry to loſe him; for, ſaid they, a man who votes ſometimes on one ſide, and ſome⯑times on the other, can be of no party, and there⯑fore ought not to be a member of the houſe of commons.

Sir Sidney, it is true, as an independant country gentleman, voted with his conſcience, but yet this was generally on one ſide; for, by prejudice of education, he was pretty well fixed as to his ſenti⯑ments concerning the government of this country. In ſhort, every thing that promoted the bleſſing of [32] peace, he ſupported; every thing that led to the deſolation of war he diſcountenanced.

By the way, Sir Sidney and our hero conſidered one another as perfect ſtrangers during the whole time they ſat together as members.

Charles, when he returned to England, received of Mr. Balance the groſs ſum of twenty-nine thou⯑ſand pounds. His borough and his private ex⯑pences had, in ſeven months, ſunk this ſum to nearly half. This nettled him not a little. To ſet out with the laudable intention certainly of exalting himſelf, but with the pureſt motives of public in⯑tegrity, and ſuſtain in ſo ſhort a time ſo much diſ⯑grace!—it was not to be borne. He had given proof, on many private occaſions, that he could wield a pen; he was determined to try whether he could not do it, and to effect, on a public one.

He loſt no time, but immediately brought out a pamphlet which he called "Parliamentary Conſiſ⯑tency." It was pithy, ſenſible, and ſevere, and laid bare all the manoeuvres of making and garbling acts of parliament; ſhewing that as chicanery was engendered with law, no wonder if it grew up with it.

[33] Nothing however was gratified in this buſineſs but revenge. A few ſenſible people found a great deal of merit in the publication; the bookſellers declared that the young man touched in pretty, ſmart, round periods enough, and that when his for⯑tune ſhould be ſpent, they would be glad to employ him at per ſheet.

The active mind of our hero would not let him ſit down quietly under ſo heavy a reduction of his fortune. He thought every hour an age till he ſhould be engaged in ſomething to redeem his loſs. Had he remained in parliament for any length of time, he had no ſort of doubt but he ſhould have completed all his wiſhes, without the interference of the miniſter.

He had, with great accuracy, noticed where the laws were deficient in relieving the poor and op⯑preſſed, and indeed all deſcriptions of mankind in helpleſs ſituations. He had expected, upon point⯑ing out amendments in theſe laws—which he con⯑ceived could eaſily be done—he ſhould erect him⯑ſelf into ſuch popularity, that he could command aſſiſtance from that ſtate to which he ſhould thus have been ſo uſeful.

As it was, he had made but little progreſs in [34] this deſirable purſuit; nevertheleſs, what he had done was a beginning, and it actually had raiſed an alarm among foreſtallers, engraters, and other ene⯑mies to the lower part of the community.

He had alſo a plan of inducing a parliamentary attention to the liberal arts, and he meant, as a preliminary ſtep, to try at a regulation of public amuſements.

Many other benevolent ideas occupied his thoughts, tending both to public accommodation and private convenience; but the ſcheme that moſt delighted him was one by means of which he had flattered himſelf he ſhould be able to curtail the privileges of lawyers, whoſe emoluments drained from the neceſſitous, he proved by computation, amounted to a third more upon any twenty given cauſes, than the damages given in thoſe cauſes by the jury; and were the aggregate account of ex⯑pences and damages come at for ſeven, or ſeventeen, nay or ſeventy years, he had reaſon to think the proportion would be juſt the ſame.

This clearly proved that a man, with ever ſo juſt a cauſe, had better put up with a firſt loſs, let it be what it might, than ſeek the only redreſs the laws [35] of his country had permitted him to have recourſe to. Yet no ſtep had been taken to cure this evil.

His catalogue of ſuch abuſes as came under the cognizance of the courts was immenſe. Thoſe abuſes of which the courts had not the ſmalleſt idea were a ſtill larger liſt, and proved that the ſole mode the legiſlature had provided to decide thoſe two grand articles by which all the ties of good-fellow⯑ſhip are cemented, by which ranks are diſtinguiſhed, property aſcertained and ſecured—In ſhort, right and wrong;—inſtead of holding out ſecurity, and being a bleſſing, was a curſe, in a land of freedom, that the moſt oppreſſive tyranny had never equalled in any country.

This laſt enumeration of abuſes, he ſaid, was the moſt grievous thing that could be conceived to peo⯑ple of middling life. Theſe abuſes conſiſted of pro⯑ceſſes that went no farther than arreſts and accom⯑modations, in which the attornies, though adverſe profeſſionally, were privately intimate friends.—Theſe erected themſelves into judge and jury, and the reſult was nine times out of ten that the defen⯑dant, to avoid impriſonment, was forced into terms impoſſible to be complied with.

Could any proviſion take in all it was meant to [36] comprehend which failed of effect in any particular? The laws of England did in a very eſſential parti⯑cular: they precluded the poor from any benefit from them, while the rich could uſe them to op⯑preſs that very poor for whoſe defence—if by law is meant human ſecurity—benevolent reaſon ſays they ought in an eſpecial manner to provide.

‘'How can this be?' ſays the lawyer; 'the poor may ſue in forma pauperis.'’ What do they gain by this? Why truly they are allowed the ſtamps, but who will allow them an attorney that will manage their affairs for a ſingle farthing leſs than his full fees?—which always include three-fourths of his bill.

Theſe, as I have ſaid, were ſome among the many reſources from which Charles hoped to draw much public benefit; nor did he, o [...] theſe ſubjects, appear to have a ſuperficial judgment, for he had ſuch ſweetneſs of manners, and was ſo void of any pride, except that which reſults from conſcious in⯑tegrity, that he did not diſdain to ſearch for infor⯑mation among thoſe where alone he could demon⯑ſtrably find it.

To ſay truth, in conjunction with a few other [37] worthy members of parliament, he bent his time to a full conſideration of caſes, entirely among the poorer part of the community; and it was not rare to ſee him at work-houſes and priſons, where his purſe ſecretly following his generous heart, bellow⯑ed on him as much ſatisfaction, by relieving a widow or an orphan, as ſome men—his brother perhaps for one—would have received in diſtreſſing a tenant, or ſeducing his daughter.

Finding however all his hopes no more than a dream—from which he had been ſo diſagreeably awoke—he had now no ability but to pity thoſe whom he could no longer aſſiſt!

He might, to be ſure, have purchaſed another borough, but he now ſaw the fallacy of ſuch traf⯑fic, and well knew that if he could enſure a feat as long as he ſhould live, it would be utterly im⯑poſſible for him to carry any one point, till he had previouſly ſold his opinion, and then what would he be but the echo of another man's will, without having a will of his own.

Determined however to do all he could—ſlender as his means were—he concerted ſeveral feaſible plans, by which, while he reaſonably improved [38] his money, he fancied he ſhould procure a moſt deſirable relief to many who ſtood in need of ſuch aſſiſtance.

CHAPTER III.

WHILE Charles is digeſting his liberal plans—that I may keep this hiſtory compact, and all its characters within view—I ſhall recur a little to ſuch perſons and things as may enable me ſo to do.

In the firſt place, I do not wiſh the reader ſhould fancy that I made Charles all of a ſudden ſo vio⯑lently in love with Annette, at Aix la Chapelle, for no better purpoſe than merely to put him into a mad freak or two, and there an end. It is true, he ſwore a great many bitter oaths that he would ſooner tear his tongue from his mouth, and his heart from his boſom, than ſuffer one to ſpeak or the other to dictate a ſingle ſyllable that could betray the folly of loving one whoſe family undeſervedly deſpiſed him. But does not the reader know that this was rather what he uttered, than what it was in his power to put in practice. Was he not a lover? [40] Did not the poſitive confirmation of that fact take its date from the buſineſs of Aix la Chapelle? And could any thing he afterwards ſaid or thought be conſidered in any other light than as the declara⯑tion of a maniac, who, in the midſt of a paroxiſm, tells you he is in his right ſenſes? The injunction he laid upon his tongue was well enough, and I queſtion whether the threatened mutilation, or ſome⯑thing like it, might not have followed its infringe⯑ment. But as to his heart! Lord help the poor man! It was about as much in his power to direct that, as it would be for a miſer to prevail upon him⯑ſelf to give a poor wretch a guinea whom he ſaw expiring for want.

In ſhort, we ſee him prancing about from one wretched object to another, and perſuading, amuſ⯑ing, intereſting, wheedling, and coaxing this ſame heart into all the amuſements for which ſuch kind of men directors are worthily formed; and to be ſure I cannot deny but this maſter of his had much pleaſure in this ſort of employment:—but this made no difference: it repaid him with intereſt the mo⯑ment it was unoccupied, and even brought up theſe very actions to ſupport its arguments, craſtily ſug⯑geſting that if there was ſuch rich delight in leſſen⯑ing the burden of our fellow creatures's miſery alone, how exquiſitely would the delight be heigh⯑tened [41] by ſharing that taſk with the object of one's af⯑fection.

It was in one of thoſe moments that his heart had been dictating to him in this arrogant ſtyle, when Emma ſtood before him. His aſtoniſhment was exceſſive. ‘'Good God,' ſaid he, 'Emma'—and then recollecting himſelf, 'what brought you here?'’

‘'I come Mr. Hazard,' ſaid Emma, 'ambaſſa⯑dreſs from the court of love, upon buſireſs of im⯑portance, and I am determined to carry away with me a catagorical anſwer.'’

‘'Stay,' ſaid Charles; 'if the inveſtigation of Sir Sidney's conduct, and my family concerns are, in the ſmalleſt degree to make a part of what you have to ſay—though I confeſs I ſhould be very ungrateful not to give you credit for the beſt intentions towards me—I will not hear a ſingle ſyllable.'’

‘'Indeed ſir,' ſaid Emma, 'I would not affront you by inveſtigating any ſuch ridiculous ſubject. APOLLODORUS, the architect would not yield in opinion to the Emperor ADRIAN, and was put to [42] death. FAVORINUS however yielded to him in every thing, for which conduct, being reproved by his friends, he ſaid, ‘"Shall not I eaſily ſuffer him to be the moſt learned and knowing of all men, who commands thirty legions?"’ 'Now, Mr. Gloſs may be FAVORINUS as much as he pleaſes, but I, in ſpight of all conſequences, ſhall be APOLLODORUS; for if Sir Sidney commanded three hundred legions, inſtead of thirty, I ſhould never ſubſcribe to his abſurd opinionss, whatever may be my fate: ſo you may be perfectly eaſy on that head. My buſineſs at preſent is confined to one ſubject, and you will find it neceſſary, upon the footing I mean to put it, that you ſhould give a reaſonable and decided anſwer. Void of paſſion, void of revenge, void of any thing but what you honeſtly and truly feel, nor do I wiſh to humble you, or make you deviate from your pride, which I declare is the trueſt I ever read of. I look upon you, for your years, as a prodigy. Your fair, chaſte, penetrating underſtanding is remarkable, and though any one may ſee your great aptneſs for predelection and firſt-ſight prepoſſeſſion, yet, when once deceived—till when you cannot have the meanneſs to harbour ſuſpicion—decided wa⯑rineſs ſucceeds to ill-placed confidence, and I am ſure no man will ever deceive you twice. Your [43] firſt complaiſance you think due to the world: your ſecond to yourſelf.'’

‘'Why my dear Emma,' ſaid Charles, 'you ſpeak with the gravity of an oracle.'’ ‘'With the truth of one, I know I do,' ſaid Emma.’ ‘'But to what,' returned our hero, 'does all this tend?'’ ‘'You ſhall hear,' ſaid Emma. 'I want to know how far you will meet me upon the ground of a union with Annette?'’ ‘'It is impoſſible,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Do you love her?' returned Emma.’

‘'Come, come,' ſaid Charles, 'I ſee your driſt. If I tenderly loved Annette, there would be no⯑thing but I ought to ſacrifice for her; nay there could be no attention however arduous, no affec⯑tion however violent, ſincere, and unalterable, in the remoteſt degree comparable to her deſerts.—Her duty to her father is the firſt ſentiment of her ſoul. At the feet of this duty I ought to lay down that victory which my honour well fought for, and won. If I love her, I ſa [...], I ought to do all this: but I will ſpeak plain. I cannot ſhrink into no⯑thing, Emma. The firſt and deareſt wiſh of my heart—ſhould my father's grief fatally prevail—was to find a father in Sir Sidney; but, thanks to his ſincerity—which was rather of the rudeſt—the ſame line that told me I had loſt my father, [44] that I might not flatter myſelf with any thing that might conſole me, told me alſo that I had loſt my friend!'’

‘'My dear ſir,' ſaid Emma, 'I want none of theſe arguments to believe that your reſolution is laudably taken, or that it ought to be unbroken. I want only this, that you will not eſtrange your⯑ſelf from a ſubject that once gave you the deareſt pleaſure; but ſo far keep your heart free, that ſhould the veil that at preſent hides your truth and innocence from Sir Sidney be withdrawn, not by your contrivance, but by his own conviction, through the evidence of his ſenſes, you will, in ſuch caſe, agree to that reconciliation which he ſhall propoſe.'’

‘'Agree!' ſaid Charles, 'I am more hurt for Sir Sidney than for myſelf: for of him I am aſhamed.'’ ‘'And I too,' ſaid Emma.’ ‘'But to manifeſt,' ſaid Charles, 'that I only ſtickle for a juſt punctilio, ſacredly due to my honour—and the more as I am my own protector, as I am the general and the army that muſt fight the battle alone—if I were aſſured that Sir Sidney would believe me an in⯑jured man, upon my own ſingle word and honour, I would take him by the hand to-morrow, and eſteem that moment the happieſt of my life.'’

[45] ‘'That he will not then,' ſaid Emma; 'therefore it is a folly to talk. I know however that in time he will do more: for he can be juſt, and he will then believe he has wronged you. My buſineſs relates to what is to be done in the interim.—You will one day or other have juſtice, and the farther it is put off the more complete it will be. In the mean while, will you keep a hope in your heart that Annette may be yours.'’

‘'Emma,' ſaid Charles, 'it is a joke to talk in this manner: the matter ſhould be one thing or the other.'’

‘'It cannot,' ſaid Emma. 'There is a certainty that every thing will be right, but it is as certain that every thing is wrong at preſent. The only thing I am now certain of is that Annette loves you.'’

‘'Loves me!' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Tenderly, ardent⯑ly, gratefully loves you,' ſaid Emma. 'Nay ſir, if you will have a heroic propriety in your conduct, ſo will we in ours. We will be proud, like you! We will hide what we feel, like you! We will be unhappy, like you! Nay, if you provoke us, we will go into a conſumption!'’ ‘'Like who?' cried Charles.’ ‘'Like you,' anſwered Emma.’

[46] ‘'Nay,' ſaid Charles, 'can my Annette love me ſo dearly?'’ ‘'She does,' ſaid Emma; 'I am her ambaſſadreſs, and my inſtructions are to tell you ſo.'’

‘'Then take your catagorical anſwer,' ſaid Charles. 'Tell her that when I ſaw her at Aix la Chapelle, every reſolution I had formed before left me. I was from that moment her's uncondi⯑tionally; and this induced me to retire; for if I had not, I ſhould, the next morning, have fallen at the feet of Sir Sidney.'’

‘'I am very glad you did retire,' ſaid Emma, 'for the breach would, by that means, have been ſo widened, that you could never have been friends. As it is—'’

‘'As it is,' ſaid Charles, interrupting her, 'let her rule my fate: I will do whatever ſhe com⯑mands.'’

‘'Her commands then,' ſaid Emma, 'will be that you continue to love her, and write to her under cover to me. In every other reſpect do not bait an inch of the conduct you have laid down for yourſelf.'’

[47] This propoſal was ſo conſonant to our hero's ſen⯑timents, that he accepted it with delight. In ſhort, the preliminaries were adjuſted and agreed to, and Emma marched off in triumph, with the ratifica⯑tion of her treaty.

Though Emma was well contented with her ne⯑gociation, yet her tongue itched to enter upon an⯑other ſubject; but ſhe knew too well with whom ſhe had to deal, to let her curioſity get the better of her prudence. It was this: ſhe had heard—nay ſhe knew it beyond doubt, or nothing could have induced her to believe it—that our hero kept a miſ⯑treſs, that he had a private lodging for her, and vi⯑ſited her as often as his leiſure permitted.

This indeed was true; and though ſhe thought nothing of now and then a random intrigue, in a young man, yet an engagement of this kind might, eſpecially as he was ſurrounded with enemies, prove of dangerous conſequence to his intereſt in An⯑nette.

This fact, as a hiſtorian of veracity, I am obliged to admit. Charles certainly in his commerce with women of indifferent reputation—to which his youth and the warmth of his conſtitution too much [48] addicted him—had met with one who had ſome⯑thing more decent in her manners than the reſt, and, upon her promiſe to detach herſelf from her abandoned companions, he had made her comfort⯑able at that time, and intended afterwards to pro⯑vide for her.

It was impoſſible for Charles to have the leaſt de⯑gree of intimacy with any perſon, and not be at⯑tached to their intereſt. This girl had many at⯑tractions, which her lover was not inſenſible of. Nay his word might have been deeply engaged, had not her levity checked his hand. As it was, he ſtood engaged in an intercourſe pleaſureable enough, and which he could put an end to when he pleaſed, without a breach of honour.

The moment therefore Emma went away, this he determined to do, for he ſwore that Annette ſhould in future engroſs all his amorous thoughts. He called immediately at the lodgings of Miſs New⯑ton, where, without ceremony, he entered the bed⯑chamber; but what was his aſtoniſhment when, in ſo doing, he ſaw her in bed, at twelve o'clock at noon, with the waiter of a bagnio.

Charles made the gentleman jump up, very coolly [49] kicked him down ſtairs, and threw his clothes after him. This done, he waited on the lady, who would firſt have brazened the matter out, but finding he was abſolutely bent on parting with her, ſhe diſ⯑ſolved into tears;

Seizing this opportunity, he ſaid he did not chuſe to be made a dupe of; that he had conceived the comforts ſhe had taſted would have made her better conſider her own intereſt; but he plainly ſaw that ſhe could reliſh no pleaſures that were not tainted with vicious ingratitude. He ſhould not however upbraid her: perhaps he himſelf had been to blame, in ſuppoſing that one ſo utterly abandoned ſhould retain a ſpark of ſhame or decency.

He added, that her furniture, watch, and indeed all he had given her—which was no trifle—ſhe might keep: to this he ſhould now add a hundred pounds, which he hoped ſhe would make a good uſe of.

The lady attempted at a reply, but fell into hyſ⯑terics, at which our hero recommen [...]ed [...]er to the maid, and walked off; ſaying he ſhould ſend a perſon the next day to ſupply Miſs Newton with [50] ſome money he intended her, as ſhe was not then, in a condition to receive it.

The lady, when ſhe came to herſelf, and under⯑ſtood her lover was gone, and, what was worſe, without leaving the hundred pounds, ſtampt, raved, ſighed, ſwore, danced, laughed, and ſobbed, all in a breath, and after playing fifty curious paſſionate antics—which ſhe concluded by fairly kicking Betty out of the room, becauſe ſhe had not the precau⯑tion to ſhut the door, and ſo prevent the diſcovery—ſhe breathed nothing but revenge and defiance.

Mr. Gloſs had been among the number of this lady's admirers and had actually conferred on Charles a favour equally complaiſant with that of the waiter before mentioned.

From this ſame Mr. Gloſs had Emma, at ſecond hand, received her information, backed with ſuch circumſtances as it was impoſſible ſhe could diſ⯑believe.

Thus was our hero ſlandered for an attempt to d [...]tach [...] abandoned woman from her evil life, by the very man who not only ſhared her crime, but the wages of her iniquity; for Mr. Gloſs, with all [51] his averſion to Charles, ſcrupled not to partake of his bounty—as Miſtreſs Dye has it—at ſecond hand.

CHAPTER II.

HAVING ſeen in what ſtate were Charles's plea⯑ſures, I ſhall now look after his affairs. It has been already ſaid that had fortune made him very rich, he would, through the influence of his own proper philanthropy, certainly have given the poor and oppreſſed worthy cauſe to bleſs him, and have been a MACAENAS, nay a little AUGUSTUS, in the opinion of many neglected men of abilities. But this good will towards men failed, as we have alſo ſaid, for want of a certain ingredient in that ſort of work, called the means. He therefore tried whe⯑ther, by lifting himſelf into power, he could not put himſelf into caſh, and thus accompliſh what he had ſo ſet his heart upon. In this alſo he was as much to ſeek; and what now could he do? Why reſolve to embark the ſmall remains of his fortune in the moſt feaſible way that preſented itſelf, mak⯑ing general benevolence the outline of his con⯑duct.

[53] Firſt he purchaſed a ſhare in a place of public amuſement, which was coming to the very mart where genius was the traffic. With what delight did he contemplate the pleaſure he ſhould receive in taking neglected merit by the hand, and patro⯑nizing thoſe productions which the modeſt timidity of their author kept from the public becauſe he had no patron! How rejoice when he ſhould reſcue muſic from booriſh barbariſm, and reconcile it to reaſon and nature!—when the heart ſhould receive no impreſſion but through the ear; and when the ſenſations of the ſoul ſhould fix the criterion of ſound! How be charmed when theatrical painting, inſtead of monſtrous, ſhould be natural!

None of theſe deſirable ends, however, was he fortunate enough to attain. He found his partners too refractory, and too much attached to their own ignorant and conceited meaſures to liſten to him, who was but an inconſiderable member among them. Vainly did he repreſent that Engliſh amuſe⯑ments, were they thrown into a right channel, might very eaſily be made, with alternate and never-ending variety, to charm, expand, unbend, inſtruct, improve the mind; and, in ſhort, diſperſe a moſt extenſive and valuable fund of entertainment, rich, delightful, and exhilirating, as well as ſenſible, uſe⯑ful, and moral. Vainly did he ſhew this ſource, [54] this mine: they, poor creatures, were ſtrangers to its value. To ſpeak plainer, they knew of no merit which came not to them through the medium of flattery, or was not generated in their own dullneſs, and foiſted on the town by oſtenſible blockheads, who eſtimated their works by the quantity of ma⯑nual labour.

Not content with this, our hero viſited ſeveral gentlemen of undoubted and undeniable genius, to whom he lamented the great want of their public exertions, and entreated the advantage of their aſ⯑ſiſtance. Theſe he found had long retired in diſ⯑guſt: impoſſible to bear the affronts and humilia⯑tions they had ſuſtained from men to whom—though unable to judge of any thing worthy public notice—they muſt implicitly ſubmit, or retire; while ſupercilious coxcombs in ſcience, only by dint of cringing and patronage, were to ſet the pattern which the enlightened were to follow.

Not to dwell longer at preſent on a matter ſelf-evident to every man of ſenſe in the kingdom but our hero, he found, greatly to his diſappointment, that if he had wiſhed to commit to deſtruction every trait of real merit, he had hit upon the very way of all others to effectuate his purpoſe. He therefore—in imitation of thoſe men of genius whoſe diſguſt [55] againſt managers, and pity for themſelves and the degenerate age in which they lived, had been ſo worthily excited—ſoon determined to retire. To do this he farmed out his ſhare for an annuity, which—finding it would be ill paid—he afterwards fold for an inconſiderable ſum: and thus his failure of raiſing the glory of the arts in Great Britain, coſt him only about eighteen hundred pounds!

He was not however diſmayed at this. His in⯑tentions were the beſt in the world; and how could he prevent either the vitiated taſte of the public, or the impoſition of its purveyors.

His ſecond ſcheme was to give a temporary re⯑lief—all he could do—to debtors, during that in⯑termediate detention between the capture and the commitment to priſon. He had, as I have noticed, paid a very nice attention to arreſts in the earlieſt ſtages. He had come at inſtances of men who, by being brutally dragged out of their ſhops, for a paltry ſum, to a ſpunging houſe, and kept there under various illegal pretences for ſeveral days—though ultimately releaſed—had, in the interim, totally loſt their credit, and were never again able to hold up their heads. He had found that bailiffs, in conſequence of ſuch ſcandalous practices, and extravagant charges, at their houſes, had realized [56] large fortunes; nay he learnt, beyond all contra⯑diction, of one who had, for a great length of time, amaſſed annually three thouſand pounds, and was ſure that ſome others were not much behind hand; yet this intolerable expence and ſhameful diſgrace was nothing to the barbarous want of feeling and diabolical unconcern which tortured the poor debtor in this legal purgatory.

To remedy this evil, at leaſt in ſome degree, our hero hit upon a plan that promiſed good ſucceſs. He took the leaſe of a large houſe, had it parti⯑tioned into a number of convenient apartments, ſtored it with every proper article for his purpoſe, procured a victualler's licence, and placed a man in it of whom he had the beſt opinion, but whom he obliged to bring a reſponſible perſon to be joint ſecurity with him to the ſheriff.

To this hotel debtors were, by advertiſement, adviſed to go the moment they were arreſted—for it is then in their power to inſiſt upon being carried where they pleaſe—and there for one-fourth, per⯑haps one-fifth, of that ſum for which they would be ſerved with food and liquor they could neither eat nor drink, and huddled promiſcuouſly among filth and naſtineſs without a retreat, unleſs perhaps by paying a ſtill more exorbitant price, where they [57] could conſult their friends—they were neatly ac⯑commodated, well ſerved, and, in ſhort, provided with every pleaſurable convenience and humane at⯑tention that could at ſuch a moment be moſt agree⯑able to them. Added to this, an attorney of abili⯑ties had a ſalary to attend every inmate of that hoſ⯑pitable manſion, with advice according to each man's different caſe.

This liberal plan, though it was a little mad and eccentric, in ſomething leſs than two years, which time it laſted, ſaved, in the aggregate, at leaſt the ſum of nineteen thou [...]and pounds in hard money to a ſet of unfortunate men and their fami⯑lies, beſides a world of humiliation and diſgrace; and, what was a ſtill greater advantage—by a fair appeal to the humanity of the creditor, ſhewing him the impoſſibility of getting his money by ſend⯑ing a man to priſon, conjuring him to commiſerate the ſufferings of his fellow creatures, and other ar⯑guments likely to diſarm his anger—at leaſt three hundred of thoſe unfortunate men who would other⯑wiſe have gone to confinement, and who, it they did not die in it, might almoſt as well do ſo, for their credit would have been totally loſt, and their families reduced to poverty, were given back to ſociety, mildly warned not to be guilty of future [58] indiſcretions, inſtead of thrown into a ſituation where ſtrong neceſſity, in ſpight of the beſt inten⯑tions, muſt have inevitably plunged them into ten times worſe.

Our hero had a particular pleaſure in being in⯑ſtrumental towards healing thoſe meum and tuum breaches. He very often accompanied the houſe attorney, and was peculiarly happy with the credi⯑tor in that kind of argument which ſhewed him that he was like an angry ſchool boy, throwing one mar⯑ble to find another, and at laſt loſing both. In ſhort, he ſaw his benevolent inſtitution thrive every day, though it muſt be confeſſed, to keep-up its credit, orders were now and then obliged to be given, that no notorious ſwindlers, or other well known ſharpers, might be admitted; and this was pretty well managed by enquiring whether the deb⯑tors brought there were tradeſmen, or men of libe⯑ral profeſſions, or members of the church, the army, the court, or of thoſe other deſcriptions which would make it probable they were ſuch objects as the ſpirit of the plan went to relieve. Yet is it not aſtoniſhing that the world received this ſpirited in⯑novation on official tyranny as a moſt unbecoming attempt to deſtroy the common uſuage and ſanc⯑tioned progreſs of the law! It was called a mad ſcheme, and one that would finiſh by converting the [59] houſe into a receptacle for lunatics, where the founder would be the firſt perſon admitted.

One very curious thing that our hero came at through his reſearches was that many of theſe caſes originated from the folly, and frequently ſomething worſe, of the creditors themſelves. An overgrown tradeſman would coax a neighbour of the ſame buſi⯑neſs into his debt, and then arreſt him, to deſtroy his credit, that ſo the coaſt might be left clear for himſelf. Others would faſten upon minors, whom they would ſupply upon long credit with bad goods, at a high price, and then arreſt them the moment they became of age. Many were the inſtances where bookſellers, muſic-ſhops, and picture-dealers had conferred obligations on thoſe artiſts who had no medium but theirs through which to give their works to the world, and who were arreſted at the moment their creditor knew it was impoſſible to get any thing, merely that they might make over ſome valuable work for a trifle.

Charles ſtrenuouſly exerted himſelf upon theſe occaſions; but he generally found the creditor in⯑exorable, and the poor devil o [...] a debtor obliged to ſubmit to terms which muſt ſtill further involve him with his hard taſk-maſter.

[60] Our hero ſaw the folly of perſuaſion, and ſtill more of propoſing any accommodation through his own means. Indeed it was out of his power to give way to the dictates of his philanthropy in any caſe, which Emma, when ſhe heard of, greatly approved; for ſhe ſaid that Dean SWIFT, rigid as he was, could not bring his excellent plan of lending money in ſmall ſums to the perfection he wiſhed it, without endangering his fortune. To which ſhe added, by way of comment, ‘'that very few but men of indif⯑ferent fortunes thought liberally, which was a dread⯑ful buſineſs, ſince none but thoſe of ample ones had it in their power to act ſo.'’

Charles nevertheleſs found means of remitting to the wife or daughter what a ſtrict attention to the plan demanded from the father, which was how⯑ever always managed ſo diſcreetly, that nobody could tell from whence it came, but by gueſs. Gra⯑titude, however, conſtantly gave the act to its right owner, and thus was our hero frequently ſlandered for his benevolence; for was it not plain that the perſon ſo befriended might have ſtarved in priſon, but for the beauty of his wife or his daughter?—though, for aught they knew, one might be blind, and the other deformed.

Charles foreſaw that he ſhould incur a good deal [61] of this ſlander, and indeed he was obliged to take an extraordinary ſtep at the outſet to avoid the im⯑poſſibility of carrying on his ſcheme without the total ruin of his reputation. This was, to admit no women who were arreſted, leſt wretches, void of honour, ſhould be ſent there, upon either real or imaginary actions, to the diſcredit of the houſe.—It is true many of theſe things were attempted, but when they were peremptorily informed that there was no ſort of accommodation, they ſoon deſiſted; and this, as much as any thing, kept away ſharpers: for they can herd only with women of the above deſcription.

Thus was this aſylum appropriated, according to its original inſtitution, to men under misfortune only. It wore a ſober, decent appearance, and in⯑ſtead of riot, extravagance, gambling, and profli⯑gacy, it exhibited a ſociety of people in diſtreſs, it is true, but profiting by each other's advice and aſ⯑ſiſtance. Women of credit and reputation were not aſhamed to be ſeen there, and the conſolation of near and tender relations was never interrupted by rude and brutal intimidations; nor was any opportunity ever loſt of cheering the wretched, and ſoftening the ſufferings of the unfortunate.

In the mean time a number of unpleaſant at⯑tempts [62] were made to deſtroy this deſirable aſylum for the afflicted. Bailiffs make fortunes in two ways; by either carrying a man to their houſes, and ſo ſpunging upon him till he is drained of all his money, or elſe by taking a compliment, as they call it, in proportion to the ſum for which he is ar⯑reſted, and then taking his word: that is to ſay, letting him go. Now it happened that our hero's plan ſo trenched upon this firſt method, that they were obliged, oftener than had been their cuſtom, to have recourſe to the ſecond. Thus, being obliged to trade upon an unuſual riſk, ſeveral of them, who did not properly know their men, came into ſcrapes, and nothing among them was talked of but motions of court, ſuſpenſions, and other unſeaſonable mat⯑ters, which made them look about them in earneſt; for they plainly ſaw that if Charles's aſylum was found to be of public utility, and taken up upon a larger plan, bailiffs might even return to their for⯑mer vocations of knights of the poſt, bullies to bawdy houſes, thief-takers, and runners to gaols.

With a number of ſuch low enemies againſt him, no wonder if our hero met with a thouſand inſults. It will not however be ſo neceſſary for me to ſpin out trifling matters, as to enumerate them. He never failed to put the law ſeverely in force againſt them, whenever they infringed their duty; and as to any [63] thing elſe, he held it beneath him to notice it.—But now a matter of ſerious conſequence indeed happened to him. He was one evening arreſted for three thouſand pounds. Suppoſing this ſome manoeuvre that he could eaſily get rid of to the confuſion of the tribe of the catch poles, he inſiſted upon going to his own houſe of ſecurity, but this favour was peremptorily denied him, with an in⯑formation that the officer who kept it was ſuſ⯑pended; for that he had connived at the eſcape of a perſon who had been confined there for a debt of three thouſand pounds, that the ſheriff had been fixed for the debt, and now came upon him as one of the ſecurities.

In ſhort, the fellow who had ſo long kept his credit with our hero, in the execution of his truſt as ſheriff's officer—a poſt, as we have ſeen, that may be filled with reputation—after having been a long time tampered with, and yet reſiſting every temptation, was at laſt overcome.

A ſwindler owed virtually to one man a thou⯑ſand pounds, but literally three thouſand. The cir⯑cumſtance is worth attending to. This one man was a raſcally attorney, found out by a ſet of as raſ⯑cally bailiffs, who were determined to knock up [64] Charles's plan. He ſent for the ſwindler, aſked him the amount of all his debts, and was informed they were ſomething more than three thouſand pounds. He was then deſired to inform himſelf whether they could not be paid with a thouſand..

This enquiry was made, and it was found they could; for he had no creditor but would be glad to take a third for the whole, ſeeing they ſtood no other chance of getting any.

Before any further ſtep was taken, the ſecurity of Charles's factotum was tampered with—at firſt diſtantly—who appearing not very ſhy, as they called it, was at length plainly informed how he might touch a thouſand pounds. In ſhort, finding him apt, they propoſed, if he could prevail on the officer to connive at an eſcape, they ſhould receive a thouſand pounds each. The affairs of the ſecurity were going down, and he had no doubt but he ſhould induce his friend to conſent. In ſhort, the ſcruples of both were at length overcome.

This being accompliſhed, the ſwindler's debts were paid with a thouſand pounds, the attorney re⯑ceived documents which made him appear to ſtand in the ſhoes of the creditors to the amount of three [65] thouſand pounds. For this ſum was the ſwindler arreſted; for this ſum was the ſheriff fixed, in con⯑ſequence of his eſcape; and for this ſum—after the factotum and his ſecurity were paid their money, and fairly put into a poſt chaiſe—was our hero four days in cuſtody: at the end of which time, rather inconveniently, he paid the money, and procured his enlargement.

Thus did the attorney, who was oſtenſible for the bailiffs, receive the original money they had ad⯑vanced, bribe their agent with double that ſum, procure the ſwindler's liberty, and all at Charles's expence;—who now ſaw it would be utterly impoſ⯑ſible for him to carry his humane plan any far⯑ther.

Bigoted however to his project, and having ſeen the beſt effects from it, he waited on men of larger fortune, with a view to adviſe with them how to perfect an undertaking of ſuch material utility.—He expoſed the conduct of it with the minuteſt nicety, and ſhewed how much money, as well as happineſs, he had been the inſtrument of reſtoring to his fellow creatures in diſtreſs.

Unfortunately he was diſappointed in every ap⯑plication!—for [66] finding, after a critical ſtatement of the accounts, that he had at no time made ſeven per cent. of his money—indeed he did not make more than four, for he inſerted none of thoſe ex⯑pences to be laid to the account of his benefac⯑tions—he could not find a ſingle creature to engage in it.

His laſt application was to the ſheriffs, but their anſwer was that they had no notion of putting the buſineſs out of the common channel; and indeed they were no friends to the ſcheme, for it had in⯑jured the emoluments of their office, by preventing the accumulation of arreſts. Nay they had heard men in power hint that it was an idle, meddling ſcheme, and, among other public inconveniences, it had decreaſed the ſtamp duty.

As the limits of our hero's fortune would not permit him to become ſecurity again for a perſon to manage the houſe, and as it would anſwer no end to let it to a thorough bred ſheriff's officer, he was obliged to drop the affair: lamenting that his circumſtances were ſo ſtraitened, that he could not carry it to that perfection he wiſhed; and feeling ſeverely for the dignity of human nature, when he reflected that in all his reſearches he had not [67] been able to transfer benevolence upon the eaſy terms of good pecuniary intereſt, ſweetened with the benedictions of the unfortunate.

CHAPTER V.

THAT I may carry our hero the whole length of his tether while I am about it, I ſhall proced to plan the third, though it muſt be obſerved that theſe ſchemes were all in agitation at once: ſo full of vivacity were his actions when he panted to ſuccour his fellow creatures.

This third ſcheme went to the relief of the poor at large, and indeed ſo did the fourth. One was a plan to ſell them bread under the ſtandard price, and the other meat.

To carry the firſt into execution, a water-mill was built, and a bakehouſe annexed to it. The matter was found very practicable; the original money yielded at leaſt ſix per cent. and the poor, even then, were ſerved with better bread, and ſaved [69] at leaſt a penny out of every ſixpence. Nothing could be more ſimple, nor more effective. The ſparring of the bakers was more eaſily kept within bounds than that of the bailiffs. Indeed, as our hero meant to make his expences the ground of a memorial for the better regulation of ſo material an article, his competitors were rather inclined to con⯑ciliate than aggravate matters.

The ſcheme for regulating the price of meat could not be conducted in a manner ſo within himſelf as the other. He therefore could not avoid connecting himſelf with a grazier and a butcher. In the choice of theſe he uſed every precaution his moſt watchful and diligent prudence could ſuggeſt.

At length, having ſettled the matter to his mind, the plan was began and carried on, for ſome time, with aſtoniſhing ſucceſs, though he could not re⯑ſtrain his partners from making more intereſt for their money than he wiſhed: yet, with theſe and many other clogs upon it, the advantages to the poor were conſiderable. The foreſtallers however at laſt ſo haraſſed and inconvenienced the concern, that in about ſeven weeks after the hoſpitable aſy⯑lum was put down, our hero had the mortification to ſee his name in the Gazette, as partner of Daniel [70] Driver and Anthony Garbage, graziers, butchers, dealers and chapmen.

We have ſeen the young gentleman in a ſtate of aſtoniſhment before; how he felt at this intelligence we can the readier conceive. But ſtill his ſituation varied a little from the reſt. He never ſaw himſelf before upon the brink of poverty. However, after the firſt ſhock, he received great conſolation from the conſciouſneſs of his own good intentions, and he contented himſelf with only adding to the firſt tranſport of his indignation—which was pretty vio⯑lent—that men were wolves and vultures, and that the greateſt act of madneſs a man could be guilty of, was an attempt to civilize them.

The firſt ſtep he took was an endeavour to ſuper⯑ſede the bankruptcy, as far as related to himſelf; upon a plea that he was able to ſatisfy his own cre⯑ditors, by paying twenty ſhillings in the pound.

Poor, inexperienced young man! He little knew that was the worſt plea he could offer. It availed him nothing. His effects were overhauled, his mill was ſold, and, after obtaining his certificate in form, he found himſelf poſſeſſed of no more than between three and four hundred pounds.

[71] Thus were overthrown all our projector's hopes! which, though they certainly were a ſyſtem of re⯑form utterly beyond his ability to mature, yet he ſurely merited no reproach for having made ſuch a laudable attempt.

As I have already obſerved, there never was per⯑haps an inſtance of a well-diſpoſed young man who was in ſo trying a way let alone entirely to the bent of his own diſpoſition. That diſpoſition evidently led him to alleviate the wants of his fellow crea⯑tures. If in this he aimed at more than he could accompliſh, let it be attributed to a liberal, ex⯑panded propenſity to confer benefits; a noble, giv⯑ing, beneficent principle of action, which muſt be endowed in an uncommon degree with courageous generoſity, to riſk, in ſupplying the wants of others, the exiſtence of that ſource from which thoſe wants were ſupplied.

As to the vehicles through which this benevolence was diſpenſed, they certainly wanted riper experi⯑ence, more conſequence, and a larger fund to ma⯑nage them; for, as it was, our hero's conduct—eſpecially as to his two firſt ſchemes—was a ſort of Quixotiſm in liberality. But yet, had the folly been ten times more egregious, it was ſtill but folly; whereas the intention in ſo young a man, ſo [72] unadviſed, ſo left to his own propenſities, requires a word to expreſs its deſerts much ſtronger than any dictionary will give us, and which one might have an idea of by fancying—if one could do ſo without violating language—ſomething that implied a mean⯑ing about ten times as expreſſive as the ſuperlative degree of admirable.

Nine out of ten however reviled Charles's con⯑duct in the moſt humiliating terms. He had a hundred nick names. He was the infant Her⯑cules; the mad projector; the opulent beggar; the beneficent catchpole; Timon in tatters; and ninety-five other things, all as good as theſe. But in the midſt of this, it muſt have mortified his ene⯑mies to death, and raiſed the praiſe of all good men to that very unſpeakable degree of admiration I mentioned in the laſt paragraph, had they accom⯑panied the gradual decline of his circumſtances with remarks on his becoming conduct, and then ſeen how he ſat himſelf down in adverſity!

When firſt he returned to England, he had an elegant houſe, and kept his carriage. The moment he was out of parliament, he ſold off his carriage, took a ſmaller houſe, and lived more privately; till, ſtep by ſtep, we now ſee him only decently lodged, with an old gentlewoman, who had been [73] his houſekeeper, for his only attendant. Yet did every ſixpence of thoſe ſuperfluities he curtailed go to relieve the diſtreſſed; for it was his conſtant method to retreat in time, that ſo nothing might be ſpared to accompliſh his great and liberal pur⯑poſes.

There is ſomething alſo beautiful, and I hope it ſo ſtrikes the reader, in reflecting that when Charles was driven to the neceſſity of diſcarding all his ſervants but one, he ſhould retain the oldeſt and moſt helpleſs among the number; and, to finiſh this picture, if it has ſo far intereſted the reader, let it melt him into friendly generous ſympathy, when I heighten it by bringing on a grateful honeſt group of now happy objects, through the means of his beneficence, lamenting the ſtate to which alone his compaſſionate generoſity had reduced him; vent⯑ing their admiration of a mind ſo charitable, yet ſo young; invoking benedictions on his head, for the benefits they had themſelves, through him, and from his hands, received; and conjuring him to accept their thankful mite, for his preſent aſſiſtance.

I can only ſay that no glutton ever ſat down to a banquet with half the ſatisfaction that Charles felt at this ſight. He thanked them with tears; aſſured [74] them that his ſituation was a trifling concern, ſince it had mended theirs; that he had reſources, and ſo little repented of what had paſt, that had he again fifteen thouſand pounds, he would give it with pleaſure to have the charming ſatisfaction of enjoying ſuch another moment.

During all this time our hero's correſpondence with Annette went on variouſly. Sometimes Emma was obliged to be extremely cautious, and, at other times, all caution was altogether as unneceſſary.—This happened juſt as Charles roſe or ſunk in the opinion of Sir Sidney, who had really—finding him ſuch an original—watched his conduct with great attention.

In parliament he had remarked that though there was great ſingularity in it, there was alſo great con⯑ſiſtency, and, what was better, great integrity:—and much about the time when Emma adjuſted the correſpondence between the lovers, was really in⯑clined to think that he had been wronged, or that he had the ſtrangeſt mixture of good and ill quali⯑ties in him that ever was heard of, when Mr. Gloſs contrived, while Sir Sidney's ſentiments were in this equipoiſe, to make our hero's virtues kick the beam with a ſingle fillup.

[75] In ſhort, he had then, as uſual, an opportunity of turning one of his good actions into the appear⯑ance of a very bad one, and he had no doubt but, by this means, he ſhould be able to make the ba⯑ronet's dubious thoughts preponderate on the ſide that would be leaſt to Charles's advantage.

Gloſs took the very firſt opportunity that he heard Sir Sidney ſay any thing tending to Charles's praiſe of remarking that good men were always the moſt eaſy to be impoſed upon; and in this he ſaid very true, for he was then going to impoſe upon Sir Sid⯑ney. He followed this declaration up with ano⯑ther, expreſſing his great reluctance that it ſhould fall to his lot to bring forward accuſations conti⯑nually againſt Mr. Hazard, and, in particular, leſt the cenſorious world—for he was ſure Sir Sidney would do him more juſtice—ſhould think he had a farther intereſt in ſuch conduct than mere impar⯑tial juſtice, and a deſire that a gentleman ſo dear to him, and indeed to the world in general, ſhould undeceive himſelf in an opinion undeſervedly enter⯑tained of one who not only plunged himſelf every day into ſome freſh vice, but indeed ſeemed to ſet ſhame and even decency at defiance. He inſiſted that benevolence extended to bad objects was a ſort of crime; it was a tacit admiſſion, though not approval, of their conduct; and might, in men to [76] whom the world looked up, as it did to Sir Sidney for example, be ſo conſtrued. He took the liberty to add, that if his dear friend had a foible—though to be ſure it was amiable in the extreme—this was it.

In ſhort, after a proper doſe of gilded flattery, he informed the baronet that it was then a week ſince our hero had turned a poor wretch, whom he had ſeduced from her friends, into the ſtreets, with all the ſhocking circumſtances of ſhame and wretchedneſs. The way he came to the truth of this was, the miſerable creature, hearing he was one of Mr. Hazard's friends, had called upon him, and related the whole ſhocking buſineſs with ſuch ſimplicity and apparent truth, that he had been in⯑duced to relieve her, and intended viſiting her fa⯑ther, to try if he could not prevail on him to re⯑ceive his repentant child into the boſom of her fa⯑mily.

Sir Sidney ſeemed greatly ſhocked with this ſtory, and, upon Mr. Gloſs's repeated entreaty, conſented not only to ſee this unhappy girl, but to uſe his intereſt with her father, who was, it ſeems, a ſubſtantial tradeſman, to take her back again.

Not to let the matter cool, the baronet ſaw the [77] young lady, was afterwards introduced to a perſon who kept wine vaults in Petty France, who con⯑feſſed himſelf her father, and had the good fortune, after uſing a variety of arguments, firſt to prevail on him to ſee, and afterwards forgive, the reclaimed ſinner; to whom Sir Sidney preſented one fifty pounds, and Mr. Gloſs another, accon panied with good counſel, in ſome men's eſtimation, to fifty times that value.

The ſtory the young lady told Sir Sidney, was briefly this: that Charles had taken uncommon pains to ſeduce her, but being tired with poſſeſſion, had now turned her off: that ſhe verily believed, dearly as ſhe loved him, and ever ſhould, his prin⯑cipal motive in a connection with her was intereſt. This the gentleman in Petty France believed too; for he aſſured Sir Sidney that when ſhe went off ſhe carried two hundred pounds with her. But, the lady ſaid, had he found his account in this expec⯑tation, ſhe did not think ſhe ſhould have kept him long, for ſhe ſoon found that he had fallen in love with a girl whoſe mother he had taken out of a ſpunging houſe; and this ſhe ſaid was ſo true, that the mother lived with him at that time, in quality of houſekeeper, and the daughter was put out to a milliner, in a houſe where ſhe was to be taken in [78] partnerſhip, when her apprenticeſhip ſhould be ex⯑pired.

Many circumſtances were adduced to prove the truth of theſe allegations, and as far as it related to our hero's proteſtations, though they were but in general terms, there was enough under his hand⯑writing, which Sir Sidney knew, to corroborate his connection with her, and parting from her, par⯑ticularly the latter, in which the baronet thought he diſcovered a remarkable vein of cruel and in⯑ſulting levity.

I believe it is ſcarcely neceſſary to add that the lady was Miſs Newton; that ſhe had been tutored by Gloſs; that the man at the wine vaults was oc⯑caſionally a convenient friend of hers; that theſe two divided Sir Sidney's bounty, and gave Gloſs's back again. This admitted, our hero's letters will not appear extraordinary, eſpecially the laſt, at which the baronet was ſo incenſed, which accom⯑panied the hundred pounds he ſent her the day af⯑ter he had detected her; and as it happened, ac⯑cording to the partial conſtruction now put upon it, to apply ſo directly in favour of the lady, by exhibiting a want of feeling in the gentleman, I ſhall here inſert it.

[79] The reader will keep in mind that the gentle⯑man's name was Nantz who kept the wine vaults.

The reader, who is with me in the ſecret, will find this letter quite delicate. It laughs off a very great injury; it is, beſides, in a ſtyle well adapted to the perſon to whom it is addreſſed; and there is ſomething very delicate in the circumſtance of taking no notice of what it encloſed. We however muſt commend Sir Sidney, and had we been, as he was, ignorant of the real truth, we ſhould have thought as he did.

It muſt be confeſſed that, in ſpight of Gloſs's moderation, Sir Sidney exulted a little at this ſtory. [80] He came home full of it, and as he had ſeen Charles's hand-writing, and beſides nobody could think of doubting his veracity, even Emma herſelf was, for the preſent, unprepared, or at leaſt ap⯑peared ſo, to defend her favourite, which indeed vexed her not a little; becauſe ſhe had juſt got the correſpondence in ſuch a nice train. She contented herſelf therefore with ſaying, that it had been ſaid there were two ALEXANDERS; one invincible, the ſon of PHILIP; the other inimitable, the production of APELLES. At preſent it might be ſaid there were two Mr. Hazards: one good and benevolent, repreſented by the world; the other vile and diabo⯑lical, painted by Mr. Gloſs. That for her part, ſhe did not approve of premature condemnations: they were generally repented of. They had not yet heard both ſides of the queſtion, except in one inſtance, where Mr. Hazard was cleared greatly to his honour. She ſaid ſhe ſhould not have ſcrupled to diſbelieve the whole of this buſineſs, but for the circumſtance of the letters. With that proof ſhe ſhould reſt contented; for Sir Sidney had the evi⯑dence of his own ſenſes to go upon. She wiſhed moſt truly he would never credit any thing but through that medium.

She allowed the young gentleman had failings, nor was it to be wondered at. TELEMACHUS, though [81] with Minerva for his guide, fell into the errors of his father. What muſt this young man do, help⯑leſs and alone?—who never had occaſion for his friends till he had loſt them:—and how loſt them? It was not then a moment to inveſtigate that. She ſhould therefore ſay ſhe acquieſced in the truth of our hero's faults, but it ſhould be upon this condi⯑tion, that if he had weakneſs, it was the weakneſs of an angel.

Sir Sidney begged ſhe would retain her good opi⯑nion of Mr. Hazard: it was perfectly conſiſtent with her romantic notions: but deſired ſhe would not ſo far make a novel of the buſineſs, as to let her friendſhip interfere with her duty.

‘'Sir,' ſaid Emma, 'if to have your intereſt ten⯑derly at heart be to neglect my duty, no duty was ever ſo neglected.'’

‘'Come, come,' ſaid Gloſs, 'you need not vaunt your fidelity, Mrs. Emma, till it is diſputed:—we ſee what you are.'’

‘'It is eaſily ſeen,' anſwered Emma, very mildly, 'what I am, and it will one day ſir be ſeen what you are, and—Mr. Gloſs—WHO you are.'’

[82] Sir Sidney would certainly have rebuked Emma very ſharply for this ſtrange freedom, but that he ſaw, at the inſtant it was uttered, the ſtrongeſt marks of confuſion in the countenance of Gloſs.—Theſe, to be ſure, he endeavoured to paſs off, by hinting that the liberty Mrs. Emma had taken was very extraordinary: but this he did ſo ſlightly—fearing probably a few more of thoſe choke pears—that the baronet was aſſured ſo ſignificant an expreſ⯑ſion would not have been levelled by Emma, or received by him in the manner it had, were there not ſomething of an extraordinary nature couched under it. He thought however the wiſeſt way at preſent would be to break up the converſation. He therefore told Emma he was aſſured ſhe had the beſt intentions, and begged Mr. Gloſs would forgive her, if any thing ſhe had ſaid in her haſte offended him.

Gloſs took him at his word with great eagerneſs, totally unlike himſelf, and this augmented Sir Sid⯑ney's ſuſpicions.

CHAPTER VI.

Now it happened that had Emma found it con⯑venient ſhe could have conſuted the whole of this calumny, and in a way greatly to our hero's honour; but this would have brought up matters which, in ſpight of all her diligence, were not yet ripe enough for inveſtigation. The fact is that ſhe had made herſelf not a little uneaſy at this very circum⯑ſtance before, which ſhe had firſt learnt through ſome invidious intimations from Gloſs, and had very carefully watched the matter, till at length her fears were at an end upon our hero's leaving Miſs New⯑ton, owing, ſhe had no doubt, to the more agree⯑able commerce in which ſhe had now engaged him; and this rouſed in her a reflection greatly to his credit; for if the bare mention of a correſpondence with a woman of honour could induce ſuch a youth to give up a guilty connection unſolicited, what might not have been expected from him had his [84] other purſuits been ſanctioned by the advice of ſenſi⯑ble and reſpectable friends. And yet prudence had whiſpered to Emma that it was certainly, but yet barely, poſſible for Charles to have given up Miſs Newton in compliment to his houſekeeper's daugh⯑ter. This buſineſs, therefore, ſhe made a point of coming at; to do which, ſhe viſited the old lady one day when our hero, as ſhe knew, was engaged at his mill, about five miles out of town.

There was ſomething in this old lady that had be⯑fore ſtrongly prepoſſeſſed Emma in her favour, and as the latter came not out of any improper curio⯑ſity, to make an advantage of any thing ſhe ſhould hear to the other's diſadvantage, and as the former had never made a ſecret of the ſtory, but, on the contrary, though againſt our hero's will, taken every opportunity of ſinging forth his praiſes, by repeating the circumſtances of it as far as he had been concerned in it, to every one who aſked it, it will not either ſurpriſe the reader to hear that Emma got out of the old gentlewoman the particu⯑lars of her whole life, or that when ſhe had done ſo, ſhe admired the extraordinary goodneſs of Charles more than ever:—and here the reader will reflect with double pleaſure that this was the very domeſtic, or rather companion, he retained in his circum⯑ſtances of adverſe fortune.

[85] The old lady having firſt, like Othello, told her ſtory in parcels, Emma begged to have it from her youth up: the which to hear did ſhe moſt ſeriouſly incline. What ſhe told at length, I ſhall give the reader briefly; for I have no time for ſpinning out narratives.

She was the daughter of a gentleman, who had a life place in a public office, and had been thrown very early in life, with a ſmall fortune, into the protection of an aunt, who unfortunately being a woman of intrigue, connived at her ruin. Her ſe⯑ducer, by whom ſhe had a child, was a clergyman; but as he ſoon left her, ſhe was compaſſionated by another relation, who took her home, obliged the father to take the child, which was a boy, and got her fortune out of the hands of her aunt.

It was not many months before a reſpectable tradeſman paid his addreſſes to her, and, in ſpight of her misfortune, offered her his hand; nay, he was the warmer on that account. He knew ſhe had been betrayed by a wicked woman and a ſinner in the garb of a ſaint, and therefore wanted a pro⯑tector. In ſhort, they became man and wife, and had lived in great credit five-and-twenty years, when falling into difficulties, through the villany of ſome notorious ſwindlers, and innocently getting [86] the ill will of a pettifogging attorney, her huſband, whoſe name was Marlow, was one of thoſe whoſe reputation had been totally ruined by vexatious arreſts, in the way I have already deſcribed.

Our hero ſtrenuouſly exerted himſelf in the poor man's behalf, and with great difficulty—but not till all his connections, ſcared by this temporary misfortune, had deſerted him—obtained his liberty from a ſpunging houſe, where he laid thirteen days in a moſt cheerleſs condition, during which time he was witneſs to the riotous profligacy of ſome of thoſe very men who had wilfully cauſed his misfortunes.

The loſs of his credit, added to a ſevere cold he had caught by lying in a damp bed, threw him into a fever, which, in ſpight of every caution, hurried him out of the world in a very ſhort time. He died recommending his widow and her daughter to the protection of our hero, now the only friend he had in the world.

The old lady, as it has been ſhewn, was appointed Charles's houſekeeper, and the young one, who was the only remaining child out of eleven, was put into buſineſs exactly in the manner Mr. Gloſs re⯑lated, who always made it a rule to keep truth as [87] much in view as he conveniently could in all his ſtories.

This was the account that Emma, had ſhe found it expedient, might have oppoſed to the other; to which alſo ſhe was prepared to add, that ſo far from his having ſeduced Miſs Newton, ſhe was not only a notoriouſly abandoned character, but that Mr. Gloſs knew it. She contented herſelf however with the few hints ſhe had given, which ſhe was pleaſed to find had told juſt as ſhe wiſhed they ſhould.

If Emma was however ſatisfied for the preſent, I cannot ſay ſo much for Sir Sidney, who, the firſt time he was alone with his lady, aſked her freely her ſentiments on this ſubject, and, in particular, how ſhe could account for the freedom of Emma's conduct.

Lady Roebuck ſaid he might be aſſured there was not in exiſtence a more faithful creature; that, however, no duty could induce her to be what ſhe conceived ungrateful, or unjuſt; that ſhe had cer⯑tainly the higheſt opinion of Mr. Hazard, and had ſet her heart upon his union with Annette; but that as his fortune daily diminiſhed, and the pretenſions of Mr. Gloſs were daily more and more eſtabliſhed, [88] ſhe trembled for her favourite, of whom ſhe would not credit any ill, till every thing could be eſtab⯑liſhed by a fair inveſtigation; which, for her own part, ſeeing neither ſide was willing to make the firſt motion, ſhe thought would never take place.

One great proof, Lady Roebuck ſaid, both of the attachment of Emma, and the delicacy of thoſe ſentiments by which ſhe ſupported it, was, that though her predelection in favour of Mr. Hazard was evident, yet ſhe had never uſed any unbecom⯑ing arguments to Annette on the ſubject; but, con⯑trary to this, had always held out that the com⯑mands of her father—which only urged her to make an effort to overcome that affection which to be ſure the whole family had formerly ſanctioned—were very lenient, and truly characteriſtic of the charming mind of a parent, who had, upon every occaſion, been remarkable for his indulgence to⯑wards his daughter.

In this however Lady Roebuck neither told nor knew the truth; for Emma privately kept up her affection for Charles, and increaſed her averſion to Gloſs.

‘'But,' ſaid Sir Sidney, 'what meant that ſtrange ſide accuſation of Mr. Gloſs? What did ſhe mean [89] by ſaying it would be known who he was? Had I not been averſe to lower the conſequence of a gentleman before a dependant, I would have in⯑ſiſted on an explanation of that expreſſion.'’

Lady Roebuck went on in theſe words. ‘'My dear Sir Sidney, you know with what reluctance I have ever ventured to ſay a word on this ſubject. I own I have been myſelf greatly prepoſſeſſed in favour of Mr. Hazard. We all, at one time, eſ⯑teemed him as a moſt amiable young man, and though we have had what has been thought ſtrong proofs againſt him, yet, as Emma ſays, only one ſide of the queſtion has been heard, and I confeſs, from ſome internal impulſe, which may per⯑haps be the effect of my ſanguine wiſhes for this young gentleman's welfare—which wiſhes were inſpired by the dying and pathetic requeſt of his mother, for whom we had all a tender friend⯑ſhip—I cannot yet conſent to pronounce him, from my own conviction, guilty of ſuch very enormous offences, which could not be perpe⯑trated but by a mind capable of the moſt hardened and incorrigible wickedneſs: a diſpoſition which is rarely produced ſuddenly, and of which his, by what we have ſeen of it, promiſed exactly the reverſe.’

[90] ‘'While I ſay this however, continued Lady Roe⯑buck, 'I will not contend how far theſe feelings are right. They may be falſely entertained, perhaps, impelled by the motives I have men⯑tioned, while your riper judgment and better know⯑ledge of the world have enabled you to form a truer and more decided opinion of the truth; in which caſe it would be ſtrange vanity, however right my intentions, in entertaining theſe ſenti⯑ments, if I did not, as upon all other occaſions, implicitly ſubmit to yours.'’

Sir Sidney kiſſed her, perhaps for her obedience; ſaid ſhe was a charming creature, and deſired her to go on.

‘'As to Annette,' added Lady Roebuck, 'I ſhall there be ſtill more backward to give either advice or opinion, for very many reaſons, neceſſarily de⯑licate; but one is, which is the moſt pleaſurable, that never was advice to a young, tender, ſenſible creature ſo little needed: ſhe is all you can wiſh from inclination, or hope from duty: yet I ho⯑neſtly believe ſhe regards Mr. Hazard more warmly than any other perſon in the world. Not however that her prepoſſeſſion in his favour has made her ſentiments to Mr. Gloſs otherwiſe than they would have been had ſhe never ſeen him. [91] She deports herſelf, upon all occaſions, with that ſweet native dignity in which pure, unaffected lovelineſs is ſure to be ſeen, and therefore Mr. Gloſs has had no reaſon to complain of receiving that portion of her favour which all thoſe com⯑mand from her who come ſanctioned with the partiality of her father; but, be aſſured, that at preſent he is almoſt the laſt perſon in the world ſhe wiſhes to think of as a huſband. Yet I will not ſay, that were you ſo far to exert the authority of a father, as to inſiſt upon her marrying him, ſhe would refuſe; for I ſincerely believe ſhe has ſo ſingular a ſenſe of implicit duty, that ſhe would give up her own happineſs to promote yours.—This allowed, every thing remains well: you will never exert ſo rigorous a duty, and ſhe will never take any ſteps to diſoblige you.'’

‘'Upon my ſoul,' ſaid Sir Sidney, 'it is impoſ⯑ſible to hear you without being charmed: you have ſo the knack of ſmoothing every difficulty. It is not wonderful there ſhould be ſuch perfection in Annette, when ſhe can look up to you for her example.'’

‘'My dear,' anſwered Lady Roebuck, 'what⯑ever little my aſſiduity and endeavours have ef⯑fected in the blameleſs and admirably-regulated [92] conduct of your daughter, Emma's care and at⯑tention have performed a great deal more. That good, that aſtoniſhing creature, makes virtue the moſt endearing thing in the world, and contrives to give its attractions a winning cheerfulneſs, that induces its performance not more as a duty than as a familiar and enchanting pleaſure. Much more yet however is owing to Annette herſelf, the ſweetneſs of whoſe unaffected manners, the gaiety of whoſe angelic dſpoſition, and the un⯑ſullied purity of whoſe charming mind, anticipate every attempt to inſpire goodneſs; for where ſhould we find virtue but in its abode?'’

‘'All this only convinces me,' ſaid the baronet, 'that I ought to conſider myſelf the happieſt huſ⯑band and father in the world. As to Emma, I readily believe her a prodigy of honour and in⯑tegrity. All I have to find fault with is, that ſhe is often unneceſſarily zealous, and that her virtue is now and then a little too outrageous. One in⯑ſtance of this we have recently ſeen, and I ſhould be glad to know if you can poſſibly give a gueſs at what ſhe would be at; for I muſt confeſs I have an anxious deſire to know, and yet am very unwilling to reſort to her for intelligence: there⯑fore, as you ſaw, I put an end to the converſa⯑tion.'’

[93] ‘'My dear Sir Sidney,' ſaid Lady Roebuck, 'I own I am not ſorry for this opportunity of ſaying what I think is Emma's opinion of Mr. Gloſs; on the contrary, I ſhall take the liberty of follow⯑ing it with my own.’

‘'Emma thinks Mr. Gloſs a man of great talents, but having diſcovered in him a ſpecious plauſi⯑bility, which ſhe ſays men of independant cir⯑cumſtances or principles are never under the ne⯑ceſſity of having recourſe to, ſhe will inſiſt upon it he is not an eligible match for Annette.’

‘'There is a myſtery, an obſcurity, in the very beſt accounts we have learnt concerning him, that leaves his qualities with Emma in a very negative ſituation, and inclines her to think he will, one day or other, be found an impoſtor. It has been urged that your correſpondent at Madeira gives him the character of an able man of buſineſs, ſays he was a merchant firſt at Liſbon, and afterwards at Madeira, and that he profuſely ſpent a large fortune. He himſelf ſince ſays he received a handſome ſum on account of his father's affairs, and that a much larger remains unpaid, but that India matters are ſlow and inſecure. But Emma oppoſes to this quaintly, but ſmartly enough, that ſuppoſe they were faſt and certain, would [94] they tell in his favour againſt his monſtrous debts? On account of which, ſhe inſinuates, it was well he ſecured himſelf a ſeat in parliament. At the ſame time, ſhe does not deny but his external con⯑duct is perfectly blameleſs, and that he has openly a number of engaging and valuable qualities; but ſhe ſuſpects that half theſe are put on, and accounts for this ſuſpicion under an idea that it is his ſtudy to render himſelf agreeable by adminiſ⯑tering to that paſſion he ſees moſt predominant in the perſon he would play upon. Thus he knows with you he cannot have a recommendation like generoſity and benevolence, and in the exerciſe of theſe, though but in appearance, he inſures himſelf a place in your eſteem. And theſe truths, for truths ſhe will have them to be, are the more ſtrongly rooted in her mind by a firm belief that all we have heard againſt Mr. Hazard originates from him.’

‘'Now I grant there is an air of extravagance in theſe conjectures; nevertheleſs, though chequered by ſtrong predelection, and being but one con⯑jecture hazarded againd another, probability is not one moment neglected. The very beſt ac⯑counts of him call him a man of unbounded ex⯑travagance, which ſurely has cloſe relation to profligacy. Then if he is in debt as much as the [95] world ſays, were he to-morrow out of parliament, he muſt be totally without fortune: in which caſe would he be an eligible huſband for An⯑nette?’

‘'As to his accommodating diſpoſition, which Emma is ſo angry at, he will not practice it with much ſucceſs upon you, who know the world, or it would be very hard, full as well as Mr. Gloſs; and for the article of his practices againſt Mr. Hazard—which I confeſs I hardly know how not to admit—it would be an ungentlemanlike advan⯑tage, which I am ſure you would be the firſt to reſent.’

‘'In ſhort, Emma thinks him an impoſtor, who will one day or other be found out; and, for my own part, I wiſh his condu [...] was a little leſs equi⯑vocal, though under theſe, or any other circum⯑ſtances, I fear no ſurpriſe from him, or any other, while you are upon your guard.'’

Sir Sidney having heard his good lady to an end, thanked her for her very kind, ſenſible, mild, and conſiderate ſpeech, which he ſaid had nothing new or uncommon in it from her, but was only one of thoſe innumerable inſtances which he had received of the ſweet benevolence of her gentle nature. It [96] ſeemed however to demand ſomething on his part, and he ſhould anſwer it, he hoped, perfectly to the purpoſe.

He began by admitting that Mr. Gloſs's account of himſelf, at firſt ſight, was equivocal; but, how⯑ever, we muſt not ſay a thing is falſe becauſe we could not prove it true. Mr. Gloſs's father ap⯑peared to be an obſcure character, but there was nothing new in that among people who made for⯑tunes in India. The young gentleman had certainly been extravagant; he had now however retrenched, and lived within bounds. That there was to be ſure ſomething in the report of his being in debt, for he had himſelf given him a faithful account of it, but the money coming from India would ſatisfy all thoſe matters, and leave a handſome ſurplus. That as to his good qualities, they were ſomething more than external: the aſſiſtance he had given to Caſtle⯑wick, which was richer, and much more extenſive, through his advice and exertions, was a proof of it. But he had other qualities, other talents, which, among liberal men, were paramount to either birth or fortune, and ranked him pre-eminently among thoſe whoſe names were tranſmitted to poſterity. He had all that was neceſſary to make a conſum⯑mate ſtateſman, and he had no doubt but the period was not far diſtant when he would be ſeen to adorn [97] one of the firſt ſituations under government.—When this ſhould be the caſe, no objection could poſſibly lie againſt him, and he owned he ſhould then be ſorry to hear his daughter refuſe him for a huſband.

As to any practices of his againſt the reputation of Mr Hazard, they certainly exiſted only in Mrs. Emma's imagination; for it had been his uniform practice to defend that unfortunate young gentle⯑man as long as truth and reaſon would permit him; but when proofs came ſo thick that a man muſt be blind not to ſee them, he, like every body elſe, was obliged to yield to conviction.

As to Mr. Hazard, every thing he did was ab⯑ſurdity and ill-judged profuſion. He was at that moment engaging in ſchemes which could not be effected by men of immenſe fortune and immenſe influence, and, what was worſe, under the colour of munificence, the view was profit. In ſhort, with a few thouſands, he was in more ways than one new modelling cuſtoms, which had been long cor⯑dially received, and well eſtabliſhed, and that the conſequence of this dream of riches and popularity would be his waking probably in a few months a [98] beggar: in which caſe could he be called an eligi⯑ble huſband for Annette?

As to the variety of crimes laid to his charge, he would agree that but one ſide had been heard, but whoſe fault was it? Why did he not, if his cauſe would bear it, defend himſelf? Why truly he choſe to take the matter in dudgeon; to look highly, and feel himſelf offended becauſe people choſe to believe what they heard! This might be a good cloak to hide a weak plea, but did not at all look like innocence, which ſo far from fearing in⯑veſtigation, he ſaid, always ſought it.

Had any thing like this been ſeen in Mr. Ha⯑zard? So ſar from ſeeking the ſmalleſt explanation, had he not induſtriouſly ſhunned all ſuch opportu⯑nities? Nay, was he not ſo conceitedly proud, ſo ridiculouſly vain, when he had been ſuppoſed—for to this moment it was not a certainty—to have be⯑haved generouſly, as to reject with contempt the acknowledgement of this imaginary kindneſs? and diſclaim the friendſhip of the man he would fain be thought to have obliged!

Upon the whole, he ſaid, theſe were his ideas: that, in a worldly point of view, Mr. Gloſs was in⯑finitely [99] a preferable huſband for Annette. His talents were brilliant, he was himſelf very popular, and would moſt probably one day be in a moſt ele⯑vated ſituation. On the contrary, Mr. Hazard—whoſe talents alſo were very conſpicuous, and whoſe accompliſhments were not inferior to any man's—by a perverſe pride and falſe conſequence, would every day become lower in the world's opi⯑nion, till he found himſelf ſtarving with indepen⯑dant principles. ‘'However,' ſaid Sir Sidney, 'you have named yourſelf the compact, and I ſubſcribe to it: while I find Annette obedient, I ſhall not be unreaſonable. In the interim, as I ſincerely believe that Mr. Gloſs will certainly be poſſeſſed of both honour and fortune—more perhaps than I have a right to expect in a ſon-in-law—I deſire he may be conſidered in the light of one whom I have choſen to fill that character.'’

This retroſpective chapter ſhews how matters ſtood in Sir Sidney's family about the time Charles began to be a projector, from which moment, to that in which his name appeared in the Gazette, he gradually ſunk in the opinion of the baronet; for, through the connivance of the foreſtallers of law and beef, his name was bandied about in the newſpapers like a tennis ball; in which inoffenſive [100] amuſement Mr. Gloſs was not idle; but when the Whereas made its appearance, and the title of butcher was added to our hero's name, I ſincerely believe, had there been no ſuch man as Mr. Gloſs, or indeed no other than Charles, Annette might have died a virgin, or married without her father's conſent.

As to Emma, ſhe entered into all the ſpirit of our hero's ſchemes with enthuſiaſm. She declared it folly and ignorance to condemn them; that the very enemies they begat were the ſtrongeſt proofs of their utility; that they evinced a nobleneſs of ſoul beyond all example in ſo young a man; and that if Caſtlewick was a mole-hill in the ſcale of liberality, Charles's projects were a mountain.

In ſhort—and I cannot help thinking with her—Emma ſaw ſo large, ſo benificent, ſo admirable a ſyſtem of general good in them, that nothing but the envy of individuals, and the degeneracy of the public could prevent their arriving to that maturity which would perpetuate the projects and the pro⯑jector.

Emma greatly feared, however, the ſucceſs of that ſcheme that went to cure the abuſes of the law; [101] ‘'for well,' ſaid ſhe, 'did Pope Pius the Second obſerve, that thoſe who go to law are the birds, that the court is the field, that the judges are the net, and the lawyers the fowlers.'’

CHAPTER VII.

I ſhall now return to Charles, who, that he might underſtand the extent of not only his poſ⯑ſeſſions, but his expectations, received the day af⯑ter he became a free man, an account that his noble brother was bleſt with an heir to his title and eſ⯑tate.

As our hero had long accuſtomed himſelf to look up to no one for aſſiſtance, he now ſaw the abſo⯑lute neceſſity of ſitting down without embarraſſ⯑ment to conſider in what way he ſhould make his talents turn out to his advantag. To do this, he looked his ſituation full in the face, and immedi⯑ately with a ſigh of affection and regret, bleſt the remembrance of that provident father, who had ſeemed to have foreſeen this moment, and armed him againſt it. His pen had already been cele⯑brated in the higheſt terms of panegyric. His pen⯑cil [103] had procured him very laviſh encomiums, even from the moſt flouriſhing artiſts, and his talent for muſic was allowed not to be inferior to either of the others. He therefore thought it hard if he could not live independantly, when he had three ſuch re⯑ſources. At the ſame time he knew that to become a public man he muſt condeſcend, and, in order to do ſo, all former high prejudices and perſpective notions of ſituation and opulence muſt be con⯑quered; for though the public was a noble and liberal maſter, yet his would be at beſt a ſituation of mental ſervitude.

His next idea was how he ſhould render his abi⯑ties worthy of ſuch an illuſtrious patronage; and the reſult of this reflection became naturally a reſo⯑lution to produce works of general utility, ſuch as would promote the cauſe of genius and literature, and were dear to the intereſts of virtue and mora⯑lity.

And now to wean himſelf from all vain expecta⯑tions. His firſt effort was an adieu to Annette, which would have been poetry but that there was too much of the heart in it to be dreſſed in the garb of fiction. There was ſo much pure feeling, in⯑deed noble ſelf-denial, and exalted love in it, that it took but a few minutes to write it. The anguiſh [104] of that ſhort time could ſcarcely be repaid by an age of happineſs. It was like tearing the vitals, and Emma, when ſhe read it, declared that the agony of the young Spartan was nothing to it; for the reader ſees the difficulty was to bear the tor⯑ment, yet give the conſolation. This was the letter:

I will not ſay that theſe lines coſt ſo little trouble to the mind of our hero as they appear to expreſs; for indeed he felt in proportion as he endeavoured to conceal his feelings. This was the proceſs:—Mrs. Marlow brought him pen, ink, and paper—he ſat down—wrote his letter—read it over—en⯑cloſed it to Emma—directed it—kiſſed it—gave it to a porter—aſſured Mrs. Marlow he never was ſo pleaſed in his life—and then fell off the chair, upon the ground, in a ſtate of inſenſibility!

In ſhort, all the tricks of his French delirium, and perhaps conſumption, would probably have [106] ſucceeded this event, had he not received, the next morning, the following letter from Annette.

The reader may judge what ſort of cordial this letter proved to a lover, who had been alternately ſhivering with low ſpirits, or raving in a fever the whole night. The faithful Mrs. Marlow ſaw the progreſs of this medicine with tears of gratitude, and our hero, after reading it ten times, kiſſing it five hundred, and imploring all the angels in hea⯑ven to bleſs and protect ſo much beauty and good⯑neſs, muſtered up ſpirits enough to turn his mind again towards his affairs.

Charles had, upon two former occaſions, ſent pictures to the royal academy, as an honorary ex⯑hibiter. When he attended the dinner, upon St. Luke's day, he received from the preſident and ſe⯑veral of the members, the moſt extravagant marks [108] of applauſe. He thought therefore he could not do a more eligible thing than to begin his ſcientific career by ſending a couple of pictures to the next exhibition, with a modeſt price affixed to them, by way of advertiſement, that he meant in future to reſort to painting, among other things, for a main⯑tenance.

The pictures were accompanied by a reſpectful letter to the preſident—who, he doubted not, would do him juſtice—intreating to be conſidered in future as a common, and not an honourary, exhibiter.

This done, he waited with impatience for the ſucceſs of his ſtratagem. The exhibition was ad⯑advertiſed, our hero received his ticket of admiſſion, and repaired to the place, where, for twenty mi⯑nutes, he could not find either of his pictures. He tumbled over the catalogue, which eaſed him of half his fear—for he had fancied they were both rejected—by informing him that one of his perfor⯑mances was certainly in ſome part of one of the rooms. Vainly however did he ſearch for a conſi⯑derable while, till at length, being upon the point of giving the matter up, elevating his ſight, in a nook, cloſe to the ſky-light, he fancied he had diſ⯑covered the object of his perquiſition.

[109] The picture however was ſcarcely known to him, though he had painted it; for one ſingle ſtreak of light fell upon it at the right hand corner at the top, which gleamed towards the centre, where it reſted in a ſpeck; while a ſudden ſhadow, occa⯑ſioned by the projection of the chimney piece, cut it acroſs from the left hand corner at top to the right hand corner at bottom, forming an angle with one half of the frame. In ſhort, it had exactly the effect of a looking glaſs, badly painted, in a cham⯑ber ſcene for the theatre, which idea muſt occur to every reader.

This was not all: Had either of the pictures been ſeen alone, it could not poſſibly have had the ſmalleſt effect, for they appertained to each other like queſ⯑tion and anſwer. Charles therefore ſaw it was an affront, and was more ſtrongly confirmed in this when he found his other picture toſſed about with a hole in it. Upon an application for redreſs, he was told he might take away his daubings, if he diſ⯑liked their ſituation.

Charles could not conceive how it could happen that profeſſors of a liberal art knew ſo little of the manners of gentlemen; but, ſince he found it ſo, he reſolved to ſhew them he could right himſelf, [110] even with the very tool for which they ſeemed ſo to deſpiſe him.

To effect this, he painted a picture to which was annexed this explanation.

A ſovereign prince, in a certain country, had built a palace; to decorate which various poten⯑tates contributed many coſtly preſents. One, a⯑mong the reſt, ſent a collection of pictures, all the works of eminent artiſts. That theſe might be diſtributed in advantageous ſituations, the prince ſent for the heads of the royal academy, to perform that taſk as their judgment ſhould direct them.

After fixing ſeveral according to their diſtinction, which indeed gave but little trouble, for they were all, as it appeared, labelled, they came to one about which they could not find this mark of diſtinction, and therefore, concluding that the picture was of no value, they condemned it to be placed in the temple of Cloacina.

Our hero's picture repreſented the academecians marching with the picture, in ſolemn proceſſion, to put the above ſentence in execution. The moſt ac⯑tive among them were thoſe with whom he had [111] the greateſt reaſon to be offended, and the like⯑neſſes were ſo ſtrong, that it was impoſſible to miſ⯑take them. But, to crown the joke, he introduced a portrait of himſelf, in the foreground, holding up the label they had vainly ſearched for:—on which was written GUIDO.

This picture he exhibited in an auction room, hired for the purpoſe; and, for a time, it actually drew away the company from the exhibition of the artiſts.

He became immediately known, and might have had ſome practice at portrait painting; but, find⯑ing it impoſſible to make people handſome enough, he forewent this moſt ſervile of all mental drudgery, and declared altogether for pieces of thought and fancy, in which he found his genius more gratified. Theſe however nobody underſtood, and they re⯑mained unſold. A picture dealer or two offered to treat for them, provided he would ſmoak them, and varniſh them repeatedly, till they were all over cracks; for, in that caſe, they would give them new names, and paſs them upon the public: eſ⯑pecially if there were a few holes burnt in the drapery, or an eye poked out of the principal figure.

[112] This kind of ſervile impoſition, however, our hero did not chuſe to ſubmit to, and his pictures went unſold.

Charles had become ſlightly acquainted with a young artiſt, who appeared very anxious that he ſhould puſh his fortune, and informed him there was but one way, which was portrait painting—Charles told him he had practiſed it without ſuc⯑ceſs. ‘'Ay, but you did not go the right way to work,' anſwered the other 'It is not painting a lady's likeneſs will do: you underſtand me:—you muſt favour a lady with a living likeneſs, if you wiſh to do any good. In ſhort, if the painter be young and handſome—and dam'me if I think either you or I frightful—a lady ſits to him with a view that he ſhould make love to her! And then ſuch opportunities! Pleaſe my dear ma'am to look at me:—more full if you pleaſe:—your eyes more languiſhing:—now bite your under lip to pout it:—ſmile, if you pleaſe:—very well! Pray don't you think, as this is a fancy dreſs, that ſhoulder ſhould be bare?—a part of the neck ſeen?—the reſt throbbing, as it were, through the handkerchief? Permit me to adjuſt it. Heavens! what a ſkin!—what roundneſs!—what tints! The Venus of Titian was plaſter to [113] it! In ſhort, in adjuſting her handkerchief, her boſom throbs in good earneſt, ſhe takes you to her arms, and your labours become real nature, inſtead of imitative.'’

Charles laughed heartily at this deſcription, and then reſuming a more ſerious air, aſked if there were any inſtances of theſe ſort of amours.

‘'Indeed there are,' anſwered the other. 'Gen⯑teel young fellows never need be without them, and it is their own faults if they do not ſnap up fortunes. But they are a ſet of ſtupid block⯑heads, without manner or addreſs; and when they conceive an idea of that ſort, they generally come into diſgrace. It was but the other day a fooliſh brother of the bruſh made his declaration too prematurely—for you know my dear ſir there is a manner, a delicacy in ſuch matters—and was kicked out of the houſe for his pains. Maſter Muſquito though was a little too cunning. Ay, he is a dry hand!'’

‘'Muſquito,' ſaid Charles, 'What Muſquito?'’ ‘'Why you know well enough,' ſaid the other,' 'Sir Sidney uſed to invite him to his houſe. Don't you know what has happened to him. Upon ſe⯑cond [114] thoughts it muſt have happened while you were in France. Only married to a woman of ſeven thouſand a year; that is all. Ay, ay, they may talk of poets writing themſelves into a lady's good graces, or a muſician tickling their ears, but I ſay the painter is the man to ſucceed. He ſituates the zones of his Venuses, he feſtoons the petticoats of his buſkined Dianas, he—in ſhort, no man except a footman or a dancing maſter is ſo ſure of ſucceſs, if he minds his hits.'’

‘'Well I hope you will mind yours,' ſaid Charles, 'but this you tell me of Muſquito is aſtoniſhing.'’ ‘'It is very true I aſſure you,' anſwered the other. 'That ſour crab, that ſloe, that green medlar, that cut-lemon of a fellow, has made a handſome woman's mouth water to the tune of ſeven thou⯑ſand a year. But Lord you know nothing of what our old codgers are. Do you think the nymphs who are drawn every evening come merely for the improvement of the young ſtudents? No ſuch thing. They are procured for the recreation of the old ones, I promiſe you. But this is all well enough. Let them live in luxury and abuſe the royal bounty as much as they like, but do not let them, now they are paſt it themſelves, check the fair progreſs of young fellows like us, who are endeavouring to puſh ourſelves forward in the [115] world, by the laudable exerciſe of our induſtry.'’ ‘'And all its adventitious conſequences,' ſaid Charles, 'among which you reckon, of courſe, our chance with the ladies.'’

CHAPTER VIII.

WE have ſeen the ſame mind in our hero as to revenge ever ſince we firſt noticed him. If he aimed at puniſhing others, it was with a view to general juſtice. Certainly there could not be any thing more unhandſome than for a ſet of men, eſta⯑bliſhed in their profeſſion, and eſtabliſhed only for the purpoſe of giving novices their countenance and ſupport, to neglect the productions of a young man who was likely to ornament a liberal art, and not only artfully conceal his merits, but diſjoint its ef⯑fect, ſo as, had it been ſeen, it could not have been underſtood.

Their comment on his ſatirical picture was, that matters were come truly to a fine paſs if a young, inexperienced dauber could dare to attack a royal corporation in ſuch an audacious manner, and then have the inſolence, by implication, to call himſelf a GUIDO.

[117] Our hero however defended himſelf againſt this, by ſaying that he did not profeſs painting; and very likely ſhould never take up a pencil again; but as the picture told well with the public, through the medium of thoſe ſtriking likeneſſes it contained, he might modeſtly enough take to himſelf ſome little merit; and as to the name of GUIDO, it was evidently a ſtroke at their ignorance, and not a mark of his own vanity: for it did not ſay they are hiding my picture in a certain place, though it has the merit of GUIDO, but they are hiding GUIDO himſelf; and this alſo ſays I forgive you for that neglect which originated from your ignorance; for if you have ſerved GUIDO in that manner, why ſhould I repine at being coupled with ſo great a painter?

From the moment Charles ſet out as an artiſt, he guarded againſt all conſequences, by ſupplying himſelf at his leiſure moments with materials for forwarding his intereſt in every branch he profeſſed. Thus, he had ſcarcely ſent his pictures to the ex⯑hibition, but he conſidered how he might make muſic turn to account. He could not buckle to teaching muſic any more than to portrait painting, for he plainly ſaw that none but the packhorſes of muſic ſtood a chance in this branch. Such as could exalt claws into a fine finger, find ſweet tones in a [118] diſſonant ſquall, in ſhort, ſubmit to all the ignorant conceited airs of wire-breaking young Miſſes, flatter their mammas, dandle the younger children upon their knees, deliver written appointments for aſſig⯑nations, which were ſometimes directed to them⯑ſelves, and ſuch other kind of drudgery as appends to the duty of theſe under ſervants, theſe ſcrubers and ſcullions of the muſes.

As to the theatre, he had gained ſome little ex⯑perience of that before, and if, in quality of maſter, he was obliged to retire, what chance did he ſtand in quality of ſervant?—for as ſervants he well knew all thoſe muſt expect to be treated who wiſhed to give their productions to the public through that medium. Then as to publications, the country was inundated by Italian and German compoſitions, which obtained patronage through the medium of ſome man of diſtinction, to whoſe pleaſures the com⯑poſer adminiſtered ſometimes in a way that an En⯑gliſhman would ſtarve rather than ſubmit to.

In the midſt of a variety of cogitations on this ſubject, he was called on by his old friend Toogood, who had lately put himſelf very forward in the mu⯑ſical world.

This ſon of Apollo told Charles, that as he un⯑derſtood [119] he had thoughts of devoting himſelf to the muſes, for a livelihood, he ſhould be happy ſo ſerve him in ſo meritorious a determination. He flattered himſelf, he ſaid, that as he had got into a conſpi⯑cuous ſituation, by making his profeſſion ſubſer⯑vient to his intereſt, he, of all others, had it moſt in his power to point out the only way in muſic to profit and reputation.

Mr. Toogood profeſſed a great opinion of our hero's profeſſional abilities, and ſtill more of his good ſenſe and knowledge of the world, and doubted not, as he had ſmarted ſeverely for his follies, that he would now take up, and conſider that men's talents were given to work out their own advan⯑tage.

Charles, ſeeing his drift, encouraged him to open his whole budget, through which he learnt that, from his youth, he had made it a practice of levying contributions on people of no taſte, by which means he was become the Apollo, or rather the Orpheus, of the day; that he was looked up to as the regulater of ſtyle and leader of faſhion in mu⯑ſic; and all this he laid open in a plain narrative of his life and principles, without omitting a ſingle circumſtance of either his own duplicity, or the credulity of his patrons.

[120] Having heard him to an end, this was our hero's anſwer. ‘'And ſo Mr. Toogood, becauſe you have all your life, under the appearance of cringing, trim⯑ming, and many other truckling and wretchedly accommodating ſhifts, vitiated the public taſte, and ſcandalized a beautiful and uſeful art, you would have me copy your creeping ſervility!—Sir you affront me both as a muſician and a gen⯑tleman, by your unworthy and contemptible pro⯑poſal. It is ſuch as you the world has to thank for introducing myſtery and difficulty into the plaineſt ſyſtem of rational pleaſure the ſoul of man can receive; for ſetting up an inexplicable ſtan⯑dard to judge of that which is the eſſence of eaſe and ſimplicity. No, Mr. Toogood, I deſpiſe the ſervility of your mind as much as I reprobate the fallacy of your doctrines; and, much as I value popular eſteem, I ſhould diſdain to accept it otherwiſe than as a tribute to exertions intended to convey rational pleaſure and ſolid advantage.'’

Charles however did nothing by this ſort of conduct but invite enemies. But this did not ſtop him. He really could not bridle his reſent⯑ment. To ſee men pervert the very end of nature's gifts, and endeavour to confirm others in error, inſtead of leading them out of it, deſerved, he ſaid, reprobation of the ſevereſt kind, and he was deter⯑mined [121] at leaſt to drag ſuch monſtrous impoſtors into open day, and expoſe their deformities, after which it would be the world's fault if ſuch counterfeit coin was ſuffered to paſs current.

Charles had yet done but little in the way of pro⯑fit. Indeed he did not ſee how he could; for it was ſo dirty a road, that he had not the reſolution to follow it. It became however neceſſary that he ſhould think of ſomething in good earneſt. For this purpoſe he completed an opera, which he had had long in contemplation, and which he had been repeatedly requeſted by one of the managers to put the finiſhing ſtroke to. He ſent it, and as he knew pretty well the trim of this ſort of buſineſs, his compact was that he would ſtand or fall by its me⯑rits, without the interference of any other perſon. This was charming, it would have a prodigious run, and every attention ſhould be paid it.

Our hero called on the manager to conſult on the neceſſary ſteps to bring it before the public. He was ſtill received with great warmth. He wiſhed however he would be adviſed. ‘'In what?'’ Why ſuppoſe he waited upon the editors of the different papers, to beſpeak favour. ‘'Why? If it deſerved applauſe it was to come from the public, not the [122] newſpapers. If it did not, their purchaſed fa⯑vour would be a ſatire on the performance, and an inſult to the public.'’ This was good theory, but not practicable. Charles ſaid it ſhould be prac⯑ticable in his caſe, or nothing ſhould. It was ma⯑terial to him to come at the truth. If he falſely flattered himſelf, and had not abilities for what he had undertaken, nothing could be kinder than to undeceive him. If he had, let his reward come ſpontaneouſly from thoſe who he was ſure would pay it with intereſt if it was his due. He ſpoke charmingly; it was a pity he did not know what ſtage conduct was. Charles ſaid it was a pity the manager did not know what it ought to be. The manager rallied Charles, and Charles did not ſpare the manager, who however did not wiſh to loſe the piece, of which he had a great opinion.

After ſome neceſſary matters were ſettled, they parted, agreeing that the opera, like an act of parliament in a certain ſtage, ſhould be copied for the uſe of the members.

Charles that very evening received a ſummons to breakfaſt with the manager the next morning. He went, and had he not known his man, muſt have been aſtoniſhed at ſeeing himſelf treated with a diſ⯑tant coolneſs. He had been thinking; ſome of the [123] paſſages did not ſtrike him as at firſt: A friend of his—. Our hero gave him, in a few words, to un⯑derſtand that, by agreement, no friends were to interfere. It was very true, but the expence of a firſt piece was a large ſtake. Very likely, our hero ſaid, and if he felt his promiſe hang awkwardly upon him, he was ready to acquit him of it. Oh by no means. Well it ſhould be as he pleaſed:—but did not he think a few alterations— ‘'Not one,' ſaid Charles. 'If you ſay a word more about it, I will put the piece in my pocket.'’ In ſhort they parted but barely civil: the piece was however left.

A few days afterwards they had another meeting. The manager was all rapture. He begged our hero would not be offended at what was done, but indeed it was impoſſible to be offended. He ſhould ſee.

A new copy of the piece was then produced, with alterations in the hand writing of four dif⯑ferent people, whom he knew to be retainers to the houſe, and were the very men and women—for this was the fact—who at that time kept away thoſe real geniuses to whom I have ſaid Charles formerly paid viſits of ſolicitation, and nauſeated the town with their own inſipid traſh.

[124] Charles caſt his eyes over the copy merely to aſ⯑certain this fact, and then ſaid ‘'Sir, independant of theatrical buſineſs, I know no one more a gen⯑tleman than yourſelf. Upon theatrical buſineſs I never knew a man ſo pitifully mean. Suppoſing it would anſwer any good purpoſe in your wiſe politics to make a ſhew of my piece, to invite whatever dunce thinks proper to come and blot it, do you think ſir ſo contemptibly of me as to ſuppoſe I will bear it. But, putting that out of the queſtion, can any thing ſo ſtrongly evince your ignorance both of theatrical performances and your own intereſt? If I ſubmitted to theſe alte⯑rations, would not every individual who made them claim his own feather, while I muſt quietly ſtand to be plucked? and, for God's ſake, what feathers are they? Have they made me a bit handſomer? So far from it, that which was, if not ſuperb and magnificent, yet neat and decent, is now altered into a motley fool's jacket. But, ſir, you may take the materials and make them into a cap for your own wear. In ſhort, I ſhall truſt to your honour not to make uſe of my ideas to your advantage, and as for any thing elſe, I am your humble ſervant.'’

The manager however would not let him go. He begged him to conſider that the ſcenes were paint⯑ing, [125] that he had engaged a ſinger at a high ſa⯑lary.

‘'I do not care for that ſir,' ſaid Charles; 'it is diſhonourable not to abide by your agreement; you had the evidence of your ſenſes prima facie: you can have no more now. What have they de⯑cided? Why truly that the meaneſt ſcribbler in your houſe is to give laws to me. But, as I ſaid, letting alone that ſee-ſaw, your own judgment, you have done a thing totally againſt your in⯑tereſt; for theſe poor creatures, whoſe traſh cer⯑tainly never ſhall ſtand a part of the piece, loſing the merit of having made theſe alterations—which by this time they have vaunted to all their friends—will become enemies both to the piece and me: ſo, for your caprice, I am obliged to wage war with a ſet of poor reptiles, who have not offended me, and whom I have no more in⯑clination to tread upon than any other worms, which, ſearching for food, are unlucky enough to come under my feet. In ſhort, bad as it is, for this laſt time, I will overlook this ſtrange con⯑duct, ſince you talk of loſſes which certainly I do not wiſh you to ſuſtain; but I inſiſt that every word ſhall be expunged which I may not juſtly claim as my own.'’ This was at length agreed [126] to, and a morning for the firſt rehearſal was ap⯑pointed.

The day came, the words were read, during which ſome of the actors, as they were inſtructed, yawned at particular paſſages. Theſe were after⯑wards to be objected againſt by the manager, which Charles well knowing, anticipated, by taking him aſide, and telling him that he ſaw what he was aim⯑ing at, but it would not do, for that every paſſage at which the performers had ſo ill acted the part of yawners, ſhould remain without the ſmalleſt alte⯑ration. He ſaid, however implicitly the manager might pin his faith upon the ſleeve of ſuch opinions, he would not wiſh a better omen of ſucceſs than an actors entertaining an indifferent opinion of a dra⯑matic entertainment; for that, in general, they were men of very ſlender intellects and mean education, who had no opportunity of making worldly obſer⯑vation but at the porter houſe, or in the green room, who had now in tragedy deſtroyed what was meant for a repreſentation of greatneſs, by ſtalking like puppets, and braying like aſſes, and who had no idea of comedy otherwiſe than by grinning like apes and chattering like parrots. Beſides, in the preſent caſe, poor devils, it was a repetition of the ſame miſerable farce which had ſo recently been performed by the authors. They were bid to feel [127] as the others were. He wondered therefore that the manager would attempt at treating him ſo un⯑worthily, when he knew how ill ſuch former illibe⯑rality had been ſtomached.

The patentee was certainly nettled enough at this ſpirited conduct of our hero. He however thought proper to ſuppreſs what he felt, and they proceeded to the muſic-room, where every thing was ready for a repetition of the muſic.

The moment Charles entered the room, he was ſurrounded by the females. ‘'Lord, Mr. Hazard, cried one, 'don't you think this here round o is monſtrous frightful? You ought to have given me a ſong full of diviſions, and runs, and ſhakes, to ſhew my powers.'’ ‘'Let us hear it played, Miſs Forward,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Oh Lord,' re⯑plied the lady, 'there is no occaſion for that, I have played it all over myſelf with one finger, and I tell you it will have no effect.'’

She was going on with remarks on her other ſongs, but Charles turned from her. He was however as badly off, for he found the principal ſinger in high words with the manager, becauſe the puppy of a compoſer had truly thought proper to reſtrict her in her cadences. What did he mean by ſuch inſo⯑lence? [128] Had any body ever attempted to point out to a miſtreſs of her profeſſion any limits to her candenza?

‘'I know madam,' ſaid Charles, 'that it is al⯑moſt as vain an attempt as to preſcribe limits to her impertinence; but, in one word, thoſe who ſing for me ſhall ſing what I have written, and nothing elſe. It is my muſic, and not yours, I chuſe madam to give to the world; and, to tell you the truth, what little abilities I have ſhall be exerted to explode the candenza which has lately obtained to the ſcandal of taſte, and the total ex⯑cluſion of every characteriſtic by which muſic ought to be diſtinguiſhed. As it is, ſinging is be⯑come a vehicle to convey every thing that is ex⯑traordinary, and nothing that is pleaſing. Na⯑ture, feeling, expreſſion, and, above all, a con⯑veyance of the poet's ideas—beyond which every thing in vocal muſic is impertinence—all theſe are diſregarded. The lady who ſings higheſt, loweſt, longeſt, and loudeſt is the beſt ſinger; and thus all you principal performers ſtand ſquall⯑ing and ſtretching out your necks like the crow in the fable, forgetful of the fox underneath, who not only laughs at your folly, but ſtands ready to ſnap up the cheeſe, the moment it falls out of your mouths.'’

[129] ‘'Yes,' ſaid the lady, 'but we take care not to let it fall out of our mouths. No, no, there is no fear of our getting cheeſe, when you poets cannot get bread.'’

This witticiſm was echoed by a loud ha, ha! throughout the whole room; after which, an un⯑derſtrapper coming up familiarly to Charles, cried, ‘'Why I ſay, they gives it you home brother Bruin: but never mind it: this is nothing at all when you are uſed to it.'’

Charles, turning to the manager, who alſo heard this, ſaid, ‘'you are very kind, and no doubt find it much to your intereſt to tolerate this: for, were not that the caſe, this fellow would not dare to add ſo much impudence to his ignorance.'’

The manager made ſome trifling apology, ſmiled a ſneer, and deſired the repetition might begin.

Many of the ſongs were now performed, to every one of which its reſpective ſinger was ſuffered to make ſome ignorant objection. At length they came to a ſort of bravura ſong, in the midſt of which the leader of the band laid down his fiddle, with an exclamation of ‘'Oh my Gad, my Gad! I vome play dis.'’ ‘'What is the matter now?' [130] ſaid the manager.’ ‘'Sir,' cried the enraged fiddler, 'it is no good, no raight, no arminny.'’ He then proceeded to a ſtring of reaſoning, which, as it was unintelligible to every hearer, ſo it muſt be of courſe to every reader.

He had ſcarce done this when Charles ſaid, ‘'and pray ſir how long have all the laws of muſic ac⯑knowledged you as their Lord Chancellor? How long has the ſupremeſt pleaſure of the ſoul ſub⯑mitted to an arbitrator ſullen, envious, and ma⯑lignant?—without taſte, genius, or intellects!—a dreaming law-giver to ſound, a mad mathema⯑tical muſician! How long have the ſocial en⯑joyments of the mind been eſtimated by meaſure and tale?—by niggardly ſcanty, conſtrained por⯑tions? Go and pore over an ox's eye, ſtudy op⯑tics, meaſure vacancy, and thus get at the dimen⯑ſions of your own brain. Go and exiſt, but dare not think of the enjoyment of thoſe that live.'’—And then turning to the manager, ‘'Pleaſe ſir to give orders that the repetition may go on.'’ This the manager thought proper to do, and it was fi⯑niſhed with no further interruption worth men⯑tioning.

As ſoon as it was over, Charles ſaid to the ma⯑nager ‘'Sir, I muſt beg, before your people leave [131] the room, that they may hear my declaration to you. With great earneſtneſs you invited me to this taſk; you took ample time to deliberate on the merits of what I produced you; and we had ſettled a convention that I am convinced would have been a mutual convenience to us. It was the duty of your people, according to my conception, to receive their inſtructions, and implicitly to ob⯑ſerve them. For my part; had any perſon repre⯑ſented to me, in reaſonable language, that any particular alteration was neceſſary either for his or her convenience, or the advantage of the piece, I ſhould with willing pleaſure have paid ſuch ob⯑ſervations every attention they could poſſibly me⯑rit; but, ſir, evidently by your connivance, I have ſuſtained affronts from many of your people, who, poor wretches, mean me no ill-will, by doing that which your frequent permiſſion has ſtampt into a duty. Your drift then appears to lower me to the abject, contemptible humiliation of thoſe authors and muſicians, who depend on you, and who adminiſtering to your ignorance and caprice, inſult the public with nonſenſe and barbariſm, to the diſgrace of letters, and the total perverſion of ſcience. Keep theſe at your beck and call and welcome, but let me warn you not to expect again that you can with impunity make a tool of any man who has ground to think [132] worthily of himfelf, and virtue enough to be in⯑dependant, leſt an expoſition of your arcana rouſe the offended public to ſupport the cauſe of in⯑jured merit, and oblige you to reſtore thoſe men of talents, for whoſe encouragement your theatre was given you in truſt. Others may be rouſed; for my part, I ſhall content myſelf with ſmiling on you with contempt.'’

So ſaying, he walked out of the houſe, no one attempting to interfere; for the performers looked on one another in aſtoniſhment, to ſee an author who refuſed to be a foot ball, and the manager, who ſaw it would be to no purpoſe to detain our hero at preſent, was meditating how he might keep both the piece and the author at his own diſpoſal.

CHAPTER IX.

As ſoon as our hero got home, he ſent for his piece. Inſtead of it, however, he received the fol⯑lowing letter.

Without a moment's conſideration, Charles wrote the following anſwer.

[135] The piece was not ſent, and it was with ſome difficulty he got it back again, two months after⯑wards. Thus ended his connection with the the⯑atre.

Our hero's next effort was among the bookſellers. Many offers were made him to work by the ſheet, but theſe he rejected with contempt; at which he was given to underſtand that haughty demeanour would totally deſtroy all his expectations; for though to work for the theatre might be very humiliating, to work for the trade would be ſtill more ſo.—Could he ſubmit to eſtimate his work as they ſell poetry to the chandlers ſhops, by weight? Could he watch publications as they fell in, and became univerſal property, mutilate them, and make an unconnected jumble out of them, under the title of 'Beauties of an eminent Poet?' Could he take the old magazines and newſpapers, and make out of them a new periodical publication? Had he a knack of criticiſing authors that never exiſted?—Was he expert, without plan or neceſſity, at poetic ribaldry, which dealt about the faeces of ſatire againſt all ranks and diſtinctions, without either its truth, its elegance, or its point?—and eſpecially againſt that high character whoſe heart is the ſeat of goodneſs and mercy, whoſe private worth is the criterion of domeſtic virtue, and whoſe public ex⯑cellence [136] is not more diſtinguiſhable by the ſplendour of his ſituation, than by the gracious beneficence with which he adorns it.

Could he feign epitaphs? Anticipate parliament ſpeeches? Make men of abilities write nonſenſical odes?—or invent dull good things, ſpoken by a dead doctor? Could he one day pull down the fa⯑brick of the conſtitution, and the next build it up again?

If he could not do any of theſe, he had better be hackney writer to an attorney, clerk to a lottery office, or any thing than an author. Where was the uſe of any thing new? Had not every thing that can be ſaid on all poſſible ſubjects been ex⯑hauſted time out of mind? Was there a ſingle idea that, at this time of day, could be put in a new point of view? How many hiſtories of England were there? How many hiſtories of other coun⯑tries? How many general hiſtories? And yet could any body ſay which ſhould be credited? No, no, the myſtery of writing was now at an end; the whole buſineſs was compiling; and it was the ex⯑treme of arrogance in any perſon to expect payment but as a compiler. In ſhort, if he would quietly put on his apron and ſleeves, take the ſciſſors, the wa⯑ſers, and the paſte pot, come contentedly into the [137] garret, and ſell his labour for as much as it was worth, he might get pretty bread enough; but if not, he had better take a pickaxe or a beetle, and dig graves or thump the pavement.

This was the ſum of his reception with ſeveral to whom he applied. At length however he thought he had nicked the very chance that would make his fortune. He was recommended to a bookſeller of the name of Alley, who he was informed dealt largely and liberally. To him he went, and very candidly told him that, as he had the reputation of a man of worth, an extenſive publiſher, and a libe⯑ral dealer, he ſhould be glad to treat with him for ſome things he had by him.

‘'Sir,' replied Alley, 'Mr. Hazard, I ſhall ſay in anſwer to this here propoſial, that I am a man of fortune, and I ſpends what I gets freely: ben't afraid dam'me of a few ſhiners: and when I ſees a work that's a work of merit, I deals upon the nail, and as a gentleman ſhould. Here, harkee in the ſhop there. Did the lady in her chariot call this morning?'’ ‘'No.'’ ‘'No! dam'me you always ſay no. But my lord did though, or elſe Sir Peter. In ſhort ſir—I ſay, one of my people, bring me the keys of the warehouſe. Stop now—look [138] at this drawer: full, chuck full—all novels—I ſupply every library in the kingdom. Going to bring out a fire, new, novel edition of Thomas Hickathrift, for ſchools. Oh the keys, you ſhall ſee my warehouſe.'’

So ſaying, he lugged our hero into another ſtreet, where he introduced him to an immenſe number of publications, in ſheets. ‘'There,' ſaid he, 'did you ever ſee any thing like this? Here is a grand edition of Mother Gooſe's Tales, purceeded with a wooden frontispiece, for the Chriſtmas holidays; all titivated up, out of other things, by gradivates from the two univerſes of Oxford and Cambridge. I pays them well; one has had ſeventeen and ſixpence before hand. Yes, yes, every body knows my generoſity: but then its a damned fine thing to be charitable.'’

Thus he ran over all the rooms in the houſe, pointing out, upon every ſhelf, ſome new book of equal importance with thoſe already mentioned, till at length he convinced our hero he was conceited, ignorant, and purſe proud, and alike a ſtranger to taſte and liberality.

Charles, ſeeing this, determined to cut the matter ſhort. ‘'Pray,' ſaid he, 'Mr. Alley, do you read [139] all theſe things before they come out?'’ ‘'Read!' ſaid the other, 'I read! Dam'me, you think that I can read! No, no, I got other gueſs work to mind I can tell you. My gradivates, and my par⯑ſons, and them there fellows read. No, no, I can't do every thing. I can only ſay if you'll fa⯑vour me with any of your works in the novel way—novels you ſee are my forte—they ſhall be read, and, if they meet approbation, money, dam'me money is no object. In ſhort, as I ſay in my advertiſement, to ſuch ladies and gentle⯑men as favour me with their manuſcripts, that I flatter, ſupported by their patronage, to render in future what has been eſteemed frivile, of ſtand⯑ing merit, entertainment, and general improve⯑ment.'’ ‘'There's epitaphs for you!'’ ‘'They are very extraordinary epithets indeed,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Ay, ay, epithets,' returned Alley, 'you are right: dam'me my head is always a wool ga⯑thering. Well ſir, ſhall I be favoured with your manuſcript?'’

‘'Why ſir,' ſaid Charles, 'I will be very plain with you. I have a thing ſomething in the ſtyle of a novel, which I will ſend you. It will make two ſmall duodecimo volumes.'’ ‘'Ay twelves, I underſtand you,' returned the bookſeller, 'that's right, I like twelves.’ ‘'But I premiſe,' added [140] our hero, 'that if your graduates find any merit in them, I expect to receive a handſome gratuity for my labours.'’ ‘'That's enough,' ſaid Alley, 'ſend them; we ſhan't diſagree.'’

They parted: Charles ſent his book, and, after repeated attempts to get it back again, or an anſwer to his terms, he at length received the following letter.

[141] This letter, as well it might, gave our hero a ſurfeit of bookſellers. Heavens! how he pitied Mr. Alley's parſons and graduates. It was a ſen⯑ſible ſatire upon an enlightened age. But was there really no trace of that liberality among bookſellers which formerly characteriſed them? How freely had hundreds, nay thouſands, been paid for books; and ſurely books were then bought with as much avidity as formerly. He would try again: it was to no purpoſe: and yet he knew not why. His former publications had ſold rapidly. The differ⯑ence was they were written for amuſement: he now wrote for bread.

In this ſituation he was determined to have re⯑courſe to his old friend Ego, who, to eke out his poetry, enjoyed the comfortable conſolation of a ſnug annuity.

Ego was very glad to ſee Charles, and ſaid, after ſhaking him heartily by the hand, ‘'Ay, ay, I am the man to come to for advice. Who have you ap⯑plied to?'’ Charles told him to all the bookſellers without effect. ‘'Dam'me, that's a ſhame,' cried Ego; 'if I were a bookſeller, I would treat au⯑thors with ſuch liberality!'’ ‘'But as you are not, Mr. Ego,' ſaid Charles, 'what would you ad⯑viſe me to do?'’ ‘'Faith I don't know,' ſaid Ego, [142] 'every body is neglected: would you think now a man of my merit would lay dormant as I do?—Stay, zounds let me think—I am the man for ex⯑pedients. Have you any money left?'’ ‘'Not much I aſſure you,' ſaid Charles.’ ‘'Well, well, ſaid Ego, it muſt be raiſed. I have it: I am the man to ſerve my friends: it will make your for⯑tune better than bailiff's buſineſs. Lord, Mr. Hazard, how could you think of being a merci⯑ful bailiff! If I were a bailiff, I would be the crueleſt raſcal that ever exiſted.'’ ‘'And, in that caſe,' ſaid Charles, 'you would be more in cha⯑racter than I was; but what is your expedient?'’ ‘'I will tell you,' ſaid Ego: 'you will laugh: I am the man for making people laugh: I would have a new newſpaper. There is a plan!'’ ‘'A very good one,' ſaid Charles, 'if a man had a thou⯑ſand pounds to ſpare, and could ſtand in the con⯑cern without partners.'’ ‘'Yes, yes,' ſaid Ego, 'but people muſt not, now a-days, ſtand upon niceties. Do you know any thing of editing? I am the man for an editor: I would have my pa⯑per full of good eſſays: I would ſtick to my party: I would maintain tooth and nail the principles of that ſide I decidedly took. If it was the miniſ⯑terial ſide, I would not, like ſome papers I could name, creep, and cringe, and be fulſome. I would chuſe that part of their meaſures that could [143] be deduced from meritorious motives; for all conduct has its favourable ſides. In ſhort, there is nothing but may be repreſented upon ſome principle or other apparently worthy, without the wretched neceſſity of having recourſe to ſpatter and vilify others. On the contrary, if I decidedly took up the part of oppoſition, I would expatiate on the noble paſſion of patriotiſm, and let the ge⯑nerous diſintereſted dictates of that glorious in⯑ducement tell generally againſt miniſters, with⯑out handing up their names to the public, and call upon my countrymen to execrate them in the lump.'’

‘'Nobly diſtinguiſhed,' ſaid Charles, 'but in my opinion, Mr. Ego, you are yet wide of the mark. Why take a decided part at all, unleſs indeed the part of truth. What do you think of a paper that ſhould watch the impoſitions of all the reſt; ex⯑poſe them to public view; detect all their miſre⯑preſentations; ſtrip them alike of adulation to miniſters, and factious cavilling againſt them; expoſe the ſource from whence the corruption flows which poiſons public peace?'’ ‘'Zounds, the very thing in the world,' cried Ego; 'and ſo not ſpare one's very brother, hey, as a body may ſay, if he deſerved to be treated ſeverely; and, on the other ſide, ſhower down encomiums upon the [144] virtue of one's bittereſt enemies?'’ ‘'Exactly my idea,' cried Charles.’ ‘'Zounds, give me your hand,' cried Ego. 'Why don't you thank me for thinking of it? Well I do think I have the rea⯑dieſt brain. En't I the man for a ſcheme?'’ ‘'Yes,' ſaid Charles, 'and I am the man for improving upon it. For my part, I like it ſo well, that if you will breakfaſt with me to-morrow morning, and conſider the matter between this and then, perhaps we may conſolidate ſomething that will be of mutual advantage.'’

CHAPTER X.

THE reader will think it a little ſtrange that Charles, who had diſdained to ſue to Sir Sidney, ſhould now ſeek out Ego, who, he had been in⯑formed, was one of thoſe who did him ill offices with that very gentleman. The fact is, that in the moſt conſiſtent human heart there is a ſort of alloy, a kind of inſtability, which indeed, if it had not, our being would imply a perfectneſs which it is univerſally allowed does not fall to the lot of thoſe bipeds called human beings.

Charles then raged with love more violently than ever:—for I would not have my readers think that becauſe I do not take up their whole time in expa⯑tiating upon his amorous vagaries, that he is only in love by fits and ſtarts, and at thoſe times when I find it neceſſary to treat upon that ſubject, by way of varying others. On the contrary, I deſire it may be underſtood that, let him appear how he [146] may, he never ceaſes to be in love with Annette, ſleeping or waking—which indeed, were it neceſ⯑ſary, I could ſhew under his hand, both in poetry and proſe—for one ſingle minute, from the buſineſs of Aix la Chapelle to the end of his life: nay, were I to antidate the buſineſs, and ſtart from the ſum⯑mer before he went to France, I dare ſay he might then boaſt as large a portion of that paſſion, at leaſt, as many who have declared, ay, and ſworn to it, that they were dying with it.

Oh this love! What will it not do? But I be⯑lieve I may as well leave rhapſody to thoſe who have no neceſſity to attend to narrative, and inſtead of ſaying what it will do, content myſelf with re⯑cording what it did.

I have mentioned our hero's detention of Mrs. Marlow, and his motive for it, which I remember I had the good fortune to find perfectly approved by the reader; for I ſaw him, in my mind's eye, ſmile as he read the circumſtance. Indeed Charles's partiality to her was ſuch that, after what has hap⯑pened, it is almoſt a wonder his enemies had not by this time made a handle of it to his diſadvan⯑tage; for, to ſay truth, while other young men of his age and complexion were ſacrificing to Bacchus and Venus—let it be obſerved I do not mean Aſ⯑tarte—ſcouring [147] the ſtreets, and getting into broil, our ſpiritleſs youth pored over a book, made a drawing, or ſet a ſonnet: all which amuſements were only interrupted by the harmleſs prattle of an old woman. Indeed he has often declared that he never paſſed moments of more ſubſtantial pleaſure than theſe with Mrs. Marlow.

To ſhew however that ſelf can never be out of the queſtion with us, the ſubject of their converſation was nine-tenths of the inducement. Charles had now heard nothing of Annette for ſeveral months, and, in all that time, his love had nothing to feed on but the letter inſerted in the fourth chapter of this book. The more diſtant his proſpects were of an union with the idol of his ſoul, the more violent was his paſſion; for this again is the nature of love. Nothing ſeems to be impoſſible to it in theory, yet in practice it does not work miracles. He knew the ſoul of Annette; he knew her incapable of change; he knew, if cruel fortune raviſhed her hand, nothing could diſpoſe of her heart: She had given it him: it was his; indiſſolubly his. Then was there ever ſuch a prodigy of fidelity and zeal as Emma? No; he was ſecure. He could not more firmly rely on his own reſolution than theirs. No attachment was ever ſo ſure, ſo grounded, ſo permanent. What had he then to fear? Nothing [148] from love, but every thing from fortune. Sir Sid⯑ney was more likely to be implacable now he was rich, than when he was poor.

All this ground did he and Mrs. Marlow go over every evening of their lives. Upon theſe occaſions ſhe would repreſent to him that indeed he was not the kind of man to live in this world; that it would not do upon all occaſions to let the unqualified truth appear; that now a-days people did not open their hearts every time they opened their mouths; and ſhe could plainly ſhew that all his miſcarriages had been owing to ingenuouſneſs and honeſty, which, as he would never find it in the dealings of other men, ſo he might lay his account to its injuring him in all his concerns. She ſaid he loved the truth, and ſhe knew he would thank her for ſpeaking it, and ſhe would therefore tell him that ſhe took the liberty to diſapprove his conduct in relation to Mr. Too⯑good. He had himſelf, it was true, ſhamefully abuſed thoſe talents which he really poſſeſſed, and had made them ſcandalouſly ſubſervient to his in⯑tereſt; but if the world choſe to be ſo impoſed on, was any one equal to the Herculean taſk of remov⯑ing its prejudices. Mr. Toogood was in poſſeſſion of a very comfortable independency. This alone, in the opinion of the world, would counteract all that could be ſaid againſt him; and this being the [149] caſe, ſhe did not wonder that his conduct, worthy as it was, had been looked upon by one half of the world as envy, and by the other as illnature. In ſhort, Mr. Toogood, ſhe ſaid, had it in his power to have ſerved him, and it depended on himſelf whether he was to make an unworthy uſe of ad⯑vantages ſo procured.

Upon the ſame ground, if he had paid a viſit to Muſquito, and given a little into his humour, he would doubtleſs have intereſted himſelf with the academicians, and, as he was now a man of very great conſequence, there could not be a doubt but it would have turned out a matter of profit to him.

As to the buſineſs of the theatre, it was certainly too humiliating, and therefore he could not, in that inſtance, be too much commended. But, in ſhort, if he choſe to get his bread by his talents, it muſt be in the way others did it: there was no al⯑ternative: and ſhe had no doubt, if he would ſeri⯑ouſly lay himſelf out for eligible employ, but he might yet acquire a fortune ſufficient to ſatisfy Sir Sidney, who, ſhe was ſure, would conſider every guinea that was earned as twenty.

Convinced by theſe ſort of arguments, our hero, [150] as we have ſeen, loſt no opportunity of trying his ut⯑moſt to get forward; and, having taken a great deal of trouble with the bookſellers to no purpoſe, he and Mrs. Marlow were one evening turning all matters ſeriouſly in their minds, when ſhe ſaid, ‘'My dear ſir, it is wonderful to me you have never thought of getting about ſome real friend of Sir Sidney, and making him your confidant. If it did nothing elſe, you would know from a channel of that ſort what were his private ſentiments of you, and, among other matters, it would furniſh you with ſome particulars relative to Miſs Roe⯑buck.'’

This laſt conſideration bore down every other, and Mr. Balance was thought by both the propereſt man in the world for this purpoſe. He was how⯑ever at that time out of town. ‘'But,' ſaid Charles, 'a thought has ſtruck me, and it will convince you that I mean in future not to quarrel with people quite ſo much for their vices. What do you think of Ego? I have told you all his particularities, and really he has not very much proſtituted his talents: perhaps indeed becauſe he has but few to proſtitute; for the penſion he has was given him more from oſtentation in the donor, than through any ſervility in himſelf. Indeed he has too good an opinion of himſelf to be very ſolici⯑tous; [151] for he takes as much care as he can that, in all his affairs, Ego ſhould be the firſt perſon.'’

‘'This is charming,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, and I will warrant ſomething comes of it; for, as he loves tittle tattle, he knows of courſe all Sir Sid⯑ney's family affairs, and it ſhall go hard but I will worm ſome of them out of him: and ſo you ſee, without aſking a ſingle queſtion I ſhall get at every intelligence you wiſh to receive.’

It was then agreed that Ego ſhould be ſounded; but it was to appear that our hero knew nothing of the buſineſs. Thus was the firſt duplicity he ever practiſed occaſioned by love. Indeed he could not live any longer in this ſtate of uncertainty; and if this method had not been hit upon for the preſent relief of his anxiety, he certainly would have been put upon playing ſome mad prank or other, which might have induced conceſſions on his ſide, for which he never would have forgiven himſelf.

On the other hand this buſineſs was a lucky hit for Mrs. Marlow, who, juſt at that time, was upon the point of forging ſome ſort of intelligence, to ſoften the edge of our hero's unhappineſs. It was now however unneceſſary; for as Charles was not to be ſuppoſed to know what paſſed between her [152] and Ego, ſo there would be no occaſion to relate more of their converſation than ſuch parts of it as would relieve his fears, which again, if they were not ſtrong enough, might admit of a little heighten⯑ing; whereas, ſhe reſolved to ſink whatever would be likely to augment his chagrin: for ſhe was not one of thoſe friends who unneceſſarily aggravated matters, but, on the contrary, admitted that a little laudable deceit was pardonable, when the propoſed end was meritorious.

Many good purpoſes, Mrs. Marlow flattered herſelf, would derive from this commerce. Ego, ſhe had no doubt, would retail what paſſed in the preſence of Emma, whoſe wit and ingenuity would not fail to take hold of ſuch an occaſion to ſupply Charles with every thing he wiſhed to know, even, probably, without the conſcious concurrence of Ego; for it might be conveyed in ſuch ambiguous terms as none but the lovers themſelves could un⯑riddle; and, come what come might, ſhe reſolved to invent conſolation, where it really did not preſent itſelf, for ſhe could not bear the idea that our hero ſhould be ſo afflicted.

This was the firſt time his obſtinacy towards opening a negociation with Sir Sidney ſeemed to give way. She hoped in time he would be wholly [153] ſubdued, and had no doubt when her well-inten⯑tioned ſcheme came to have the aſſiſtance of Mr. Balance, that a perfect reconciliation would take place between them; and then, as it was in the power of Sir Sidney alone to place our hero in a very conſpicuous profeſſional light—which this fooliſh woman thought even more eligible than the poſſeſſion of an inherited fortune—ſhe contemplated, even with tears of joy, that moment when ſhe ſhould ſee him happy, equal to his deſerts.

Big with this project and theſe hopes, Mrs. Mar⯑low waited with impatience for the morning, and that ſhe might employ her time to as much advan⯑tage as poſſible, entreated Charles to leave her for half an hour with Ego, before he came down to breakfaſt.

Mr. Ego came very punctually to his time. He was ſhewn in by Mrs. Marlow, who told him ſhe was very ſorry, but Mr. Hazard was a little indiſ⯑poſed, and therefore ſhe had not diſturbed him; but, however, he ſhould be immediately called.—To which Mr. Ego made anſwer, ‘'Ah, up late laſt night I ſuppoſe: this is the conſequence: ah theſe young men! If I was a young man I would be the mirror of ſobriety.'’

[154] ‘'Then,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'you would be ex⯑actly like Mr. Hazard, for I never ſaw him other⯑wiſe than ſober in my life.'’

‘'Indeed!' ſaid Ego, 'I am glad on't: it is very commendable. Always ſober! Quite an altered man I ſuppoſe ſince he came from France. It is a lamentable thing that young men cannot make the tour of Europe without getting into ſo many ſcrapes. If I was to make the tour—'’

‘'Sir,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'he only made the tour of France, which I do not believe either you or any body elſe could have done to better pur⯑poſe.'’

‘'There, my good lady, you muſt excuſe me,' cried Ego; 'the whole world rings of his ſhocking doings there. Why don't you know he robbed a banker, knocked down his brother, ſtole a nun, ſpent her fortune, turned ſharper, killed a man, and then made his eſcape out of priſon?'’

‘'No indeed I do not, nor does any body elſe,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow.’ ‘'Nay but zounds madam,' returned Ego, 'you muſt excuſe me there: I am the man for knowing the truth of things.'’ ‘'You are not the man for knowing the truth of this,' [155] ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'for every word of it is falſe; and I dare ſay by falſe reports like theſe, which Mr. Hazard has too much pride to contradict, Sir Sidney's ear has been abuſed, and he has loſt that good gentleman's confidence.'’

‘'Faith,' ſaid Ego, 'like enough, 'for there is nothing like abſence for injuring people in the opinion of their friends. Yes, yes, I ſee how the thing has been: I am the man for ſeeing how the cat wags her tail. And ſo it was all lies ha!'’

‘'Did not you ſee it at the time, Mr, Ego?' ſaid the good lady, 'ſince your penetration is ſo keen.'’

‘'See it,' ſaid Ego, 'Oh yes I—that is to ſay I had a glimpſe, but that damned unmerciful teazer Muſquito, and that curſed lamenter of his friend's misfortunes, Toogood, would inſiſt upon it in ſuch terms that you know I was obliged to run a little with the pack; elſe you know what chance had I for a continuance of Sir Sidney's patronage? Muſt mind the main chance you know, my good lady: I am the man for keeping a friend,'’

‘'That,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'one may eaſily ſee.'’ ‘'But ſtop a little,' cried Ego, 'Can you acquit him of this? Did he write one ſingle word [156] to any individual ſoul?’ ‘'And pray,' anſwered Mrs. Marlow, 'was there no friend had charity enough to allow the poſſibility, at leaſt, that his letters had been intercepted; and, if that were the caſe, was it not alſo poſſible that he who did him that injury, would not ſtop at others?'’

‘'Gloſs, Gloſs.' cried Ego; 'zounds I ſee it: I am the man for putting the ſaddle on the right horſe. And yet do you know he had the addreſs always to appear Mr. Hazard's friend. But he has ſuch a way with him: ſure, ſteady; never brought up the ſubject but when he had made Sir Sidney charmed with himſelf, on account of ſome act of generoſity performed by the baronet himſelf, or his great grandfather. Yes, yes, it is plain. He is a devil of a fellow to be ſure.—Why he bewitches people. Not that his praiſe of my poetry was any ſuch great matter: common fame does me juſtice: I am the man for poetry: but, the devil of it is, who is this fellow that makes ſuch a plaguy noiſe in the world?'’ ‘'Who,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'a great man, a member of parliament.'’ ‘'A mighty great affair indeed,' cried Ego. 'In your ear, if he was out of parlia⯑ment he would be in the King's Bench.'’ ‘'In⯑deed!' cried Mrs. Marlow, pretending great aſtoniſhment.’ ‘'Owes ſeventy thouſand pounds,' [157] continued Ego; 'you may depend upon it from me: I am the man for knowing how the world wags.'’ ‘'Well, but if this be the caſe,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'how is it poſſible that Sir Sidney can be ſo blinded as to intend his marriage with Miſs Roebuck?'’

‘'I will tell you how that matter ſtands,' ſaid Ego. 'If the miniſtry goes out, and they ſay it totters at preſent—for you ſee I am the man for being a bit of a politician—if, do you mind me, they go out, Mr. Gloſs will be a made man, and then he will certainly marry Miſs Roebuck.'—’ ‘'With the young lady's conſent, no doubt,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow.’ ‘'Not a word of that,' ſaid Ego: 'ſhe will obey, if you pleaſe, but never conſent: I am the man for diſtinctions.'’ ‘'What has ſhe any new lover then?' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'for ſurely ſhe cannot have kept herſelf heart-whole for Mr. Hazard, in the midſt of ſuch ceaſeleſs perſecutions, and againſt ſo many reports to his diſadvantage.'’

‘'My good lady,' ſaid Ego, 'ſuch truth, ſuch in⯑nocence, ſuch ſweetneſs, ſuch ſenſe of duty as Miſs Roebuck poſſeſſes I have often read of, and indeed deſcribed, juſt as one deſcribes in poetry, ſylphs, [158] gnomes, or flying dragons; children of fancy, offsprings of the imagination—I am the man for a choice of words—in ſhort a thing without literal exiſtence, but I confeſs I never ſaw it before.—Why I have ſeen her receive a command from Sir Sidney with a ſmile, while her heart was burſting. In ſhort, ſhe will become a voluntary ſacrifice to her duty as ſoon as the miniſtry changes.'’

‘'This then is the arrangement,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'and the poor lady and the nation are to turn about together.'’

‘'Even ſo,' ſaid Ego. 'I wiſh we could ſay with truth that, in either caſe, turn about would be fair play: I am the man for a pun.'’

‘'But pray,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'what part does Mrs. Emma take?'’ ‘'Why that, that,' ſaid Ego, 'is what I am juſt now aſtoniſhed at. Until very lately ſhe had been a moſt ſtrenuous advocate for Mr. Hazard, but I think now we may call her the armed neutrality. But, upon my word, my good lady, the young gentleman may thank him⯑ſelf if his friends grow cool to him. Can any thing be ſo mad as the way he has ſpent his mo⯑ney? [159] What the devil had he to do with bailiffs, and charity, and beef, and bread? Nobody does it. So you ſee his conduct is a ſatire upon the world, and now I only aſk you, does any body like to be ſatirized? I am the man that under⯑ſtands propriety. And then you ſee to brag of his actions, and try to depreciate the benevolence of Sir Sidney, in his favourite ſcheme of Caſtle⯑wick!'’

‘'Ay, has he done that?' ſaid Mrs. Marlow.—’ ‘'It has loſt him the baronet for ever, that's all,' replied Ego. 'Now I would not have done that: I am the man that never flies in any body's face.'’ ‘'But I aſſure you Mr. Ego,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'he had not done this.'’ ‘'What,' ſaid Ego, 'did not he boaſt of having ſerved more people in real diſtreſs in ſix months, than ever Sir Sidney did in all his life?'’ ‘'Never,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'I will anſwer for him.'’ ‘'And did not he try to prove, by ſeveral inſtances, that there was no ſort of compariſon in his charity and that of the ba⯑ronet?—for dam'me, ſaid he, one day when he was drunk—'’ ‘'But I tell you he never gets drunk,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow.’ ‘'Well,' ſaid Ego, 'ſober then: ſo much the worſe: if he had been drunk he would have been excuſeable. Dam'me, ſays he—'’

[160] Here Charles interrupted them. ‘'Ha! my good friend Hr. Hazard, I am glad you are come: I want my breakfaſt deviliſhly: I am the man for the hot rolls and butter. Here have this good lady and I been battling about you. Upon my ſoul ſhe is a ſtrong advocate; a ſtaunch friend: never ſaw ſuch an inſtance of attachment and fide⯑lity. But, come, 'ent we to ſee Miſs?'’ ‘'Miſs!' ſaid Charles, 'what Miſs?'’ ‘'Why Lord now how ſtrange you make of it,' ſaid Ego; 'I mean the old gentlewoman's daughter: they tell me ſhe is temptingly handſome: I am the man that is a judge of beauty.'’ ‘'I wiſh,' ſaid Charles, 'you were a judge of good manners. I gave you a hint yeſterday that, if we were to be friends, you muſt not attempt to glance at my actions in any way; for as I ſhall not think it worth my while to ex⯑plain my motives for what I really do, ſo I give you warning you will not find me in a humour to paſs calumny by quietly.'’

Here Mrs Marlow brought in the breakfaſt, and the converſation became general.

CHAPTER XI.

CHARLES having taken an opportunity during breakfaſt of going out of the room, Mrs. Marlow begged Ego not to hint a ſingle ſyllable of the con⯑verſation that had paſſed between them. She ſaid Mr. Hazard was ſo tenacious of thoſe reſolutions he had taken of abiding by the truth of his inten⯑tions, without ſtooping to an explanation with any body, that ſhe was ſure he would break off for ever with any friend who ſhould be unwiſe enough to ſtagger his determination; ‘'and as I am ſure, Mr. Ego,' added ſhe, 'he has a regard for you, it would be pity you ſhould loſe one another's friend⯑ſhip in the moment of coming together.'’ She hinted alſo that ſhe ſhould be glad to have ſome more private converſation with him, and cunningly pretended to wonder what could have cauſed this alteration in Emma? To which he anſwered he would learn the next day, if poſſible; for he was [162] to dine at Sir Sidney's: and added, ‘'Oh bleſs my heart—I am the man for recollection—Mr. Fig⯑gins is in town; pray has he called on Mr. Ha⯑zard?'’ ‘'I fancy not,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'but why?'’ ‘'Nay nothing,' replied Ego, 'only they ſay he has been like the reſt of the world—got it while it was going, hey, you underſtand me: fools and their money—hey—I am the man for a pro⯑verb.'’ And then ſeeing Charles: ‘'but mum's the word: don't be afraid of me.'’

After breakfaſt our hero and his friend Ego re⯑ſumed the converſation of the day before, which they had both duly conſidered. Mr. Ego ſaid, that as far as his advice or intereſt went he was heart and hand at Charles's ſervice, but, as it was both unneceſſary to his circumſtances, and improper at his time of life, he begged to be excuſed from hav⯑ing any immediate concern in it; ‘'for I am the man,' ſaid he, 'that knows how to take care of myſelf.'’

Charles, who was determined if he did any thing it ſhould be ſolely his own concern, did not diſlike this declaration, and after ſome further conſul⯑tation, it was agreed that about eight hundred pounds was enough to ſtart the paper: two hun⯑dred of which our hero could muſter, and it was [163] propoſed to raiſe the reſt by ſhares of fifty pounds each. In ſhort, Ego, in company with Charles, beat up the quarters of all thoſe who, from diſap⯑pointment, an adventurous ſpirit, or other motives, were likely to come into it; and, after ſeveral meetings, many regulations, and other pro and con, it was at length agreed that Charles ſhould be the ſole conductor of the paper, have four ſhares for his two hundred pounds, and a ſalary of two hun⯑dred a year: but, as its failure, if it did not ſuc⯑ceed, muſt naturally be attributed to his want of abilities to conduct it, he ſhould be obliged, on its being proved to be a loſing game every day for a fortnight together, to take all their ſhares back at the original price; and, on the other hand, if it ſucceeded beyond expectation, he ſhould be made a proportionable amends.

Theſe terms were extremely well reliſhed, and our hero took the field as generaliſſimo of diurnal criticiſm. He detected the fallacy of other papers, reprobated their venality, reſuted their arguments, and ſhewed the futility of all their proceedings; and, though the concern ſuſtained a loſs almoſt every day, the world's eyes began to be opened, and probably the matter would have been hand⯑ſomely taken up, if internal diviſions had not con⯑vulſed the whole plan. The fact was this: four of [164] the other papers had each ſent a purchaſer of a ſhare, whoſe inſtructions were to kindle as much ſtrife as poſſible among the partners. Thus, upon ſeparate grounds, they began to ſplit this little community into factions. One ſaid a newſpaper was not worth a farthing that did not take a decided part; another that they ought to have ſecured advertiſements be⯑fore they had ſtarted; a third was beginning, when our hero begged leave to remark that no partner had a right to interfere with the conduct of the paper. Let him then take up the ſhares, according to his agreement, was the anſwer. His was imme⯑diately at his ſervice. Charles now too late ſaw the drift of this. He ſaid if he had known he had em⯑barked with a ſet of men who were afraid of a little riſk, he would have ſet his face to the buſineſs alone at firſt; but he was willing nevertheleſs to abide by all his agreement. He had certainly ran himſelf out of ready caſh, but if any gentlema would take his note, at a ſhort date, for the amount of his ſhare it was heartily at his ſervice. Three took him at his word, at that meeting, and, by a week afterwards, he was left with but four part⯑ners.

Had the paper been dealt by honeſtly, it would have done wonders; but the proprietors of the reſt, who had not the courage to defend their meaſures [165] openly—for indeed they were indefenſible—tam⯑pered with the news-carriers, and were guilty of a thouſand other paltry ſhifts and tricks, to prevent its circulation. They alſo brided the printer to inſert ſuch words as rendered the writing nonſenſe, after the correction of the laſt proof, and when it was impoſſible to prevent its going in that ſtate into the world.

There was a dirtineſs in theſe proceedings which Charles could not ſtoop to a detection of. He doubled his ſatire, and they their arts, till at length every partner had begged to be off, and he was left alone to ſtem the torrent. He now found himſelf playing at a loſing game, almoſt exhauſted of all his caſh, and engaged for the payment of ſix hun⯑dred pounds; ſo that, driven into every poſſible corner, he was compelled to ſend this ſcheme after the reſt, and ſell the materials for a ſupply.

Now it was that Charles diſcovered who had been his partners in the paper; for, their end being anſwered, they publiſhed his diſgrace in the moſt triumphant language their virulent and low male⯑volence could ſuggeſt. They recapitulated all his former miſcarriages, gave an invidious turn to his whole conduct, miſrepreſented him in regard to his opera, and warned the public how it encouraged a [166] man who, inſtead of being avowedly its ſervant, had the arrogant preſumption to ſet up a ſtandard of taſte, and the vanity to ſuppoſe that all the world muſt bow to his ipſe dixit.

Charles avoided, with every poſſible induſtry, all chance of getting into a perſonal quarrel upon this occaſion; knowing that he could reap no honour from a contention with men of no character, and that they would, in their report of him, ſo per⯑vert his motives of reſentment, as to throw a public ſtigma on him, let his conduct be ever ſo right.—Indeed his notions upon this ſubject were a little heteroclite, for he maintained that duelling was not only a very barbarous, but a very diſhonourable cuſtom, and that it ſerved more to aſſiſt the views of cowards and aſſaſſins, than to ſupport the dig⯑nity of ſuch as poſſeſſed true courage.

In defence of this opinion, he certainly advanced a great deal of perſuaſive reaſoning, which unfortu⯑nately nobody liſtened to; for people, however they break through eſtabliſhed cuſtoms—whether by ſtealing your purſe, or your peace of mind, or cutting your throat—never appear publicly to diſ⯑approve of them.

This very opinion was taken advantage of by [167] Gloſs, who negociated a quarrel ſo well, that our hero received a challenge from a raſcal, and refuſed to meet him. His puſillanimity was immediately the public topic, and though he was a ſhort time after under the unpleaſant neceſſity of kicking the fellow out of a coffee-houſe who had had the im⯑pudence to traduce him, yet, in the next company he went he ſcarcely was ſpoken to.

Charles, ſecurely wrapt up in his own conſcious honour, certainly held all this in ineffable con⯑tempt; yet fearing leſt accumulated provocation ſhould induce him to depart from that forbearance which his rectitude had pointed out in his caſe to be neceſſary, he wiſely reſolved to read none of the abuſe written againſt him, leſt he ſhould be pro⯑voked into a reply that would make his competi⯑tors of more conſequence than he wiſhed. He re⯑lied on the candour of the public for a tacit refuta⯑tion of all calumny whatſoever, and, inſtead of in⯑volving himſelf in more troubles, began ſeriouſly to conſider how he could get rid of thoſe with which he was already ſurrounded.

He had about ſeventy pounds, and the furniture of his houſe, which was decent and convenient, but no more. The earlieſt of his notes was within five days of being due, and a fortnight more would bring [168] the reſt upon his back; in conſequence of which, all the horrors of a priſon, and the mercileſs ſeverity of bailiffs, who owed him ſo much ill will, would be inevitable.

To avoid theſe unpleaſant circumſtances, he re⯑ſolved to go to France, which determination how⯑ever he imparted to nobody but his faithful houſe⯑keeper, whoſe ſucceſs had been upon a par with his; for Ego had brought her intelligence that there was no knowing what to make of Emma, that the miniſtry was changed, and Mr. Gloſs now filled a high and conſpicuous ſituation, and, in ſhort, that every thing in that quarter menaced our hero's affairs with ruin and total deſtruction.

Though Mrs. Marlow, when ſhe had fancied things wore a brighter complexion, had deter⯑mined to put the beſt face on the matter to Charles, finding them in this deſperate way, ſhe ſaw there was no time for trifling. Beſides, Mr. Gloſs's ſituation was a public town talk, and all the reſt would be known of courſe. Indeed the good crea⯑ture could not diſſemble; her very heart ſpoke in her eyes, and he ſaw his wretchedneſs before ſhe uttered a ſyllable.

Another circumſtance greatly perplexed Charles, [169] and made him wiſh to ſeclude himſelf from all the world. Mr. Figgins had certainly been in town, but had not called upon him. Indeed a myſtery had hung over that gentleman's conduct for ſome time. When Charles conferred on him the annuity, he received a letter thanking him in terms of ſuch enthuſiaſtic warmth, that he thought it a little over⯑ſtrained, and ſome ſuſpicious matters had ſince in⯑duced him to believe that his old friend, finding he had got all he could, now turned his back upon him, which the reader, no more than Charles, will think an extraordinary conjecture. But what were now his ſenſations, when he found, beyond all doubt, that this very friend who had ſworn ſo hear⯑tily never to deſert his intereſt, who knew all the ſecrets of his ſoul, who, in ſhort, had more power than any man in the world to ſhew his enemies how to take advantage of him, had gone over to Mr. Gloſs.

Charles had all his life wanted a friend; he had been very often plunged in misfortune, but this was the firſt time that he ſaw himſelf on the brink of actual poverty, without a ſingle reſource. The brute Muſquito was maſter of an ample fortune, the pliant Toogood had a profitable place, and even that echo of his own praiſe, Ego, had ſat himſelf [170] down comfortably. Theſe men had nothing for which they ought to be rewarded, but much that merited reprehenſion; while he, whoſe whole ſtudy had been to benefit the public, who had, in ſpight of all the malignity that had overwhelmed him, the teſtimony of hundreds to the purity of his in⯑tentions, which had been evinced by a ſtrong worldly proof—no leſs than throwing down ſome thouſands in the proſecution of his laudable plan—he, in an early period of life, muſt now learn the bitter taſk of bearing diſtreſs, and yielding to actual want.

Charles, however, happened to have a mind not eaſily to be broken. ‘'Come Mrs. Marlow,' ſaid he, as they talked over his affairs, 'let us ſet our faces to the weather. They think that under ſuch accumulated misfortunes I ſhall ſink, and they will get rid of me; and indeed were I not of a different temper from any other man, it would be ſo: but I am not of a mind to indulge my ene⯑mies: we muſt not lie down in this world for want of reſources; and, I thank God, my ima⯑gination flatters me I ſhall not be to ſeek for them, even though experience ſhould, as uſual, deſtroy all my hopes upon proof. At preſent certainly this kingdom is no place for me, and it has ſtruck me that, by quitting it, I can not only [171] turn my purſuits to advantage, but in that very way that, had I not been a fool, I ſhould all along have preferred to the ſtraight forward reproba⯑tion of duplicity, by which the world's good opinion is not to be gained. In ſhort, I will tell you what I will do. I will get into Flanders, ſeat myſelf in an obſcure lodging, and copy every thing I can lay my hands upon. HOLBEIN, or HEMSKIRK, TENIERS, or HOBIMA, WYNANTS, or VANDERVELDT; nothing ſhall come amiſs to me; and when I have ſtocked myſelf with a ſuf⯑ficient collection, properly ſmoaked, varniſhed, and mutilated, they ſhall be put up to auction in the Engliſh metropolis, as the collection of a gen⯑tleman who died upon his travels.'’

Mrs. Marlow declared ſhe had now ſome hopes of him, and begged he would ſet about it imme⯑diately.

‘'I will,' ſaid Charles, with a profound ſigh, 'and yet it is very hard to be cut off from every hope. I could have borne any thing, every thing, ſuſtained torture, and called it pleaſure, could I ſtill have flattered myſelf with the hopes of ob⯑taining Annette. Oh let no man place his hap⯑pineſs on the promiſes of a woman. I could have endured miſery, beggary for her. Want and all [172] its grim train, ſhould have been my welcome companions. I would have bleſſed the moment that made me wretched to prove my love. But, come, no weakneſs; let me feel, but not mur⯑mur; let me, ſince there is nothing elſe with which I can reproach myſelf, ſo forget the dig⯑nity of my love as to reproach her. No, however ſhe may excel me in happineſs and fortune, ſhe never ſhall be my ſuperior in truth and honour.'’

CHAPTER XII.

EVERY invention having been exhauſted to ward off the coming blow, without ſucceſs, Charles be⯑gan in earneſt to think of retiring to the continent: to which he was not a little ſtimulated by his new ſcheme. He was ſo cloſely preſſed, that he was obliged to decamp in the middle of the night; for he had heard, that very morning, that a writ had been obtained againſt him, from one of his moſt invete⯑rate enemies—though the note o which account it was iſſued was not due—upon a pretence that it was his intention to leave the kingdom.

It was eleven o'clock in the night that this ſcheme was to be put in execution. Our hero had juſt ſupped, and ſpoken theſe parting words to Mrs. Marlow. ‘'Since I have loſt every friend upon earth but you; ſince, in this country, men of ho⯑neſt principles cannot flouriſh; ſince my love and honour have been equally betrayed, and every [174] worthy effort to gain the world's eſteem and ſe⯑cure a faithful return to my hopeleſs affection has been attended with nothing but ingratitude, ſhame, and diſappointment, I go to find a little recollec⯑tion, and to ſhake off this ſtrange dream of fruit⯑leſs expectation in another country; and, ſince I have found to my mortification that here the whole world lives in a happy delirium, and en⯑joys no pleaſure but through the medium of be⯑ing cheated by their own conſent, I will one day or other return and adminiſter to their amuſement in the only way any man can hope for ſucceſs: the honeſty of which I now fairly ſubſcribe to; for how can it be ſaid that people are impoſed upon when they conſent to the deception. Hav⯑ing made, by means like theſe, a competency, you and I, my dear Marlow, will retire to ſome ſnug retreat, where, as at a comedy, we will look at the world, and laugh, but never venture again to have any thing to do with it, otherwiſe than as ſpectators, for fear of the humiliation that, as ac⯑tors, we ſhould be ſure to meet with.’

‘'Theſe are ſtrange declarations in ſo young a man, but they are perfectly reaſonable, perfectly honeſt, and I can ſet the point I aim at within my view as eaſily as Mr. Gloſs, though perhaps I may not attain it by means ſo raſcally. And now [175] my good, my kind friend, adieu. There is an in⯑ſtrument by which the furniture of this houſe is become yours. It is a poor preſent, but per⯑haps it may aſſiſt you, through the medium of letting lodgings, to eke out the little I may be able to ſend you. At preſent I can very well ſpare you forty pounds, and, that you may not have a word to ſay in reply, I promiſe you, if I ſhould be in neceſſity, I will as freely have re⯑courſe to you.'’

Charles then ran over all his former ſchemes, and ſhewed in what inſtances he would make them ſerve as a warning as to his future intentions, which he had ſtrenuouſly at heart, and through which he doubted not he ſhould one day be able to ſhew how greatly he could be independant, with barely a com⯑petency. He ſpoke of the treachery of Figgins, but ſtill attributed that, as well as every other miſ⯑fortune, to his own ſtupid credulity alone; for that he ought to have known what a world he lived in, and not have ſuffered himſelf to be impoſed upon. ‘'And yet,' ſaid he, 'my dear Mrs. Marlow, there is a circumſtance that I muſt complain of, though it is taxing perfection, arraigning heaven itſelf! But this is not the time to awaken any feeling; to ſtagger my reſolution. Still I would wiſh you to ſee that falſe, that lovely creature; to ſee [176] Emma too. Do not however upbraid either of them. Let them only know that they impoſed upon a heart that deſerved better of them; that it ſhall break, miſery ſhall diſſolve it, torture tear it, before it ſhall conſent to a ſingle murmur, though but a whiſper. Tell my Annette to be happy; to be ſupremely bleſt, without an in⯑truding care; and to think that I am too fortu⯑nate if I have ſecured her happineſs at ſo trifling an expence as the loſs of my peace. Tell her—but indeed it is dreadful; I cannot at preſent bear the conflict, and I muſt—heavenly powers!—but come, let me be a man, and keep my ſenſes.'’

At theſe words he reclined againſt the wainſcot, with one hand on his forehead, the other on his heart, and his eyes turned upwards, as if imploring thoſe powers which, if we may judge of what im⯑mediately followed, were as deaf to his calls as the hearts of his pretended friends had been to the calls of honour.

As he ſtood in this attitude, and as Mrs. Marlow contemplated him with ineffable complacency, and tender ſorrow, a loud knocking was heard at the door. What could it be? At that time of night too! Certainly Charles's enemies had been apprized of his intentions, and were determined to prevent [177] his eſcape. ‘'Lord,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'what ſhall we do?'’ ‘'Do,' ſaid Charles, 'why if they will have me, I muſt ſubmit to it.'’ ‘'Not for the world,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow. 'For God's ſake, my dear ſir, go up ſtairs: pretty high if you pleaſe: and if you find it is any thing of that ſort, fairly go out of the garret window, and creep on three doors farther, to Mr. Lott's.—You can eaſily get along the gutter, and, after the coaſt is clear, I will go to Mr. Lott's, apprize them of the truth, and you ſhall ſtay there till a proper time.'’

Charles made ſome objections to Mrs. Marlow's expedient, but a ſecond thundering at the door overruled them. And now Mrs. Marlow went boldly to demand who it was that paid them this unſeaſonable viſit.

Before ſhe would open the door, ſhe called to know who was there. She was anſwered by a poſtillion—for ſhe could ſee his dreſs and his whip through the key hole, by the light of the lamp—that there were ſome of Mr. Hazard's friends out of the country, in a chaiſe, who muſt ſee him even at that time of night.

Mrs. Marlow, overjoyed with the hopes that her [178] friend's affairs might have taken ſome favourable turn, and, at any rate, guarded as we have ſeen againſt ſiniſter conſequences, made no ſcruple of opening the door, which ſhe had no ſooner done than two men handed a lady out of a chaiſe, and all together came within the door: one of the gen⯑tlemen deſiring the lady might be ſhewn into a room. This Mrs. Marlow, who was greatly ſtruck with the lady's uncommon beauty, ſcrupled not to do; after which, one of the gentlemen, tak⯑ing her aſide, begged Mr. Hazard would come to them immediately, for that the lady was Miſs Roe⯑buck.

At theſe words Mrs. Marlow flew up ſtairs, and, in leſs than a minute, introduced our hero, firſt hav⯑ing informed him that ſhe would bring him to a friend whoſe preſence would make him ample amends for all his former troubles, but who that friend could be, in ſpight of all his entreaties, ſhe left him to gueſs.

If our hero's faculties were upon the ſtretch, to find who this extraordinary friend could be, who, contrary to the hard cuſtoms of the times, had ge⯑nerouſly ſought the dwelling of the unfortunate, what was his exceſſive aſtoniſhment when a gleam that had ſtarted acroſs his ſuſpended thoughts, juſt [179] as he arrived at the door, was preſently realized by the ſight of her who held his captive ſoul, who now ſat in the very chair out of which, ten minutes before, he had himſelf riſen.

He ſtarted much more naturally than I have ſeen a hero on the ſtage at the ſight of a ghoſt, and ex⯑claimed, ‘'Heavens and earth! Am I awake? Is it poſſible that the divine Annette—'’

‘'No ſir,' exclaimed the lady, with great anger, 'it is not poſſible that ſhe can come any where, by her own conſent, into your preſence, unleſs to tell you how much ſhe diſdains your low arts.'’

‘'For God's ſake madam,' cried Charles, in an agony, 'what do you mean? Am I to be every way tortured? Is my whole life to be a dream? Am I to comprehend nothing?'’

‘'Admirably acted,' ſaid the lady; 'I wanted but this to be convinced.'’ ‘'Convinced of what, ma⯑dam?' cried Charles' 'that my exiſtence, my very ſoul is in your power, and therefore you can tor⯑ture it at will.'’

‘'For ſhame,' cried Annette, 'I only want to aſk you one queſtion. Do you think, by this [180] violent conduct, to accompliſh your wiſhes. Do you not think by it that you have, and with rea⯑ſon, loſt my father for ever.'’

‘'I know I have loſt him, madam,' cried Charles; 'I was told too I had loſt you; and now, leſt I ſhould doubt the truth of my being completely miſerable, you are condeſcending enough to put me entirely out of pain, by confirming it with your own mouth: in this extraordinary manner too, at this unſeaſonable hour.'’

‘'Wretch,' cried Annette, 'can you pretend to charge me with what you have cauſed yourſelf? Is not the whole your own doing? Has not your unhappy impetuoſity undone you? And now, inſtead of defending yourſelf, you are determined I ſhall be no more out of doubt than the reſt. In ſhort, I am convinced that it is impoſſible to be on terms with you, and I declare to you, in ſo many words—though I will not ſo falſify my character as to ſay it does not pain me to make the effort—I will never be yours.'’

As this moment, as if in a violent flurry, in ruſhed Mr. Gloſs. ‘'And here,' cried Charles, 'is the happy man who is to witneſs my diſgrace, and triumph over me; but, by all that is ſacred, [181] he ſhall not live to enjoy this happineſs; for this hand—'’

Saying this, he ran to his piſtols, which he had loaded to take with him, at which both Annette and Mrs. Marlow ſcreamed. Mr. Gloſs told them not to be afraid; adding, with a ſneer, that no harm would happen, which probably he knew, for another perſon who then entered the room caught hold of Charles's arm, and proclaimed aloud that he had an action againſt him.

‘'Then all is over,' ſaid Charles,’ and dropt into a chair. Annette, at this moment, was not in a better condition. Leſt however ſhe ſhould diſcover her confuſion to Charles, ſhe begged Mr. Gloſs would conduct her home, declaring ſhe felt herſelf greatly indiſpoſed.

‘'I don't doubt it, madam,' ſaid Mr. Gloſs:—'the gentleman however ſhall ſmart for it. You triumphed ſir,' ſaid he, 'when laſt this lady was in danger; now I think it is my turn.'’

‘'Thine!' cried Charles, ſtarting from his re⯑verie. 'Worm! Reptile! Thy turn to triumph over me! But I thank you madam,' ſaid he to Annette. 'It is plain you wanted an excuſe in the [182] opinion of the world for the moſt inexcuſeable trait of falſhood and levity that ever diſgraced your ſex; and I may ſay now that you have well acted your part: and ſo madam adieu. There is yet time, before you ſleep, to glut the ear of your father with the information that my downfal is completed. And now ſir,' ſaid he to the man who had arreſted him, 'I am ready for you.'’—Saying theſe words, he ſnatched up his hat, and left firſt the room, and then the houſe, in company with the bailiff and his follower.

The moment Charles had walked off, as we have deſcribed, Annette cried out, ‘'Oh, Mr. Gloſs, I am very ill,'’ and fell lifeleſs on the floor. Mrs. Marlow was not idle: ſhe produced ſome drops, which revived her in the courſe of a few minutes; but it muſt be confeſſed that good old lady's atten⯑tion was of a very chequered kind; for though hu⯑manity had obliged her to pay Annette every poſſi⯑ble reſpect in her then ſituation, yet her heart bled for the ſufferings of poor Charles, to which ſhe could not help thinking that Mr. Gloſs, at leaſt, had contributed, by this laſt unmanly buſineſs of the arreſt, which ſhe was induced to believe he had connived at through cowardice: leſt, had our hero fair play, he muſt have anſwered to him this trea⯑chery, and that very ſeverely.

[183] Under this idea, when Annette came to herſelf, Mrs. Marlow did not ſpare to exclaim againſt the ſcandalous conduct of thoſe who had, ſhe ſaid, by ſpreading the moſt infamous and injurious calumny, wounded the character of a young gentleman, who had no equal in the world.

‘'I believe ſo,' ſaid Gloſs, with an invidious leer, 'for egregious folly, intolerable pride, and un⯑bounded profligacy. But come madam,' ſaid he to Annette, 'I believe there is a coach at the door, and we want no advice from this good lady, who of courſe is partial to him whoſe bread ſhe eats.'’

‘'I do eat his bread,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'and heaven is my witneſs I would not eat it if I did not know him to be what I ſay. I know he is the worthieſt, beſt, gentleſt, nobleſt creature that ever did honour to human nature. I know his ſoul is above every thing that is ungenerous or unjuſt. I know, in ſhort, he is the very reverſe of you, from whom I have not been able to take off my eyes ever ſince you came into the room; and I will tell you why: I look on you with horror, and believe you capable of every thing horrid and infamous; for you are the very picture of a man whom I knew to be the moſt villainous and deſpicable upon earth.'’

[184] ‘'I am much obliged to you madam,' ſaid Mr Gloſs, 'for your eulogium; and now I believe we have no further buſineſs here.'’ So ſaying, he gave his hand to Annette, who had been drowned in tears for ſome minutes, and who now retired with her protector, as he called himſelf, without the power of paying her acknowledgments to Mrs. Mar⯑low ſo warmly as the caſe required, or her wiſhes prompted her.

CHAPTER I.

A MOST miſerable night did poor Mrs. Marlow paſs in our hero's abſence. She did not know where he was gone, or by what means to get any tidings of him. In this exigence ſhe would have waited on Mr. Balance, a ſtep which ſhe repented ſhe had not taken before—but as all her cogitations terminated in a reſolution to adopt no active mea⯑ſure of her own head, leſt ſhe ſhould injure him ſhe [186] wiſhed to ſerve, ſhe even ſat herſelf down quietly, and waited with the moſt tantalizing impatience [...]ill, by hearing from him, ſhe ſhould be releaſed [...]om her anxiety.

Under theſe circumſtances had ſhe remained, like a timid hare in her form, dreading ſhe knew not what, till about two o'clock the next day, when ſhe heard as violent a thundering at the door as ſhe had heard the night before. She immediately flew to the door, and let in not our hero, but a gentleman who ſaid Mr. Hazard muſt be found, if he was above ground, for that his brother lay at the point of death, and that he was come poſt haſte from the country, to conſult him on ſome family matters, which were of the laſt importance.

Mrs. Marlow begged his pardon, but could not conceive in what way Lord Hazard's death could poſſibly affect his brother: that nobleman, ſhe fancied, had nothing but the title and eſtate to give, and thoſe would of courſe go to his infant ſon, who, ſhe ſuppoſed, was not lying at the point of death. As to any legacies, ſhe did not believe his lordſhip had lived ſo frugal as to have any to leave; and, were not this the caſe, ſhe could not be inclined to think his good will towards his brother extended [187] ſo far as to have induced him to do any thing in his favour.

The ſtranger ſaid ſhe was perfectly right, but yet his buſineſs with him was of a particular nature.—In ſhort, neither could make any thing of the other: what the ſtrangers ſentiments were we ſhall ſee.

As to Mrs. Marlow, ſhe thought this chicken was of the ſame brood with the reſt, and that he only wanted to get out of her what he could, per⯑haps to lay a detainer againſt Charles, or for ſome other purpoſe equally inimical.

At the end of four days—for till then had this poor friendly creature been tormented with alter⯑nate hopes and fears—ſhe received a letter, by the poſt, on which ſhe was aſtoniſhed to ſee the poſt⯑mark Oſtend, but her aſtoniſhment was ſtill high⯑tened by noticing the hand writing of her friend and benefactor. This was the letter.

As I mean now to watch our hero's progreſs for ſome time, which, by the bye, is but fair—as he is deſerted by every other friend—I ſhall ſay, at pre⯑ſent, that nothing of any conſequence happened to him at Oſtend, but the receipt of the following letter, from Mrs. Marlow, in anſwer to the pre⯑ceding one.

Charles had ſo far cheated Mrs. Marlow, not⯑withſtanding her opinion of his honeſty, that he did not inform her of giving the bailiff five guineas, as an accommodation fee, nor his paying the coſts; all which, together with the expence of his journey and paſſage, ſunk his ſtock to nineteen guineas; but he had not the heart to curtail the old gentle⯑woman of a ſingle guinea.

He was fitting in his lodging counting this ſum, and conſidering what he ſhould do with it, when the maſter of the houſe, who had called at the poſt office, by his deſire, brought him the foregoing letter.

It is pity my time is now ſo precious that I can⯑not give an accurate deſcription of Charles's recep⯑tion [198] of the news this letter contained. No mad hero in romance ever played over ſuch a number of cu⯑rious gambols; no, not the madeſt copier of them all, in the madeſt of his curvets and caprioles, in the mountains of Morena. The Fleming at whoſe houſe he lodged, might have ſworn he was a tum⯑bler, or a lunatic. One moment he ſtampt and raved; the next, meaſured his length upon the floor; then ſtarting up, he, for about ten minutes, took a fit of execrating all the world, but moſt himſelf. Next Gloſs's throat was to be cut: in ſhort, if all his incoherencies were to have been literally put in practice, he would have annihilated Gloſs, piſtolled Figgins, called Sir Sidney an old fool, upbraided Annette as the moſt infamous of her ſex, kicked Emma to the devil, and then followed her himſelf; for ſo we may fairly conſtrue his ſaying he would nobly fall in their preſence.

When this ſtorm had a little ſubſided, he called the affrighted Fleming into his preſence, made an apology for his outrageous conduct, and deſired that a ſurgeon might be ſent for. At the ſame time he bid him take an account of ſome of the furniture, which he had broken in his rage, and which he ob⯑ſerved his landlord to eye with tokens of grief and aſtoniſhment, as it lay ſcattered about the floor.

[199] The ſurgeon being come, Charles told him, in the moſt placid manner, that he had heard ſome un⯑pleaſant news from England, of the death of a rela⯑tion; that it had put him into that ferment which I have ſo imperfectly deſcribed; and, leſt a fever ſhould be the conſequence, he begged to be bled. The ſurgeon perfectly approved of the precaution, and immediately proceeded to work; after which our hero went to bed, where a comfortable potation, adviſed by a phyſician, and prepared by an apothe⯑cary, who, ſeeing their brother profeſſor enter the Fleming's houſe, from the corner of a ſtreet, where they were in deep conſultation, about the different conſtruction of ſyringes, dropt their controverſy to follow him.

Theſe precautions operating with ſome calm, undiſturbed advice, which our hero had by this time whiſpered to himſelf, brought him into ſuch a ſtate of tranquillity, that he purſued his journey the next morning, and, in due time, arrived at the ancient city of Ghent. Here he immediately looked for a lodging, and, at length, fixed himſelf to his ſatisfaction, in the upper apartments of an uphol⯑ſterer, where the firſt floor was occupied by a French widow lady, who had been ſettled there about a year and a half. She was in but an indifferent ſtate of health, and paid an extraordinary price for her [200] apartment, that ſhe might not be diſturbed with the noiſe of a family over her head. This was however no objection to her landlord's reception of Charles, who, ſhe was told, was a perfect ſtranger, and had no attendants. Nor perhaps was it a bar to his ac⯑commodation; for ladies, ſick or well, never ſtart at a handſome young fellow: that is to ſay, as they do at toads and beetles. The lady alſo firſt ſighed, and then ſmiled, when her landlord added that the young gentleman ſeemed to be very unhappy, but that he was certainly a man of ſome conſequence, and a moſt elegant and comely figure.

CHAPTER II.

CHARLES, as had been his intention, proclaimed himſelf to his landlord as a painter, and expreſſed a wiſh to copy a few pictures, if there could be any way of getting at them. The landlord told him that the very lady who lodged in the firſt floor had two very capital ones, and, he had no doubt, would lend them with great pleaſure.

The requeſt was made to her, and ſhe returned for anſwer that the gentleman might ſee the pic⯑tures, and, if then they were found to anſwer his purpoſe, he was very welcome to copy them.

To ſay truth, both the gentleman and the lady, though neither knew why, were charmed at this in⯑cident of the pictures; for the lady had heard of no⯑thing but the gentleman's pariſes, and particularly [202] of the beauty of his perſon, ever ſince he had come into the houſe, and he had an irreſiſtible curioſity to ſee a perſon as much ſequeſtered from the world as himſelf, and for probably as extraordinary rea⯑ſons. He therefore returned a proper compliment, and, at a time perfectly convenient to her—that is to ſay, when ſhe had put on a new cap, and other⯑wiſe prepared for his reception—he took the liberty of paying his reſpects to her.

Neither Charles nor the lady would probably have made ſo much ceremonious preparation for this inter⯑view if they had foreſeen how intimately they were known to each other; for they had ſcarcely met when ſhe exclaimed—for women's perception, as well as their tongues, is always forwardeſt— ‘'Good heavens! Mr. Hazard!'’—which he an⯑ſwered as emphatically, with ‘'God bleſs my ſoul, Madame Combrie!'’ And then recollecting that ſhe was ſaid to be a widow, he felt a ſingular mixed ſenſation of ſurpriſe and pleaſure, which gave a ſtrange embarraſſed awkwardneſs to his manner, and prevented him from following up his excla⯑mation with a compliment.

Whether this proceeded from an inclination to enquire after Combrie, which the knowledge of her preſent ſituation forbid, I will not determine.—Certainly [203] the lady choſe to interpret it in this light, for ſhe immediately ſaid, ‘'You look as if you would aſk for poor Combrie, Mr. Hazard: he is no more. He had ſcarcely made me independant, when I loſt him; but I am haſtening after him, and we ſhall one day yet be happy together.'’

Charles ſoftened the converſation, declared him⯑ſelf heartily ſorry for her loſs, but begged ſhe would not dwell upon any part of thoſe circumſtances which brought up the recollection of any thing that pained her on remembrance.

She ſaid ſhe was obliged to him, but ſhe had long ſince learnt to be perfectly reſigned to all that could happen, and the converſation of ſuch a friend as he had proved himſelf, would be as agreeable to her as it had been unexpected.

When Mrs. Combrie was in the communicative vein, our hero ſuffered her to inform him of the particulars relative to her affairs, after the recovery of her fortune. What Combrie had written of his going to England, was but a feint; for, embarking at Rouen, for Dunkirk, where he arrived in ſafety, he poſted immediately for Bruſſels. From Bruſ⯑ſels, which they conſidered as too public a place, they removed to Ypres; but, previous to this, [204] Combrie took a journey to Amſterdam, and there lodged their money. At Ypres they lived two years and a half in perfect happineſs, and were bleſſed with a daughter, who dying in the ſmall pox, her father, who had never had that fatal diſ⯑temper, and whoſe attention to his darling child was not to be prevented, alſo fell ſick, and took that diſorder in ſo dangerous a way as baffled every ex⯑ertion of art. In ſhort, in one week fortune left her deprived of a tender huſband and a beautiful infant.

‘'At the firſt ſhock,' ſaid ſhe, 'I thought I ſhould not have lingered long after them. My conſtitu⯑tion has, however, been hitherto proof againſt the ſtrongeſt grief that ever attacked a human heart: but I am gradually declining, and in a few months, perhaps weeks, ſhall follow poor Combrie.'’

Charles warned her againſt giving way to unne⯑ceſſary melancholy; adviſed her not to ſeclude her⯑ſelf from the world; gave her every conſolatory advice within his invention, and concluded with the moſt fervent offers of his ſervices, in any way that ſhe ſhould think proper to command them.

She ſaid, though ſhe had good reaſon for ſuppoſ⯑ing that her end was approaching, ſhe knew her [105] duty as a chriſtian better than to accelerate it; and, to prove this, ſhe had empowered a capital houſe in Ghent to receive her money from the Dutch bank, which, as ſoon as ſhe had in her hands, it was her intention to paſs over to England, where, perhaps, the change of climate might reſtore her to health: if not, ſhe ſhould have done her duty, and could then die contented.

Charles greatly approved of her plan, and as he really felt extremely ſorry at the proſpect of parting with a lady whom he had formerly ſo eſſentially ſerved, and whoſe caſe made her ſtand ſo much in need of friendſhip and conſolation, he manifeſted great anxiety in this buſineſs. For one thing, he determined to recommend her to the tender care of Mrs. Marlow; and, in ſhort, though it was im⯑poſſible to attend her himſelf, he ſo laid out for her comfort and accommodation, that it gave him no ſmall pleaſure to reflect that having once ſaved her fortune, he ſhould now, in all probability, ſave her life.

This was the benevolent employment, in a ſtrange country, of that horrid wretch who, in his own, was repreſented as a monſter of iniquity; for all which he received numberleſs thanks, and many a grateful tear from the generous widow.

[206] One morning, as he waited on her to communi⯑cate ſome new ſcheme of pleaſure he had been con⯑triving for her, he met on the ſtairs a man whom he was confident he had ſomewhere ſeen before.—His ſurmiſes were preſently realized into certainty, when Madame Combrie informed him that the mer⯑chant had been juſt with her, with information that he expected one of his partners every day with the money.

‘'You are to know,' ſaid ſhe, 'I ever was par⯑tial to the Engliſh; and theſe merchants, who are of that country, are the moſt ſenſible and feel⯑ing men I ever knew. They are men of buſineſs, and therefore have a blunt honeſty about them that I ever liked; and then as to property and ſe⯑curity, I need only again ſay they are Engliſh.—In ſhort, I believe I could not have got into better hands than Bondham and company.'’

‘'Oh gracious God!' exclaimed Charles, 'what do you tell me? For God's ſake anſwer me: Was that Bondham I met on the ſtairs?'’

‘'It was,' ſaid the lady.’ ‘'Then by heaven and earth you are ruined, madam!' returned Charles. 'Forgive me, my dear lady, forgive me. I would not give you a moment's uneaſineſs, not the [207] ſlighteſt ſhock, but you have not an inſtant to loſe. You are in the hands of villains. Stay, is there an attorney near at hand? Can a man be arreſted in Auſtria by the plaintive himſelf, for a debt contracted in England?'’

In ſhort, without any further elucidation, our hero left the aſtoniſhed Madame Combrie, enquired out an attorney, and lugged him along to the houſe of theſe merchants; but, alas! they came a few minutes too late, Bondham and Co having all de⯑camped: and, after ſome fruitleſs enquiry, it was aſcertained they had taken their departure towards the frontiers.

He returned to Madame Combrie, in company with the attorney; told her that his ſuſpicions had been but too fatally confirmed; and begged ſhe would inſtantly empower him to do her juſtice: in which caſe he would immediately follow theſe miſ⯑creants, whom he well knew how to make an ex⯑ample of.

He entreated the attorney to accompany him; to which he conſented, firſt making an agreement that he ſhould be well ſatisfied for his trouble: which only proves that attornies are attornies, all the world over.

[208] The gentleman of the law then drew up a ſhort inſtrument, to give Charles ſufficient power to act, and the landlord, and indeed half the town—for our hero had dealt about his curſes pretty hand⯑ſomely in the ſtreet—accompanied poſt horſes to the door, at which Charles entreated Madame Com⯑brie to make herſelf as eaſy as poſſible; for, added he, ‘'I once madam ſaved your fortune, and I will now retrieve it, or periſh in the attempt.'’

He then huddled a few neceſſaries together, mounted his horſe, and, with the attorney and the guide, galloped away in the very track of the fu⯑gitives. They loſt them however for more than the laſt fifty miles; but, coming to Amſterdam, found that they had actually received all the money, and embarked but ſix hours before for Harwich.

‘'Never mind,' cried out our hero, 'we will follow them.'’ So ſaying, he was directed to a ſkipper, who, at an exorbitant price, ſupplied them with a ſloop, in which, by Charles's direction, they ran, with a fair wind, under the ſhore of a village, at the mouth of the Colcheſter river. Then taking the attorney and the ſkipper in a poſt chaiſe, they ſtopt ſhort of Harwich, at the houſe of a magiſ⯑trate, to whom Charles related his ſtory; which was this: that theſe men had defrauded him for⯑merly [209] out of a large ſum of money, for which tranſ⯑action he had fairly hold of them in England; but, he only wiſhed to make his claim an inſtrument to reſcue from them a ſtill larger ſum, the property of a French lady, which, under falſe pretences, they had drawn out of the bank at Amſterdam.

The juſtice, who happened to underſtand ſome⯑thing of the law, adviſed him to arreſt them, as the firſt ſtep; after which, he ſaid, he would back our hero's pretenſions with his whole authority; and as his preſence, added to talking big, might facili⯑tate the hoped for ſucceſs, he ordered his carriage, and willingly ſet out to accompany our hero upon his laudable deſign.

The reader ſees theſe men were the ſwindler formerly ſpoken of, the bailiff who kept Charles's aſylum for the unfortunate, and his ſecurity. A⯑gainſt the ſecurity he had a fair action of fifteen hundred pounds, being the moiety of what had been forfeited. Againſt the ſwindler he might go for the whole, and alſo againſt the bailiff; and as his buſineſs was to tamper with them as much as poſ⯑ſible, he ſent an expreſs for three ſeparate writs, which kept him, though the utmoſt expedition was uſed, upon the tenter hooks of fear and expectation, leſt his prey, in the interim, ſhould eſcape.

[210] Before they had proceeded a ſingle mile on the way, they ſaw a poſt chaiſe at an alehouſe door, with a man watering the horſes. Preſently Charles recognized Bondham, by the ſide of a chaiſe. He now called to the poſtillion to ſtop, and pretend there was ſomething the matter with the carriage: thinking it would be more difficult to ſurpriſe them ſeparately than together. At the ſame time he begged the magiſtrate would drive ſlowly on, and paſs them, ſo that they might be caught between two fires, for they had an officer behind each of the carriages. This was happily executed. Charles's ſpeaking to thoſe in the other carriage was not at all ſuſpicious; for it only ſeemed mere curioſity from one, which the other ſatisfied. At the ſame time he hid his face, and otherwiſe kept himſelf completely from a diſcovery, which indeed was not difficult, for the others ſuſpected no ſnare.

At length our hero had the ſatisfaction of ſeeing the three gentlemen enter the chaiſe; which done, he got out, pretending to aſſiſt in ſetting the carri⯑age to rights. The Flemiſh attorney and poſtillion were alſo on their guard, and, as the other chaiſe drew near, the latter, with great dexterity, left his work, and unhorſed his fellow driver in an inſtant, and then ran to the heads of the horſes, by which [211] time the attorney at one door, and Charles at the other, held their priſoners in ſafe cuſtody.

Pretending not to know Charles, they called out, ‘'What do you mean to rob us?'’ ‘'No,' ſaid the officer, who was by this time come up, 'we want to prevent you from robbing other people: I have ſeparate actions againſt you to the tune of ſeven thouſand five hundred pounds.'’

Nothing in nature is ſo cowardly as a detected viliain. If he have a piſtol in his hand, he will fire it through deſperation; but, if he be unarmed, no ſlinking cur ever tucked his tail between his legs in ſo daſtardly a manner.

The ſwindler cocked his hat, but that was all; the ſecurity ſweat, and the bailiff trembled from head to foot. By this time the magiſtrate joined them, who exclaimed, ‘'God bleſs my ſoul, I find it is firſt come firſt ſerved here. I have a de⯑mand upon theſe gentlemen. Come mynheer, ſtand forward.'’

The ſkipper began to jabber ſomething that no⯑body underſtood but the attorney, who explained in French that he had a claim on them for defraud⯑ing [212] the Dutch bank, which our hero, in a moſt in⯑ſulting tone, tranſlated for them into Engliſh.

Next came a mock diſpute between our hero and the magiſtrates. Both claimed the gentlemen as their reſpective priſoners, who, in their turn, be⯑ginning to take a little courage, demanded to ſee by what authority they were detained.

The officer ſaid, archly, he had no ſort of objec⯑tion, if they had a fancy for it, to expoſe them to every paſſenger on the road; but he thought, as they might be aſſured they were nailed faſt enough, it would be the beſt way to go forward to his worſhip's, where every thing would be properly explained to them. ‘'In ſhort,' added he, 'here are the red tails, and you may depend upon it I ſhan't let you out of my ſight till you are ſafely lodged in Chelmsford jail. I did my buſineſs firſt, and if his worſhip wants you up afterwards, upon other affairs, that's none of my concern: thouſands are ſerious things, and my mind won't be eaſy till I have fairly ſhopped you.'’

Several horſemen and others being ſeen at a diſ⯑tance, the priſoners conſented to go to his worſhip's, where a very ſerious examination paſſed. The [213] Dutch embaſſador's name, and many others of very high authority, were bandied about with great free⯑dom. At length, there being, in fact, no poſſi⯑bility of exhibiting a juſt claim on the part of Ma⯑dame Combrie, our hero contented himſelf with getting from them his original three thouſand pounds, upon undertaking, by virtue of his power from that lady, that no further demand, on her ac⯑count, ſhould be made againſt them in England.

As I ſhall not be able to edge in a word by and by upon ſuch paltry ſubjects, I will drop theſe three gentlemen in this place for ever, by ſaying that after this triumvirate came to Flanders, they entered into trade at Ghent, and, under the ap⯑pearance of a conſiderable property, negociated money matters, which they reſolved to carry on with ſcrupulous honeſty, in order to beget them a character, till an opportunity ſhould offer of ſtrik⯑ing one ſtroke for all. This they thought they could not more ſucceſsfully practice than on a de⯑fenceleſs widow.

Having ſo laid their plot that it could not fail—nor indeed ever be known, had not Charles ſo un⯑expectedly come acroſs them—they reſolved to de⯑camp, and, being arrived in England, avail them⯑ [...]elves of a fraudulent bankruptcy: firſt ſharing the [214] whole of their effects in equal proportions. This however they knew they could not do, unleſs they previouſly came to a compoſition with our hero—for, in his affair, there was evidently fraud, collu⯑ſion, and conſpiracy—which they had no doubt but they ſhould be able to do, through a third perſon, upon eaſy terms. Fortune, however, ordained it otherwiſe, as we have ſeen.

As to what became of them afterwards, the ſwin⯑dler was one of the firſt of thoſe who were tranſ⯑ported to Botany Bay, the ſecurity died of poverty in a priſon, and the bailiff, attaching himſelf to an infamous proſtitute—who firſt ruined, and then be⯑trayed him—at length followed his honourable principal.

After many ſincere acknowledgments to the ma⯑giſtrate—with whom they ſtayed all night—for his uncommon attention and politeneſs, our hero and the attorney re-embarked, after agreeing with the ſkipper to ſet them aſhore at Oſtend, which would ſooner bring them to the relief of Madame Com⯑brie's ſuſpenſe.

On the road, Charles let the attorney into his intention, as to the report he ſhould make of this buſineſs to the lady; at which information, what⯑ever [215] it might be, he teſtified much ſurpriſe, and in⯑deed began to think the young gentleman was turned fool; but, being convinced to the contrary, by Charles's following the diſcovery with a reward, he, from that moment, certainly had a very great re⯑gard for our hero:—for he told him ſo.

They found Madame Combrie in a much weaker ſtate than ſhe appeared to be in when they parted from her. She liſtened however to the tale of their ſucceſs with more unconcern than our hero ex⯑pected, which—for the reader knows he was de⯑termined now to impoſe upon people—he explained to be this.

That they had overtaken the fugitives, as we have mentioned, and that being in England, where it was impoſſible to obtain any legal redreſs—for the matter did not amount to a robbery, they having received the money by her own order—he had been under the unpleaſant neceſſity of coming to a com⯑poſition, and of receiving three thouſand pounds, inſtead of almoſt double that ſum. ‘'Thank God you have recovered it, madam,' added Charles, 'and let this narrow eſcape warn you in future how you truſt to ſtrangers.'’

He then diſplayed documents to the amount of [216] two thouſand eight hundred and fifty pounds; the reſt, he ſaid, having gone to defray different ex⯑pences, and recompence that gentleman—meaning the Flemiſh attorney—for the extraordinary pains and attention he had ſhewn in the whole affair; finiſhing with a moſt florid eulogium on the genero⯑ſity and diſintereſtedneſs of this benevolent lawyer, who had—ſtill like his brethren in other countries—eaten, drank, and ſlept well, ſaid yes and no, and rather puzzled matters than explained them.

Our honeſt attorney being gone, Madame Com⯑brie made a very long and very grateful ſpeech, by way of thanks, to our hero. Towards the conclu⯑ſion ſhe uttered theſe words.

‘'Seeing all this is the caſe, that your own ſitua⯑tion is ſo ſtraitened'—for Charles had told her every thing, except indeed that he was in preſent ne⯑ceſſity—'that I ſtand in need of a protector, and that I ſincerely believe there is not a man upon earth of ſuch generous, ſuch delicate, honour as yourſelf, let me offer you a right to call this money yours: a right I do not bluſh to tender: a right that ſhould Combrie look down and ſee us at this moment, he would cheerfully ſanctify; for he was good and benevolent, like yourſelf.'’

[217] ‘'Take care madam what you offer,' ſaid our hero: 'You do not however know all my ſituation. My debts in England would conſume nearly one third of this money; but I own we might orna⯑ment a moſt ſmiling cottage with the remainder.'’ ‘'Lookee, my dear Mr. Hazard,' ſaid the lady, I may not live, in which caſe, who can this mo⯑ney ſo worthily belong to as yourſelf? I hold it at preſent but as a truſt:'—the poor lady how⯑ever did not know how nearly ſhe approached to the truth—'and as, were it fifty times that ſum, were you without a ſixpence in poſſeſſion or ex⯑pectancy, it ſhould court your acceptance, ſo I can now only grieve that its inſignificance reflects no merit on my offer.'’

‘'Madam,' ſaid Charles, more ſeriouſly, 'you know my fatal devotion to a falſe and ungenerous young lady:'’—for I muſt explain here Charles's delicacy never would permit him to name Annette. ‘'I do,' ſaid the lady.’ ‘'You know I can never love another as I have loved her.'’ ‘'This alſo I both admit and admire,' ſaid the lady.’ ‘'You know it is not in my power to offer you more than the moſt ſervent friendſhip.'’ ‘'Which, in you,' ſaid Mrs. Combrie, 'has for me more charms than the moſt violent love in any other [218] man.'’ ‘'You know I have not a friend in the world, and that my fortune is ruined.'’ ‘'Talk of ſomething that will enhance the value of my offer,' ſaid the lady.’ ‘'Knowing this, if you will take me,' exclaimed Charles with the greateſt warmth, 'I am yours; and heaven's my witneſs nothing ſhall ſurpaſs the fidelity and admiration of the beſt huſband that ever devoted himſelf to the moſt diſintereſted and generous of women: and now, my charming, angelic creature—for no⯑thing is ſo young and beautiful as goodneſs—let us firſt be married, and then to England, where our cottage ſhall be thronged with joys unknown to emperors.'’

It is almoſt unneceſſary to add that the lady was charmed with this conduct, or that the very next day they became man and wife.

CHAPTER III.

HAVING, at this tickliſh period, married my hero greatly, I doubt not, to the diſappointment of ſome readers, I ſhall leave him and his ſick wife, who really ſeem to be fit company for each other, and return to England, from whence we have lately heard of a wedding in a very different ſtyle.

That I may be as ſuccinct as poſſible, I ſhall take the matter up earlier than when Mrs. Marlow left Annette ſo highly in dudgeon, and ſo come roundly to that point which I muſt tell the reader happened to be a remarkably critical one.

The reader will readily recollect the converſation between Mr. Ego and Mrs. Marlow, which, of courſe, was only an echo of what continually paſſed at Sir Sidney's, and contained a very inconſiderable part of thoſe manoeuvres which Mr. Gloſs daily put in practice, to deceive the good baronet.

[420] He had however a much harder taſk to perform; for Annette, and even Emma, muſt be ſhaken in their allegiance to this king of their hearts, before he could ſtand the ſmalleſt chance of moulding them to his purpoſe. To do this, he watched all our hero's actions, and, when he ſet on foot his newſ⯑paper, employed an agent to purchaſe—virtually for him however—one of the ſhares. This, it is not difficult to divine, was the man who arreſted him, and from whom he obtained his liberty, upon the terms of his going abroad, which, had he not been ſo precipitate in propoſing himſelf, would have been offered to him.

The perſon who held this ſhare of the paper for Mr. Gloſs, appeared to be a great favourer of the ſcheme, and was one of the laſt who ſeceded; both of which ſteps were good policy, becauſe one en⯑abled him to do the paper a great deal of private in⯑jury, and the other kept all its ſecrets within his knowledge to the laſt moment.

When the paper was put down, the other daily prints began, as I have already ſaid, to beſpatter our hero, who, after the buſineſs of the challenge, that he might not be provoked by them, read no⯑thing they inſerted. On that account, the follow⯑ing paragraph totally eſcaped his notice, which was [221] given to the public about four days before Annette paid Charles that viſit, the nature of which it is now my buſineſs to explain.

This paragraph, in the uſual pompous ſtyle, had ſcarcely appeared when two or three ſtrange fellows were watching about Sir Sidney's houſe, and one was ſeen in the garden, but he made his eſcape over the wall before the ſervant could come up with [222] him. To ſay truth, Sir Sidney was not a little alarmed. Indeed Annette herſelf could not help teſtifying ſome ſurpriſe; and, as to Emma, though her ſentiments were perfectly decided, ſhe kept them to herſelf; for ſome freedoms Mr. Gloſs had, about that time, provoked her to take, drew from Sir Sidney what amounted to almoſt a declaration of diſmiſſing her his houſe, upon a repetition of ſuch liberties.

Until the upſhot of our hero's villanous ſtratagem ſhould be known, Sir Sidney propoſed that they ſhould all go into the country for a few days, and the place made choice of was Richmond, where they had been repeatedly invited by an old friend of the baronet.

Mr. Gloſs having carried his point thus far, the accompliſhment of his ſcheme waited only for its coup de grace. This was performed in the following manner.

As Annette was ſtrolling in the garden, to enjoy the ſweet ſerenity of a moonlight night, and, not to hide the truth, to reflect on her love for our hero, who now ſhe began to fear would never be hers, and, what was worſe, never deſerve to be hers, two men ſuddenly came behind her. Having taken [223] their meaſures like adepts in their buſineſs, ſhe was completely prevented from either ſtruggling, or alarming any of the family, and, in a very few mi⯑nutes placed between the ſtrangers in a poſt chaiſe.

Theſe gentlemen told her, with many aſſevera⯑tions, to back the truth of their aſſertions, that no harm was intended her; that ſhe was only to be carried to Squire Hazard's houſe, in London, who, Lord bleſs his heart, for he was a worthy gentle⯑man, loved her better than he did his eyes, and who, this orator ſaid, it was his belief, intended to marry her that very night, or ſtick himſelf before her face.

Annette, with prayers and entreaties, begged they would carry her back again. Her pride was deeply wounded at this poor, this paltry ſcheme of ſtealing her from her father; and I muſt own, and com⯑mend her for it at the ſame time, that ſhe had, at that moment, a contemptible opinion of Charles.—At the ſame time ſhe could not think that ſhe ran the ſmalleſt riſk as to her honour. She could eaſily ſee ſhe ſhould be purſued, and, as her father and Mr. Gloſs were already upon their guard, probably overtaken before they ſhould arrive at the end of their journey.

[224] With theſe ideas in contemplation, Annette bore her misfortune with ſomething like compoſure, which ſo won, in appearance, on her conductors, that they began to plead the cauſe of our hero very forcibly: not but they allowed it was a little hard to oblige a young lady to do any thing againſt her will, even though it was to pleaſe herſelf. One of them pretended to be ſo attached to her intereſt, that he would tell her, Lord love her pretty face, all how the thing was, that ſhe might better know what to make of matters when ſhe ſhould ſee young Squire Hazard. This well concerted fiction was nothing more than fancying what a man would na⯑turally do who ſaw, as it were, a young lady fly into his very arms. He ſaid, at firſt ſight our hero would appear very much aſtoniſhed at ſeeing her. He would then pretend to ſuppoſe the whole buſi⯑neſs was her act and deed. ‘'Ay,' ſaid ſhe, 'but he ſhall not have time to do that.'’

Upon that circumſtance they hitched their whole hope of ſucceſs. If once Charles and Annette ſhould begin to quarrel, every word muſt widen the breach; nor—that our hero might have as much embarraſſment as poſſible—was the time pitched upon a ſlight article in this maſs of contri⯑vance. When could it be put in execution to ſuch good effect as at that moment when his mind was [225] perturbed, diſtracted, and broken to pieces, by re⯑flecting on his ſucceſsleſs attempts at independancy, and when he was—which is SHAKESPEARE's doubt magnified—flying from ills he had, to ruſh on others that he knew not of.

All theſe matters, ſo artfully conceived, ſo nicely combined, and ſo certain in their effect, could not fail of producing exactly what we have ſeen. It is needleſs to ſay that Mr. Gloſs kept the poſt chaiſe in ſight all the way, for he mounted his horſe the moment they were fairly off, leaving word with a ſervant to tell Sir Sidney—who he had taken care ſhould be at ſome diſtance—that ſeeking him and explaining matters would take up too much time, but that Miſs Roebuck was ſtolen away by Mr. Hazard, and he was ſet out to follow them. He therefore adviſed him to come to town himſelf with all expedition, but not to be under the leaſt appre⯑henſion, for he would reſtore the young lady, or loſe his life in the attempt. There was ſomething a little awkward in not taking the baronet with him; but there would have been riſk in it, and the ſtrong circumſtances which would afterwards come out, muſt, he knew, completely cover any inaccu⯑racy that, in a contrivance of ſo complicate a na⯑ture, was of courſe indiſpenſible.

[226] When Annette got home, and Sir Sidney heard her inveigh againſt our hero, and extol, in the higheſt terms of panegyric, the generoſity and gal⯑lantry of Gloſs, he ran over with pleaſure. He al⯑moſt pitied the poor deſperate devil, who had been put to ſo pitiful, ſo unavailing a piece of villanous folly, ſo ill contrived that it defeated its own end. He launched out into the moſt grateful flow of warmth and energy in praiſe of Gloſs, and told his daughter that ſhe could no longer refuſe to give him her hand. Grant, he ſaid, that this young mon⯑ſter had formerly made an impreſſion on her heart, it was now as much a duty ſhe owed herſelf as him, to tear from her mind all traces of a paſſion that could reflect on her only unworthineſs and diſho⯑nour: an affection for an unprincipled villain and a paltry coward.

Indeed nothing had ſet Sir Sidney ſo much againſt Charles as his having refuſed to accept the challenge; eſpecially after Gloſs had reminded him that one of his anceſtors, in the reign of one of the Edwards, had, at a tournament, fought a duel by the king's authority.

Mr. Gloſs was not yet however contented. He would ſeek for more proofs againſt Mr. Hazard.—The affection of ſuch a young lady as Miſs Roe⯑buck [227] could not but be decided, let it be placed ever ſo unworthily. No pains ought to be ſpared to reſtore eaſe to ſo gentle a heart: a heart that it ſhould be the whole devotion of his life to merit.

The next day he pretended to enquire about Charles, and found, to his great aſtoniſhment—for ſo he told Sir Sidney—that he had ſomehow or other got rid of the bailiff, and ſlipt away to France. Another day or two was taken to enquire into the particulars of this tranſaction. Every moment of all this time Sir Sidney was making preparations for the wedding: Annette being yet wavering and unreſolved, till, on the morning of that day when Mrs. Marlow called at Sir Sidney's, by the greateſt good luck in the world, the bailiff and the two bail were found out, and brought before Sir Sid⯑ney, to whom they offered to make oath that Charles was gone abroad to be married, and pro⯑duced the bond as a corroboration of what they aſſerted.

Annette, without heſitation, now conſented to the marriage; to do which ſhe muſtered up ſo ſtrong a portion of reſolution, and wore ſuch ap⯑parent content in her features, that except now and then a ſigh, ſhe betrayed no ſort of repugnance be⯑fore company, as to what was going forward.

[228] Emma however was not even yet deceived; but what could avail her feeble voice in a multitude?—that is to ſay in mere reaſoning, for if ſhe had ſpoken out it would have been in thunder—eſpecially pro⯑hibited as ſhe was from ſpeaking. It was on this account ſhe deſired Mrs. Marlow, while Annette was at the other end of the room, to tell Charles ‘'that his enemy was now an Antaeus in the arms of Hercules.'’

This the good lady did not underſtand, or could not remember, otherwiſe it might have made ſome alteration in Charles's conduct. And now came the moment, as Emma thought, for her to ſtep for⯑ward. She gloried in the opportunity, and the more her adverſaries approached to an hoſt, the ſtronger ſhe found herſelf againſt them.

Her grand coup de theatre, however, was for the preſent poſtponed; for, at ſix o'clock on that very morning Annette was to have been made a bride, it was the opinion of every one about her that ſhe would never be married but to her grave. She was ſeized with ſo violent a fever, accompanied by ſo ſtrong a delirium, that her father, Lady Roebuck, three phyſicians, and an apothecary, were fully of opinion ſhe could not live till the canonical hour. [229] Mr. Gloſs however, to work as ſecretly as poſſible, did not fail to blaze in the papers with an account of the wedding; no circumſtance being omitted to hyperbolize the ſplendid talents of the bridegroom, or the fortune, beauty, and accompliſhments of the daughter of that truly patriotic and independant country gentleman, Sir Sidney Walter Roebuck, the oldeſt title of baronet in the kingdom.

Annette's illneſs, in compliment to Charles—though it was no more than what had happened to him, in compliment to her—had like to have had effects as dangerous as they were ſudden. For a whole fortnight nobody expected ſhe would reco⯑ver. After that time however, though ſhe certainly exhibited tokens of convaleſcence, yet her mind had been ſo rudely ſhocked, as to leave the recovery of her intellects a very doubtful buſineſs. They were at length ſo far reſtored as to ſadden into a ſettled, placid melancholy, which left her a pale and mournful example of ſenſible and unſhaken conſtancy.

Mr. Gloſs began now to be afraid that providence had determined to defeat what he had defied the impuiſſant art of man to deſtroy. Yet, that nothing might be wanted on his part, he was indefatigable [230] to procure intelligence of our hero's motions; when, at length, through Ego, he learnt of his marriage: Ego himſelf having been informed of it by Mrs. Marlow.

Emma, finding that this marriage was no coun⯑terfeit, like the reſt, began in earneſt to fear that all was over. To ſatisfy herſelf of the particulars, ſhe called on Mrs. Marlow—for now ſhe was de⯑termined to keep no meaſures—and was by her ſhewn the letters from our hero, by which ſhe plainly ſaw he had fallen a victim to the arts of Gloſs. Her heart bled for him. She perceived he had entailed miſery on himſelf through the beſt pride and the nobleſt honour that ever young man poſſeſſed. His caſe therefore appeared to be deſ⯑perate.

This however ſhe conceived ought, for the ſake of her young lady, rather to accelerate than retard her meaſures, which ſhe was now reſolved to go about fully and fairly: eſpecially as, to give expe⯑diency to them, ſhe had, through Mrs. Marlow, though unknown to that good woman, made a ſtrong corroborative diſcovery of one of thoſe facts through which ſhe expected to carry her point.

Emma compared herſelf to General Monk; ſay⯑ing, [231] ſhe was determined to ſtrike no ſtroke till ſhe ſhould be ſure of ſucceſs.

Having now, however, collected her whole force into one point of view, ſhe marched forward, and, without a ſingle hoſtile movement, obtained a de⯑ciſive victory.

In other words, Sir Sidney no ſooner heard what ſhe had to alledge, backed with ſuch convincing proofs, than no man upon earth ever took ſuch blame to himſelf, or conceived ſuch an inveterate enmity to another as he did to Mr. Gloſs. Indeed had not the diſcovery Emma made involved matters of ſtill greater importance, which were not yet quite ripe for public examination, nothing could have reſtrained the baronet from making of his quondam favourite an immediate and moſt ſevere example. As it was, he fairly inliſted under General Emma, who, though ſhe feared ſhe ſhould not put her King Charles in poſſeſſion of that throne Annette's per⯑ſon, yet ſhe was now ſure of reſtoring the happineſs of that kingdom Sir Sidney's family, whoſe intereſt ſhe had ſo dearly at heart.

Poor Annette could enjoy none of this. A heavy languor pervaded her ſenſes. She received every thing that was ſaid to her with beautiful attention [232] and ſolemn innocence, but gave no tokens of col⯑lected comprehenſion, except anſwering with a ſigh any paſſage of tenderneſs, and now and then letting fall a pearly tear, with always—in a faint, but ſweet accent—the exclamation of ‘'I am ſure poor Charles is not a villain.'’

CHAPTER IV.

As Emma's provident conduct, with her prin⯑cipal, General Monk, in view, ſeems to be an ex⯑ample worthy imitation, I ſhall here ſo far follow it as to bring into one focus ſuch objects as will conduce to an elucidation of what to ſome may have appeared extraneous.

As however, early in this hiſtory, I diſclaimed the idea of introducing any thing foreign to the ſub⯑ject—indeed I muſt have been very abſurd if I had introduced any ſuch thing, for I have full matter enough that honeſtly appertains to it—I will not give what I am now going to explain the appellation of extraneous, but leading circumſtances.

To effect ſome part of this purpoſe, I ſhall now give a brief account of Mr. Figgins, from the time he bid our hero adieu at Lyons, to the period to which this hiſtory is advanced. The reader knows [234] that the gentleman I am ſpeaking of was heartily glad to quit Charles, and return to England. To this however he was induced by a motive, among others, of a better kind than has been yet explained. He was then doing, or rather profeſſing to do what we are told, by the higheſt authority, is im⯑poſſible; namely, ſerving two maſters: and which, to keep that incomparable idea in view, was, lite⯑rally ſpeaking, God and Mammon. In ſhort, his compacts with Charles and Mr. Standfaſt were very oppoſite things; yet, to the one he was obliged, and to the other willing to adhere.

Mr. Figgins had not ſufficiently conſidered that however vice may have its allurements, there is yet ſomething ſo pure, ſo winning in virtue and ho⯑nour, that a man ſtands a chance of becoming a convert to it, even though—like an advocate who pleads a cauſe he has no opinion of—he ſhould only maintain the ſubject by way of mere argument.

Thus it happened to Mr. Figgins, for he very often caught himſelf in the very act of ſeriouſly admiring our hero, when his agreement was to ſerve his enemies.

He did not flinch, however, as we have ſeen.—He diſcharged his truſt to the very letter of it, and [235] then claimed what had been promiſed him, a living of two hundred a year, to be added to his other income.

Finding however that Mr. Standfaſt's perfor⯑mance of this promiſe depended upon the intereſt of Zekiel, who, as we have ſeen, upon his acceſſion to his fortune, left him fairly in the lurch, Mr. Figgins began to ſee he had been a rogue for no-nothing. He could not, notwithſtanding, blame Mr. Standfaſt, whoſe loſs was ſtill heavier; yet he was determined to ſhake of that tyrannical yoke which—in conſequence of a few favours conferred on him in his youth, out of which, by the way, the other had had his gleanings—Standfaſt had ſo hea⯑vily laid on his ſhoulders. To do this with perfect propriety was, however, no eaſy taſk, nor would he have been able to effect it, with any proſpect of real ſatisfaction to himſelf, or advantage to others, if he had not thought of a coalition with Emma.

To this Mr. Figgins was ſtimulated by various motives. Mr. Standfaſt had unbent his mind a good deal before him, and particularly in an al⯑tercation one day with Mrs. O'Shockneſy, when ſuch hints were thrown out as obliged him, in his mind, to take a decided part on the ſpot.

[236] A few days after this he received intelligence from Mr. Balance of the handſome way in which our hero had ſettled on him a hundred a year.—This determined him to take an active part. The conſideration that all his dirty work had been paid by a diſappointment, and that the very man he had aſſiſted to cheat had conferred on him ſuch an un⯑expected and unmerited benefit, worked ſtrongly in his heart. It reproached him with being a raſ⯑cal; a deſpicable, low, ſhuffling villain. In ſhort, like Harry Hotſpur's ſtarling, nothing, ſleeping or waking, was dinned in his ears by his conſcience but ſuch opprobrious ſounds, till, at length, the conſlict abated, and he taſted the pleaſure of feeling himſelf an honeſt man.

To do our hero any thing like juſtice, he ſaw was a moſt tremendous taſk indeed, and of this he ſoon convinced Emma, who ſaid it was plain the at⯑tempt, and not the deed, would confound them.

The reader will admit that circumſtances, half diſcloſed, lead to ſuch a maze of apparently differ⯑ent meanings, that the chances are infinitely againſt coming at the truth, by purſuing any one of them. No wonder then they were frequently thrown out, and unable to proceed with certainty to any thing further than what Sir Sidney was now acquainted [237] with, and which, as it related only to the downfal of Mr. Gloſs, and our hero's reconciliation with the baronet, was but a trifle in compariſon of what they were ſure, by patience and perſeverance, they might achieve.

Beſides, to ſay the truth, they were willing to let Charles go the length of his tether. There was ſuch redundancy of goodneſs in his mind, that it was abſolutely neceſſary he ſhould know the world practically: that he ſhould feel experience. They thought they could marry him to Annette when⯑ever they pleaſed: but here indeed they reckoned without their hoſt, though it muſt be owned not without good ſenſe; for nothing could be ſo unlike⯑ly as that he ſhould take ſo extraordinary a ſtep, though, as matters turned out, I hope the reader does not think it extraordinary at all.

Thus then their plot rolled on, like a ſnow ball, till Annette began to be actually in danger; for then it was found neceſſary for Figgins to act overtly towards Charles, in proportion as Emma obſerved the ſame conduct with Sir Sidney. For this purpoſe he called at Charles's houſe—for he was the ſtranger of whom Mrs. Marlow ſpeaks in her letter—with the news of his brother's dangerous illneſs, which [238] was no invention, but actually a fact; and, to con⯑firm what is there imperfectly given, I now inform the reader that Maſter Zekiel—to uſe the landlord's expreſſion at the John of Gaunt—began to rub off the ruſt of his anceſtors, by leaving the world three days after the ſporting accident, before ſpoken of; upon which Mr. Tadpole took poſſeſſion, at the Lady Dowager's deſire, for the eldeſt ſon, lawfully begotten by Lord Hazard, till he ſhould arrive to the age of one and twenty: and, in caſe of his death, for the younger.

Mr. Gloſs, however, who could ſee as well and as far as either Mr. Figgins or Mrs. Emma, took care, as we have ſeen, to defeat the whole end of this friendly viſit. It was however repeated the day after Mrs. Marlow wrote to Charles, when Mr. Figgins explained himſelf as far as he thought neceſ⯑ſary, and, among the reſt, told the good old lady that he had three hundred and fifty pounds belong⯑ing to the young gentleman, which he wanted to remit him: which money, to ſhew to what a de⯑gree Figgins was become honeſt, was the very identical annuity, as far as he had received it, which Charles had ſettled on him, and which he vowed to the Almighty, in the preſence of Emma, he would not touch a ſhilling of till he had, like a man of [239] honour, confeſſed his former conduct to Charles himſelf, implored his pardon, and, by ſome wor⯑thy atonement, merited his friendſhip.

Upon this ſubject he inceſſantly beſieged Mrs. Marlow, and indeed ſo did Emma, till, finding they were real friends—for, as Emma told her, ‘'he who gives money ſeldom feigns'’—the old gentle⯑woman became as anxious to bring about this recon⯑ciliation, as Figgins to deſire it. But how was this to be done? Our hero's proceedings had been ſo ſudden and extraordinary, that he had no opportu⯑nity of writing till he was ready to come to En⯑gland, and then he thought it unneceſſary; for, leſt his wife ſhould become weaker, they packed up their alls, and began their journey in a day or two after their marriage: ſo that not one ſyllable came from Charles to Mrs. Marlow, till ſhe re⯑ceived the following letter from Rocheſter.

Mrs. Marlow, who had, though innocently, been herſelf the cauſe of what our hero had done, was in a ſit of diſtraction at the receipt of this letter.—She thought every door was now barred between Charles and that which could alone procure his hap⯑pineſs.

In this ſituation ſhe was found by Figgins, who, in vain, adminiſtered every poſſible conſolation to [241] her. She ſaid ſhe was an ungrateful woman; a wrong-headed, impatient wretch; who, in return for ſaving her and hers from wretchedneſs and mi⯑ſery, had wantonly, though heaven knew not wickedly, heaped deſtruction on the head of her be⯑nefactor.

At length, however, they both conſidered that to loſe a moment's time would be committing a real crime, while ſhe was only accuſing herſelf of an imaginary one. It was therefore determined that they ſhould both ſet out in the ſame poſt chaiſe, and that Figgins ſhould begin his attack on our hero's ſenſibility in the preſence of Mrs. Marlow, who had ſo much to ſay in his deſence. Indeed they moſt ſeriouſly promiſed to be each other's advocate, though both knew there was not a tenderer nor more merciful heart upon earth; and this was a greater conſolation to Figgins than to Mrs. Mar⯑low, for he well knew how ſublimely our hero ex⯑celled in all noble and generous exertions, while ſhe was convinced that this very ſweetneſs in him would be her bittereſt ſorrow, for the readier he might be to forgive her, the more unwilling ſhould ſhe be to forgive herſelf; and indeed both of theſe reflections were perfect in their kind, for one had been guilty of crimes which, to procure peace of [242] mind, muſt be pardoned and forgotten, whereas the other was only an error, which ought to be re⯑membered, that it might not be repeated.

I ſhall now leave our hero's friend and houſe⯑keeper on the road to Rocheſter, and ſee how he himſelf came there, as well as explain why he could not reach London. The matter will be underſtood when I ſay that, having determined to viſit En⯑gland, immediately after the wedding, he and his lady ſet out, by ſhort ſtages, to Oſtend; for it was yet poſſible that it might be dangerous for her to ſet her foot in France, and it was his buſineſs not to do any thing that could give her the ſmalleſt ap⯑prehenſion. This journey was alſo taken as ſoon as poſſible, for marriage had not, by any means, abated the good lady's diſorder: on the contrary, ſhe viſibly became worſe every day, which was not perhaps a little facilitated by a diſcovery of our hero's trick, as to the fortune.

In ſhort, the attorney, looking upon the tranſ⯑action as a kind of miracle, proclaimed it from one to another, till at length it came to the lady's ears, who finding that very generoſity performed by another of which ſhe hoped to reap all the glory herſelf, grew—ſo perverſe is human nature—very unhappy at it. Not that ſhe repined at being de⯑pendant [243] on ſuch a huſband, for ſhe ſpoke of his greatneſs of ſoul with a kind of adoration; but her tender heart melted to think that ſhe could give nothing in return for ſuch goodneſs, but trouble, uneaſineſs, and ſorrow. That a perfect youth, rich in all the gifts of nature, and bleſt with heaven's beſt endowments, ſhould be fated to drag on a life of ſadneſs, and receive only the feeble endearments of unavailing gratitude, when the willing and inſpir⯑ing love of the handſomeſt and beſt woman upon earth would be infinitely beneath his merits.

Some other female conſiderations perhaps lent theſe a little ſtrength. Mrs. Hazard was many years older than her huſband: her illneſs had not altered her perſon to her advantage—for ſhe cer⯑tainly had been a very beautiful woman—and the conſciouſneſs that ſhe could not render him that at⯑tention her wiſhes prompted her to, finiſhed her wretchedneſs; a ſettled gloom pervaded her mind, and ſhe pined at heart that ſhe could only give thanks where it would have delighted her ſoul to have beſtowed worlds.

There was however a ſtronger reaſon than any of theſe. Her diſorder had taken deep hold on her before ſhe ſaw Charles, and when ſhe ſet out for England it had become a ſerious buſineſs. Our [244] hero therefore, before he took this ſtep, had a con⯑ſultation of phyſicians, who privately aſſured him that whatever was done could be conſidered only as an experiment, for that her end, though it ſeemed at ſome ſmall diſtance, evidently appeared but too certain. A voyage to England therefore was by no means unadviſable, for certainly they had known change of air and a paſſage by ſea bring about ex⯑traordinary cures, and that, if it ſhould have the contrary effect, he would have the conſciouſneſs of recollecting the integrity of his own intentions in a buſineſs where fate at laſt was to decide.

Mrs. Hazard arrived at Oſtend tolerably well, conſidering her ſituation, and Charles, after reſting two or three days, to find a convenient veſſel, and chooſe calm weather, handed her on board a ſloop bound for Dover. Their paſſage however was ren⯑dered both tedious and troubleſome, by an altera⯑tion of the wind, which ſuddenly chopt about, and blew almoſt a gale. Charles was himſelf very ſick, but his wife's ſituation was dreadful; on which he was congratulated by ſeveral paſſengers, who ſaid they were ſure it would reſtore the lady's health. Thoſe however who entertain this opinion are egre⯑giouſly miſtaken, for how can ſtraining and lace⯑rating the ſtomach be of ſervice to it. I ſhall not, at any rate, pretend to ſay farther on this ſubject [245] here, than that it had on this good lady an effect very different from that prognoſticated; for ſhe had ſcarcely landed at Dover, after a paſſage of ſeventeen hours, when ſhe was ſeized with fainting fits, which followed one another, at different inter⯑vals, for three days; after which, ſhe grew more equal in her ſymptoms, being neither ſo high nor ſo low in ſpirits.

In this equanimity of mind, ſhe thought ſhe could very well proceed on her journey, and both ſhe and our hero flattered themſelves that, after this criſis of her diſorder, it would take a favoura⯑ble turn. They therefore ſet out, making ſhort ſtages; or, as the poſtillion from the ſhip, who had been a ſailor, called it, trips.

At length the whole hopes of both Charles and his lady were fruſtrated; for ſhe had ſcarcely got into the inn at Rocheſter, when ſhe was again ſeized with her fainting fits, which continued in ſo long and ſo alarming a ſucceſſion, that the worſt conſe⯑quences were greatly feared. Charles therefore wrote, as we have ſeen, immediately to Mrs. Mar⯑low, till whoſe arrival he became—as indeed he had been all along—a tender and affectionate huſband, a conſoling and inſtructive companion, and, what was perhaps as much to his honour as either, a [246] watchful and attentive nurſe:—and in this ſenti⯑ment I will inſiſt; for upon the ſame principle, in a ſtate, that the buſtle of war is only neceſſary in proportion as it promotes the bleſſings of peace, ſo he is the greateſt man who can reliſh, after the exertions of his public duty, in a ſtill more exalted degree, the felicity ariſing from domeſtic tranquil⯑lity.

CHAPTER V.

WHEN Mrs. Marlow arrived at Rocheſter, Mrs. Hazard was at the laſt extremity, ſo that the good old lady had little more to do than to cloſe her eyes.

Mrs. Hazard's whole conduct, throughout her illneſs, had been touching and exemplary. Charles, though he did not love her with ardour, yet loved her with a better affection than do nine huſbands out of ten love their wives. He found himſelf poſ⯑ſeſſed of a woman capable of making any man happy, and with whom he had flattered himſelf he ſhould paſs a life of ſober, rational delight. Again, ſhe was a kind of outcaſt, like himſelf, and their fortunes, by a ſimilar chain of circumſtances, pointed them out as fit partners for each other. It is not juſtice then to ſay he barely regretted her loſs. He mourned it; honeſtly, ſincerely mourned it. Indeed ſo much, that had he been given his choice [248] to have had her reſtored to life, or Annette un⯑married, he would not have heſitated a moment: ſo much was generoſity in him above ſelf-intereſt.

All that he could now do was to pay what reſpect was in his power to her memory. He procured her to be buried in the cathedral; had a ſmall, but elegantly deſigned, monument erected over her grave; drew the deſign and wrote the epitaph him⯑ſelf; in which was prettily introduced her maiden name, her name by her firſt marriage, and that which ſhe owned when ſhe died; concluding that he, diſconſolate as he was, evidently deſerved her leſs than either her father or her firſt huſband: for ſhe had fled from him, to join them.

This image, poetically put, had, as the reader ſees, capabilities, and Charles ſo improved upon them, that his pen did not ſhame his conception.

Theſe preparations took up nearly ſeven weeks; for Charles would not ſtir from the ſpot till he had ſeen them finiſhed. The exemplary conduct of ſo reſpectable a young man, drew a crowd of friends about him, and his lodgings were thronged with a number of the firſt people in the neighbourhood, who called on him with compliments of condolence, all which he received with an unaffected dignity, [249] peculiar to himſelf; till at length, having ſettled every thing to his ſatisfaction, he left Rocheſter with the title of The pattern for huſbands.'

All this train of circumſtances I thought it better to diſpatch at once, than to introduce Figgins be⯑fore I could give him a clear courſe.

When Figgins and Mrs. Marlow came within a mile of Rocheſter, it was agreed that he ſhould get out, and ſaunter ſlowly on, in order that ſhe might break the ice for him. When ſhe came to the Bell, however, a waiter was ſent with her to Charles's apartments, where being immediately conducted to the lady's chamber, and finding her in the condi⯑tion I have deſcribed, all ideas of any other cir⯑cumſtance or perſon upon earth utterly fled from her. She thought no more of Mr. Figgins than of the man in the moon. On his part, when he came to the inn, and, upon enquiry, found how matters were, he felt that he could not have choſen a more improper moment than the preſent, and therefore determined to wait a day or two, or till he ſhould hear from Mrs. Marlow.

The next morning, however, Mrs. Hazard's death happened, and when Mrs. Marlow had re⯑freſhed [250] herſelf, after her fatigues, with a little ſleep, it came into her mind that Figgins muſt be at the inn.

It will readily be ſeen that this event, ſad as it was, had abated Mrs. Marlow's anger againſt her⯑ſelf; for, both our hero and Annette being at that moment ſingle, the miſchief ſhe had done was, as ſhe thought, not now irretrievable.

It was a ſad moment to be ſure, but ſtill her tongue itched to inform Charles that Sir Sidney was his friend, and that there was no further obſtacle, except poor Annette's unhappy indiſpoſition, to the completion of his wiſhes. She could not however help throwing out a few hints. This ſhe took an opportunity of doing that very evening, while Charles was contemplating with ſober awful atten⯑tion the features of the poor lady, who was then ly⯑ing in her ſhroud. After a long and ſilent exami⯑nation of that dreary ſtate of ſad mortality; that ſtate ſo much courted, yet ſo little deſired; an invo⯑luntary ſigh eſcaped him, and he uttered, ‘'There certainly is a reſemblance.'’ ‘'A reſemblance of what?' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, near whom he did not ſeem conſcious he was then ſtanding.’

‘'Oh!' ſaid Charles, ſtarting, 'I had forgot you [251] were here. What did you ſay?'’ ‘'Nay,' ſaid ſhe, 'I aſked you what you ſaid.'’ ‘'Upon my word I have forgot,' anſwered Charles, 'but I know I was thinking that poor Annette here—'’ ‘'Annette!' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'no, thank God, ſhe is not here, nor in this ſhocking ſtate. An⯑nette! Lord ſir, what made you think of Miſs Annette?'’

‘'Miſs Annette!' ſaid Charles. 'Is ſhe not—'’ ‘'No that ſhe is not,' cried the good old lady, 'ſhe is not married, nor has ſhe been. It was a report, and a lie, circulated by that devil Gloſs; and three days after I had written you word of it, I could almoſt have cut off the very fingers that held the pen which wrote ſuch falſe news. No ſir, thank God, that villain's reign is over; Sir Sidney will beg your pardon, and you will be re⯑ſtored to his friendſhip.'’

Charles ſtood in ſuch aſtoniſhment while he heard theſe words, that he could not prevent her uttering them. The moment ſhe had done ſo, how⯑ever, he replied ‘'I hope all this may be found true, but it would be indecent indeed, at preſent, to enter into it further. The moſt deſirable ex⯑pectation upon earth ſhould not prevent me from doing my duty here.'’

[252] ‘'Ay, ay, you again,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow. 'God bleſs you for it. Will any body make me believe you won't at laſt be perfectly happy? But I beg your pardon; I won't ſay another word; only this, that poor Mr. Figgins has repented of all his villany, and you have not a better friend in the world.'’

‘'Figgins?' ſaid Charles. 'Impoſſible!'’ ‘'In⯑deed ſir it is not,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'for he is now at the inn, and dares not come into your pre⯑ſence, for fear you ſhould not pardon him, al⯑though he would lay down his life to receive for⯑giveneſs at your hands.'’

She then produced the three hundred and fifty pounds, and began to enumerate ſo many proofs of his converſion, that Charles, in ſpight of himſelf, heard her to an end, and, when he had done ſo, was upon the point of diſpatching a meſſenger to Figgins, to ſee him immediately; but Mrs. Mar⯑low ſaid it would be better to ſend to him that night, but not to appoint him till the morning, for he would be greatly affected at a propoſal of being kindly received, and it would give a little time to prepare him for ſuch a meeting.

This was well put in by Mrs. Marlow, for it en⯑ſured [253] Figgins a kind meſſage, which muſt inevita⯑bly be the harbinger of a reconciliation.

The next morning, the breakfaſt things upon the table, and our hero ſitting thoughtfully, while he looked at a book which he could pay no attention to, Figgins was uſhered in by Mrs. Marlow. He was beginning, with a low inclination of the body, to make a ſpeech, when our hero, taking him by the hand, interrupted him with ‘'Mr. Figgins, I beg I may not hear a ſingle retroſpective word. If it can be poſſible that you ever did me any ill office, it muſt have been through the blind influence of falſe gratitude. Senſe of obligation to a raſcal made you, perhaps, a little unjuſt yourſelf. It is not till lately I have ſeen this, nor did you, very likely, at the time. At any rate, my mind is now in no ſtate for inveſtigations; therefore, I beg our converſation may be on no topic that may divert it from that object on which it is fixed.—For the reſt, I freely give you my hand; and as I am ſure we ever had a regard for each other, let it in future continue without interruption.'’

‘'My incomparable friend exactly,' ſaid Figgins. Oh God, ſir, I wiſh you would permit me to give way to what I feel. But I ſuppreſs it. Yet I ſhall never be happy till, by ſhewing you what I [254] have been, you ſhall ſee what I truly am. How could I?—but I have done. Only let me ſay that this is the happieſt moment of my life, becauſe it is the moſt honourable.'’

After ſome hours, Charles began to be greatly pleaſed at having Figgins with him in this extre⯑mity. He had ſuffered much poignant uneaſineſs from reflecting that he was again without a ſingle friend. Figgins had been the only man he had ever conſidered in that light. To him he had given his unreſerved confidence. The lighter and more youthful of his pleaſures had been purſued in his company, which, though perhaps not the moſt wor⯑thy, yet are unceaſingly the moſt endearing. In ſhort, Charles was melancholy, he was fatigued at heart by looking at nothing but unpleaſant proſ⯑pects, real pain, and certain diſappointment. Not that his grief was of that very apparent kind which pained every body who witneſſed it. He had no opinion of that ſorrow which vents itſelf in cries and lamentations. His was ardent and honeſt, but it was decent and manly. Thus, no friend ever came more opportunely. With Figgins he could divide it: from him he could receive as much conſolation as ſuch grief was capable of admitting. There were collateral conſiderations alſo that weighed in this buſineſs. Figgins had known poor Combrie; had [255] aſſiſted in obtaining that very fortune, part of which Charles had now in his poſſeſſion; and it gave him a melancholy pleaſure to reflect that their returning friendſhip would be cemented by ſo awful a cir⯑cumſtance as Figgins's performing the laſt mourn⯑ful rites to the poor deceaſed lady.

Thus conſoled, Charles conſulted his friend in every ſtep he took, and they both became ſo fond of their ſolemn office, that no other ſubject in⯑truded itſelf till after the day that hid the lady's cares within the ſilent tomb.

Into that tomb however I ſhall not deſcend, nor ſhall I ſay any thing more about it than that, from the moment it was completed to Charles's ſatisfac⯑tion, no ſtranger ever viſited Rocheſter cathedral but was particularly ſhewn it, and told its hiſtory.

From the interment to the time of their quitting Rocheſter, Figgins took every opportunity of open⯑ing his grand battery, which he begged he might preface with a hiſtory of himſelf, that his friend might ſee what ſort of men there were in the world, and how eaſy it was to paſs art and wickedneſs for wiſdom and goodneſs. He aſſured Charles it would take a burthen off his mind that never could be lightened but by a free confeſſion; that it was the [256] only lurking uneaſineſs that remained; and, that once diſſipated, he ſhould never again ſuffer a ſingle moment's care; but, on the contrary, if he were prohibited from the only means that could relieve his mind, his whole life would be imbittered with the recollection that his happineſs was incomplete.

At length, Charles growing more and more com⯑poſed in his mind, Figgins was permitted to ſay what he pleaſed, which favour obtained, he began as follows.

‘'My dear ſir, let me premiſe to you, never take into your favour a man whoſe origin or education has placed him in the way of imbibing low or vulgar prejudices. In proportion as he has abi⯑lity enough to think for himſelf, he will, from a captious conſciouſneſs of inferiority, fancy him⯑ſelf in as natural a ſtate of warfare with his ſupe⯑riors, as the crow does with the eagle, and will ſupply in cunning what he wants in ſtrength.’

‘'Theſe being his affections, ſhould an opportu⯑nity ſerve of mending his fortune, what are then his reflections? Why, truly, that ſuperior talents have done that for him which ungrateful fortune neglected to do. He therefore transfers the obli⯑gation from himſelf to his patron, and, with all [357] the low cunning of a tricking ſervant, he will do his utmoſt to undermine that intereſt it is his duty to promote. At the ſame time there are ſome few examples to the contrary. Very few, how⯑ever; for he the world calls an upſtart is very feldom indeed known to be grateful.’

‘'How muſt it be then when one lowly born, bred in a ſchool ſituate in the midſt of every ſpecies of wickedneſs, ſtimulated to all the licentious prac⯑tices of broils and riots, and practiſed only in art and craftineſs, meets, at his ſetting out in the world, with a man who makes a point of chuſing him out for this very unluckineſs, and who means to uſe no part of his qualities but thoſe which are to diſgrace him in the eye of every honeſt man.’

‘'Theſe are the portraits of Mr. Standfaſt and myſelf! I think not my birth a diſgrace, for my parents were honeſt. I think not my education an unavailing one, becauſe I imbibed the ſame prin⯑ciples of learning as I ſhould have done at the beſt ſchool; but as, till I was almoſt a man, I mixed with none but the moſt filthy vulgar, what won⯑der if low cunning and ſubtle artifice made up my mind: for how, but by the uſe of ſuch talents, could I ever hope to riſe in the world? And [258] then, as if a ſingle ſpark of virtue—which God knows I honeſtly believed had no exiſtence but in idea—was likely to check this worthy belief, in ſtept Mr. Standfaſt, who aſſured me that no man, not born to a fortune, ever roſe to one without certain talents, which he called ſuperior genius, but which I now denominate raſcality.’

‘'In ſhort, I was to be placed about you as a ſort of evil genius, and to give me as much power as poſſible over you, that is to ſay, as much hold as poſſible on your generoſity, you were to ſeduce my ſiſter, and I was to overlook it; whereas I never had a ſiſter, nor was that woman any more than a common creature of the town. In ſhort, all you ſaw at my houſe was a deluſion, calculated for the purpoſe of introducing you to me, and giving you freſh apparent proofs of Mr. Standfaſt's attach⯑ment, probably leſt you ſhould diſcover the vil⯑lany he happened then to be practiſing againſt your father.'’

Here Mr. Figgins gave a copious detail of all the reader knows already, relative to the meaſures carried into effect by him and Standfaſt, both a⯑gainſt Charles and his father; honeſtly ſtating how far he took ſhame to himſelf in this buſineſs, [259] and ſhewing when he firſt began to feel repug⯑nance.

In ſhort, he did not omit a circumſtance which I have already related; and having fairly opened our hero's eyes as to Gloſs, Sir Sidney, and every one elſe, concluded with aſſuring him that the ba⯑ronet was ready to take him heartily by the hand, make him a conceſſion for his unkind and unme⯑rited coolneſs, and beg to be admitted into his friendſhip with more warmth than ever.

Figgins wound up this period pretty warmly, and then added, ‘'to which happy reconciliation it is needleſs to ſay will ſucceed your marriage with Annette, from which pleaſure—due alone to two ſuch hearts—may I ever be excluded, if I ceaſe to be worthy its contemplation.'’

To this ſucceeded a converſation conſiſting en⯑tirely of remarks. The whole of Standfaſt's con⯑duct was taken piece meal, and commented on, as far as it was conſiſtent with Figgins's compact with Emma, and Charles plainly ſaw that, but for that vi⯑per, both his father and mother might have been alive, in all probability, at that moment.

As to Figgins himſelf, Charles did not chooſe to [260] let his opinion of him take date earlier than his reformation, ſince which he was charmed with every action.

CHAPTER VI.

Sir Sidney and his family were by this time in Warwickſhire. Nothing however, hard as his in⯑clination ſpurred him, could induce Charles to pay his reſpects to the baronet before he diſcharged his debts in London. He panted to find himſelf once more a free man in his own country. Sending Mrs. Marlow therefore before him, whoſe preſence was particularly wiſhed—for more than one rea⯑ſon—by Emma, our hero and Figgins viſited all the quondam proprietors of the impartial newſ⯑paper, and paid off their demands; nor did they beget a little conſternation among them by ſaying that the cauſe was now taken up in ſo ſpirited a manner, that a public print would ſhortly come out, which muſt be the inevitable deſtruction of all the reſt; for it would expoſe their partiality, their bribes, their connections, together with all the names of thoſe who were their ſupporters and abet⯑tors, and, in ſhort, their whole arcana, from ſuch [262] authority as the whole world would know in a mo⯑ment to be authentic.

So far did they carry this, that hand bills were immediately diſperſed, holding out, in ſuch feaſi⯑ble terms, a plan for the deſtruction of theſe diurnal locuſts, that private terms of conciliation came to them from two or three of the moſt vulnerable, which they, to foment the matter ſtill more, pub⯑liſhed in a ſecond hand bill.

At length, having enjoyed a complete laugh at them, and been joined by the town, they went into the country, and left them ſweating with ſuſ⯑penſe.

The meeting between Charles and Sir Sidney was truly affecting. The noble candour of the ba⯑ronet, the manly honeſty of his ſelf-accuſation, had in it a dignity of ſoul highly admirable. He thought nothing a condeſcenſion which could ſerve to aſſure his young friend how deeply he felt the recollection of his former ſlights and ſuſpicions; nor did he ſpare either his penetration or his juſtice, for hav⯑ing admitted them, for a ſingle moment, to take place in his mind.

He declared he had ever held it as a maxim that [263] the moſt glorious moment of a man's life was that in which he acknowledged and repented of an error; and ſo heartily was he, at that inſtant, aſhamed of his conduct in relation to Charles, that he ſhould never have forgiven himſelf if it had not convinced him, at the ſame time, of his valuable friend's unparalleled virtue: that it was the very fire out of which that virtue came pure from the trial.

Charles, who endeavoured in vain to prevent this declaration, had nothing for it but to palliate the blame Sir Sidney had ſo handſomely thrown on himſelf. He ſaid, under ſuch deluſive influence, it was impoſſible but he muſt have fallen in with the opinion of others; for that the very goodneſs of his heart would naturally incline him to credit ſo many well confirmed circumſtances. It was the buſineſs of thoſe who had attempted his downfal to ſtick at nothing. They had their private motives, of which it was impoſſible he ſhould ſee the extent; nay, as their villanies involved ſo many important circumſtances, a nice inveſtigation of which was neceſſary to effect their detection, it was extremely difficult, as well as dangerous, for a friend, though ever ſo zealous, to offer any thing in his defence; while, on his ſide, conſcious of the integrity of his [264] own motives, Sir Sidney muſt ultimately have con⯑demned him as deficient in every delicate feeling if he appeared forward to deprecate anger which he had neither provoked nor merited.

He ſaid much more to this purpoſe, and con⯑cluded with entreating Sir Sidney to believe that could he have ſatisfied his own ſuſceptibility, there was no moment during the whole time he had the misfortune to labour under his ill opinion, that he would not have gone any length to have effected a reconciliation. That reconciliation was now, he thanked God, complete, without any conduct de⯑rogatory to the honour of either, and it ſhould be the buſineſs of his life to preſerve ſo valuable a friendſhip uninterrupted.

Lady Roebuck received Charles as the ſon of her deceaſed friend. She found him juſt what ſhe wiſhed, but not more than ſhe expected. She thanked heaven that ſo perfect a good underſtanding had happily taken place, and declared, except a tinge of unhappineſs at the ſituation of Annette, ſhe had not now another wiſh to gratify.

Emma did no more than receive her king, and render him her allegiance. She told him he was [265] welcome; welcome as the rain to MARCUS AU⯑RELIUS; though, like that, he came a little of the lateſt: but that it was not a time to talk, for, like that general ſhe had mentioned, ‘"now they were refreſhed, they had yet a battle to gain."’

A conſultation on the meaſures neceſſary to be taken was now propoſed; previous to which how⯑ever Charles warmly entreated to ſee Annette, with whoſe melancholy ſituation Figgins and Mrs. Mar⯑low had gradually acquainted him. He was told the ſight of her would greatly ſhock him; that ſhe knew nobody; that ſhe was continually buried in profound meditation; and yet there was a diſtinc⯑tion in her manner of noticing thoſe who were near her: if it could be called noticing them; for ſhe teſtified leſs melancholy when Emma was preſent than any other perſon, except Mrs. Marlow, upon whom ſhe would ſometimes look and ſigh.

‘'Oh God,' ſaid Charles, and ſhall ſuch angelic ſweetneſs be loſt to the world! Does ſhe never ſpeak?'’

‘'Never,' ſaid Lady Roebuck, 'any thing but one remarkable ſentence, which we will not an⯑ticipate: you ſhall hear it from herſelf.'’

[266] Charles's curioſity was now whetted to its keeneſt edge, and he moſt ſervently entreated he might immediately ſee her.

Emma undertook to enquire if it was a proper time, and returned with information that ſhe was then lying aſleep, with her head on Mrs. Marlow's lap. Charles begged he might ſee her in that ſitu⯑ation, which would take off, in ſome degree, the ſhock of his firſt interview, and afterwards, leaving her undiſturbed, he ſhould be more calm, and better prepared to bear a ſecond.

This being agreed to, they all repaired to a draw⯑ing room, where the beautiful inſenſible lay on a ſofa, reclined in ſleep, in the exact ſituation that Emma had deſcribed.

Charles devoured her lovely form with his eyes. It was the Annette he had ſeen covered with inno⯑cent confuſion at Aix la Chapelle; it was ſhe who tore his heart with apparently unjuſt anger the night before he left England; it was ſhe he had ſeen in ſo many deluſive dreams; ſhe for whom he had vented ſo many unavailing ſighs; ſhe his ſoul adored; ſhe for whom alone he wiſhed to live; ſhe whom he was doomed—though now found—to loſe for ever.

[267] Theſe were the glowing ideas which our hero felt, but dared not utter. It was Annette he be⯑held; and yet her pallid cheek—which ſpoke at once her diſtreſs and reſignation—forced from him firſt a ſtarting tear, then a profound ſigh, and after⯑wards, in ſpight of all his efforts, an exclamation of ‘'Oh heavenly God, do I live to ſee this!'’

At theſe words Annette ſtarted from her ſleep, looked wildly round her, then upon the ground. then ſighed, then played with her hair, then ſtarting from the ſofa, walked towards the window, re⯑placed herſelf on the ſofa, ſighed again, and then ſignificantly moving her head, ſhe exclaimed, ‘'Oh no—I am ſure my poor Charles is not a villain.'’

‘'And is this the ſentence I was to hear?' cried Charles. 'And can my Annette think of me! In madneſs think of me! Kindly think of me! I cannot bear it. No my life,' cried he, throwing himſelf at her feet, 'your Charles is not a villain: he loves you tenderly; dearly loves you; and would give his life to purchaſe for you a ſingle glimpſe of returning reaſon. Look on me my Annette! Speak to me! She will not!'’

‘'My dear Mr. Hazard, you have greatly agi⯑tated her,' ſaid Lady Roebuck. 'Heaven ſend [268] it may be a fortunate ſymptom. At preſent I think we had better leave her. Mrs. Marlow will give us an account of the effect this interview has on her ſpirits.'’

CHAPTER VII.

WHILE theſe matters were carrying on at Sir Sidney's, Gloſs was occupied, or at leaſt appeared to be ſo, in diſcharging his public duty, and giving miniſterial dinners. Nor did this great man dream, while he feaſted upon muffins and paragraphs for breakfaſt, in London, that a ſtroke was meditating in Warwickſhire which all his influence, backed with all his cunning, would be found ultimately inſufficient to parry.

He knew of Charles's marriage, and therefore was not at all ſurpriſed either that he ſhould return and diſcharge his debts—for no man had it more clearly in his power than Mr. Gloſs to aſcertain that Charles was a man of ſtrict honour—or that he ſhould threaten to take vengeance on the venal herd of diurnal ſcribblers; for he alſo well knew that our hero was both capable of planning ſuch a caſti⯑gation, and reſolute enough to inflict it.

[270] To ſay the truth, the neceſſity he ſhould lie under, as he conceived, of learning our hero's meaſures, and being active in circumventing them, together with the pains he took to quiet thoſe who feared they ſhould ſmart under the laſh that ſeemed to be preparing for them, and which their own fears mag⯑nified into ſomething worſe than that they richly merited at the cart's tail, induced Mr. Gloſs to overſtay his appointment with Sir Sidney, who, by the advice of Emma—without whoſe concurrence nothing of moment was now undertaken—wrote him a letter, and gently upbraided him for neglect⯑ing his private concerns, though, at the ſame time, it was impoſſible, the letter ſaid, too much to ad⯑mire that public virtue which was the cauſe of it.

‘'Stupid dotard,' ſaid Gloſs to himſelf, as he read the letter, 'I have infatuated the old block⯑head.'’ What however would he have ſaid had he known that in return for the treachery by which he had influenced Sir Sidney to write that unjuſt letter to Charles, when in France, Charles himſelf ſtood at the elbow of Sir Sidney, and approved of the ho⯑neſt duplicity contained in the letter now written, as a ſnare to detect his villany.

In order to this detection, and indeed to the de⯑tection of a great deal more, as it was neceſſary to [271] tread on very tender ground, the confederacy agreed that Charles and Figgins ſhould take up their reſi⯑dence at a diſtance from Sir Sidney's, that Emma ſhould appear gradually to waver in her ſentiments, on the repreſentation of Mrs. Marlow, who was to tell a long ſtory of having left him, in conſequence of improper conduct to her daughter. This, in particular, was hit upon, as it would be taking the very tone Gloſs had himſelf often ſounded.

Theſe reſolutions, and a letter received from Mr. Gloſs, informing Sir Sidney that he would wave all conſiderations of engagements with miniſters, offices, councils, and levees, to attend the more welcome duties of love and friendſhip, induced the two friends to be expeditious in taking their departure; previous to which, however, Charles earneſtly ſo⯑licited one more interview with Annette.

She had manifeſted uncommon inquietude ever ſince ſhe had been ſo agitated at the ſight of Charles, nor could all their endeavours, though ſhe conti⯑nued perturbed and reſtleſs, induce her to utter a ſyllable, unleſs he was ſhewn to her at a diſtance, which he had been three or four times, by the ad⯑vice of the phyſicians. Upon one of theſe occa⯑ſions ſhe cried, ‘'It is falſe, that's not Gloſs:'’ and [272] upon another, ſhe uttered in a ſcream, ‘'Hide your⯑ſelf, hide yourſelf in France: they'll put you in priſon.'’

At length they kept him from her, and then ſhe began to be inquiſitive concerning him. In one of theſe moods he appeared before her, and, for a ſhort interval, while ſhe ceaſed her loquacity, and was loſt in profound meditation, he looked on her with inexpreſſible tenderneſs, heaving an agonizing ſigh, and ſheding a burning tear. The ſigh at⯑tracted her attention, and, as ſhe vacantly regarded him, ſhe cried, ‘'Who are you? If you were not lovely, like my Charles, I ſhould call you Gloſs. He ſighs, he ſheds tears; but his ſighs carry the contagion of a peſt, and his tears are the tears of a crocodile. Sir I have the beſt father in the world. He married me to one villain, to protect me, as he ſaid, from another. Is the vulture a kinder friend to the lamb than the eagle? But ſee how people may be deceived! It was only a deceitful mirror; a falſe medium; for, ſir, ca⯑lumny is not content with wounding, but poiſon muſt follow the bite. But why wound me?—Pity that exceſſive tenderneſs ſhould inflict miſery. I muſt never ſmile again, elſe I could laugh out to think that the beſt wiſdom will ſometimes ſink [273] to the worſt folly, for Sir Sidney Roebuck is my father. I have two mothers, yet no mother at all. They are both angels: one of them in hea⯑ven, as ſome think, and the other—Oh! No man but my father could deſerve two angels. He is an angel himſelf. I was right then to marry Gloſs. I was right to obey my father. I will ſa⯑crifice my life for him, but I won't ſacrifice my un⯑derſtanding for any body. Sir unhand me; there is not a word of truth in all you ſay. You ſoar above him! Grovel, lay proſtrate, like your ſoul, in villanous filth. You traduce him! Did all the fiends, your fellows, ſurround me, did a thouſand deaths await me, were I obliged to give you my hand in marriage, I would abaſh you, I would ſtrike you to the ſoul, I would chill you with horror, and ſay—that my poor Charles is not a villain.'’

Here ſhe was ſeized with ſtrong convul⯑ſions, and then put to bed; after which re⯑courſe was immediately had to medical aſſiſt⯑ance.

The next day ſhe became more compoſed, and, at intervals, had ſome dawn of reaſon.—Charles however was carefully kept from her, eſ⯑pecially [274] as ſhe appeared in imminent danger, which circumſtance alſo, out of tenderneſs, was carefully kept from him.

CHAPTER VIII.

As there are a prodigious number of circum⯑ſtances which I muſt now clearly, and therefore gradually, develope, I ſhall regularly bring for⯑ward ſuch characters as may be uſeful to me in the proſecution of this taſk: and firſt, Mr. Balance, whom I certainly did not intend to celebrate as an honeſt lawyer upon the credit of one or two upright actions; for I muſt have been a novice indeed had I not known that the evidence ought to be very ſtrong and convincing that could ſubſtantiate ſo un⯑common a fact.

Let it be known that Mr. Balance began to en⯑tertain a tolerable good opinion of Charles earlier than many others of his friends; and it aroſe from this circumſtance. When he received an order to grant Figgins that annuity of a hundred pounds, [276] formerly ſpoken of, our hero was certainly in the worſt diſgrace with him, and this matter remaining unexplained for a conſiderable time, nobody was forwarder than Mr. Balance to blame his conduct in the preſence of Sir Sidney; nay I queſtion whe⯑ther Mr. Gloſs himſelf did him, as far as it went, more injury in the opinion of the baronet; for even Emma could not conſider him as intereſted in his affairs: but as it is the nature of goodneſs to enu⯑merate the errors of others with reluctance, ſo it is to feel the warmeſt anxiety to atone for its own.

So it happened with Mr. Balance. When Fig⯑gins called upon him, not more to receive his three hundred and fifty pounds, which were due to him, and which we have ſeen him ſo handſomely refuſe to appropriate to his own uſe, than to ſolicit his hearty concurrence in Emma's meaſures, he was ſo charmed with Figgins's ſelf-condemnation, and the brilliant character he gave of his friend, that he very naturally aſked—and indeed the reader will aſk too—why he had not come to him ſooner.

It has been ſeen, however, that what Figgins and Emma were agitating was of two great a magni⯑tude to be ſlightly touched on; but a circumſtance happening, juſt at that time, which gave them [277] reaſon to believe that Mr. Balance would not only be a very uſeful, but a very willing aſſiſtant—for I have ſaid that his foible, though an attorney, was to detect raſcality—Figgins paid him a viſit, and, after an hour's converſation, that gentleman inliſted under Emma's banners.

Had not our hero decamped to France in that precipitate manner, a few days from that period might have made him happy in the poſſeſſion of Annette; to achieve which enterprize, Figgins, as we have ſeen, called at his houſe. The neceſſary ſteps however to bring about that deſirable event, if it ſhould ever take place, requiring his preſence, they were obliged to be deferred. He is now upon the ſpot, and I beg the reader's attention while I trace out thoſe ſteps one by one.

Scarcely had Charles and Figgins ſituated them⯑ſelves in their new reſidence, when Mr. Balance called on them, with whom—in company with ſome neceſſary perſons employed on the occaſion—they proceeded to Hazard houſe, and knocked very peremptorily at the door.

Finding the Lady Dowager alone, Mr. Balance told her that he came veſted with authority to re⯑ſtore the rightful Lord Hazard to his title and eſ⯑tate, [278] which information the lady affected at firſt not to underſtand, and afterwards to treat with great contempt; but being told that Mr. Tadpole was in cuſtody, and had made an ample confeſſion, ſhe ſeemed greatly ſhocked. Catching however at every ſtraw, ſhe endeavoured ſtill to ſtem that tor⯑rent which ſeemed ready to engulph her, nor would acknowledge any thing; till at length, being told that the ſum of Mr. Tadpole's confeſſion was that he had been legally married to her ten years, that conſequently her ſubſequent marriage with Lord Hazard was illegal, her children illegitimate, and, of courſe, that no bar ſtood between Charles and the poſſeſſion of his title and fortune, ſhe acted a part ſomething in the ſame ſtyle in which we were ſometime ago ſo amuſed with the vagaries of Mrs. O'Shockneſy.

Now the fact was that Mr. Tadpole was not in cuſtody, nor had he made any confeſſion. He was only kept out of the way by one of Kiddy's cute manoovres, as he called it, who, to be plain, hav⯑ing been ſometime an acceſſary, and at length a principal, in Emma's plots, ſuggeſted the pro⯑pereſt mode of carrying this one into effect; for, ſaid Kiddy, ‘'if we attack the rum ſquire, he will be peery and prevaricative, but if we whiddle a little to ma'am, though ſhe is as fly as Satan, [279] guilt will fly in her face, the pearls will trickle, and we ſhall have her as ſnug as be damned.—Lord forgive me for uttering ſuch a word.'’

Mr. Tadpole, as had been concerted, in due time made his appearance. He bounced and flew about, but being convinced, by incontrovertible documents, that he was completely diſcovered, be⯑came at length tame, and threw himſelf on our hero's mercy, who put a finiſh to the buſineſs, by aſſigning Mr. Tadpole and his lady, for the pre⯑ſent, that reſidence he had taken for Figgins and himſelf, and aſſuring them that though he ſhould enter into a ſevere ſcrutiny of all their conduct re⯑lative to the management of the eſtate, ſince it had been in their hands, yet, on account of his bro⯑ther's children, the juſtice he ſhould be obliged to uſe, ſhould be tempered with as much mercy as the nature of ſuch a caſe would admit.

Here let me, for the ſake of truth, relate a moſt extraordinary trait of ſuperior female cunning. I have ſaid that Mrs. Tadpole—for we ſhall call her ſo in future—had her doubts as to who ſlept with her at Liſle, but that thoſe doubts had ſubſided, and that at length ſhe had fully believed it could be no other than Charles. Can it be credited that ſhe was inſpired with hope, from the recollection of [280] this circumſtance, and that ſhe flattered herſelf, ſhould ſhe take a favourable opportunity of repre⯑ſenting it privately, a repetition of the crime might give her a power over him! What a pity that Figgins, who thought, as Kiddy has it, ploughing with the heifer might work out ſomething for the general good, ſhould undeceive her, which he did, and ſo render all her ſchemes abortive.

The documents which were explained to Mr. Tadpole, I ſhall now explain to the reader. It will be remembered that Kiddy, on his return to England, called on Mr. Standfaſt, with an inten⯑tion of giving up Mr. Tadpole, but that he ſud⯑denly altered his reſolution, attached himſelf to that gentleman, and gave up his benefactor. Kiddy knew of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Tadpole, and it muſt have been ſomething of a very particu⯑lar nature indeed, predetermined as he was to diſ⯑cloſe it, that could prevent him from doing ſo.—The fact however is as I have related it, and it was not till the nice train of circumſtances, con⯑ducted by Emma, carried into effect by Swaſh and his daughter, and at length ſupported by Figgins, had properly worked upon him, that he wavered in his attachment; but, even when he had done ſo, nothing could be adduced againſt Tadpole but Kiddy's ipſe dixit, which was grounded upon a [281] confeſſion of the gentleman and lady, during a ſquabble, when they were in France, and when they thought Kiddy out of ear-ſhot.

Without collateral evidence therefore nothing could be done. This Kiddy contrived to procure, and it was not long before he ſuſpected that he ſhould get at it through a gentleman who, in a very importunate way, would ſometimes call on Mr. Tadpole; for ſome hints that conſtantly paſſed be⯑tween that worthy wight and his lady, after he was gone, convinced Fluſh that he knew ſomething of their private affairs.

One day, as this gentleman was deſcending the ſtaircaſe, after a long and pretty loud converſation with Tadpole, the latter followed him, ſaying, ‘'You may make yourſelf very eaſy, for I will ſend to you on Wedneſday by the poſt.'’

This was heard by Kiddy from the butler's pan⯑try, into which pantry, on the following Wedneſ⯑day, he coaxed the footman, who was entruſted with the letter, and, after giving him, as he called it, his doſe, he contrived to get the letter from him, under a pretext of looking at the direction, and then exchanged it for another, which he had [282] previouſly written, and which the poor footman, who, as Kiddy knew, could not read, carried to the poſt-office.

Kiddy's letter was as follows:

As ſoon as Fluſh was alone he broke open the other letter, the cover of which was directed "To Mr. Skinks," and deſcribed his reſidence in London. It contained theſe words.

This letter, by the advice of Emma, was imme⯑diately conveyed to Figgins, who, upon conſulting with Mr. Balance, and putting different circum⯑ſtances together, began to have a ſtrong ſuſpicion that he himſelf had lent a helping hand in the buſi⯑neſs of Mr. Tadpole's marriage.

Tadpole, as the reader knows, was an attorney's clerk. Be it now known that Skinks was an attor⯑ney's clerk alſo, but having been guilty, ſince the expiration of his article, of many nefareous practices, in the way of his profeſſion, he became, among many other rogues of the ſame deſcription, well known to Mr. Balance, who happening juſt at that time to have him under his thumb, told Figgins that he had no doubt but he ſhould bring him to reaſon.

Figgins conſented to uſe Mr. Balance's authority as a corps de reſerve, but thought it a good thing previouſly to worm a confeſſion out of Shinks him⯑ſelf. [284] For this purpoſe he called on him, and pre⯑tended that he was commiſſioned by Tadpole to ſettle, once for all, their diſpute.

As Figgins familiarly mentioned the buſineſs of the marriage, and ventured a few gueſſes at circum⯑ſtances which might probably belong to it, the other entered into the buſineſs candidly enough, till at length Figgins's ſuſpicions were confirmed, and he was enabled to ſpeak to it from his own knowledge; for he found it to be this.

When he was a bridewell boy, he was applied to by a gentleman to carry him and another up the river, in one of thoſe barges which it is well known the bridewell boys are very expert at rowing.

This expedition was to Wandſworth. It was conducted in the night, and Figgins and another, who were let into the ſecret, underſtood that it was ſet on foot for the purpoſe of ſtealing a young lady from a boarding ſchool, and that the friend of the gentleman who hired the barge was to be married to her.

Being at that time anxious to get at as much of this ſecret as poſſible—probably from as honeſt a reaſon as that which now impelled the conduct of [285] Mr. Skinks, he took the proper methods, which he could do as cunningly as any body, to trace the conduct of the parties, and ſoon found where the marriage rites were performed.

This however accompliſhed, and concealment being no longer neceſſary, Figgins profited in no way, at that time, by the intelligence he had been ſo ſolicitous to procure. It being now however ſingularly ſerviceable to his friend, he rejoiced that it had ſtruck him to uſe it.

The reader is now ready to aſk why Mr. Figgins did not recollect all theſe circumſtances at Liſle? To which I anſwer that Tadpole's real name was Poach, which, when he firſt conceived that very honeſt intention of marrying his wife to Zekiel, he warily changed, that he might be the leſs liable to a detection; and, as to their perſons, he did not ſee either of them at the time of the elopement but very imperfectly, having never been in their com⯑pany but between the hours of eleven o'clock at night and five in the morning.

Skinks however, who managed every thing, he recollected perfectly well, both as to his name and his perſon, and the whole buſineſs would long be⯑fore [286] have occured to him but for the change of Poach into Tadpole.

Pretending to leave the negociation open be⯑tween Skinks and Tadpole, he haſtened to Mr. Ba⯑lance, who, firſt impoſing the moſt profound ſi⯑lence upon Skinks, under pain of inflicting that puniſhment he knew he had incurred, procured all thoſe documents, the ſight of which, as I have ſaid, ſo completely ſilenced Tadpole, conſiſting of a cer⯑tificate of the marriage, an avowal of every thing under Skinks's hand—which he readily gave upon reading Tadpole's letter—and a few other neceſſary matters.

Thus, having made my hero a lord, and given him a noble eſtate, I ſhall proceed to ſee whether he ſtands a chance of ever poſſeſſing that content without which, in the opinion of many, grandeur and riches are only a ſubſtitute for happineſs.

CHAPTER IX.

As I flatter myſelf the reader will give me credit for a complete knowledge of the power and effect of contraſt, it will not be thought impolitic in me to bring forward our old friend Standfaſt, in oppo⯑ſition to Mr. Balance. But, excluſive of this arti⯑ficial way of introducing him, I have now a very natural one; for, as this hiſtory is drawing apace towards its concluſion, it certainly could not have been complete had I neglected to record, in the fulleſt manner, what became of a character who had filled in it ſo diſtinguiſhed a ſituation.

Mr. Standfaſt and his lovely partner, ſince their mortifying diſappointment on Zekiel's acceſſion to his fortune, had figured away with various ſucceſs. At one time they were rolling in ſplendour, at an⯑other frightened at bailiffs, till, having been con⯑cerned [288] in pharaoh banks, E O tables, lottery offi⯑ces, and every ſpecies of gambling, either brilliant or contemptible, according as their circumſtances varied, they were at length reduced to the moſt mortifying poverty.

Juſt at that time the change of the miniſtry, as I have already recorded, placed Gloſs—who, be it known, had never turned tall on his old friends—in a reſponſible ſituation under government. They now reſolved that Mr. Standfaſt ſhould become a contractor, by which means they very ſoon re-eſta⯑bliſhed themſelves in tolerable opulence; and here a very ſtriking reflection preſents itſelf, that juſt as the pupil, Charles, was compelled, by the loſs of his fortune, to quit the worthy employment of diſ⯑penſing benefits, and relieving the neceſſities of the poor and oppreſſed, the tutor, Standfaſt, ſhould make a fortune by adminiſtering to folly and wick⯑edneſs, and oppreſſing and grinding the unfortunate and neceſſitous.

In this ſituation had they for ſome time conti⯑nued, when Charles's ſudden advancement to a coronet gave them to fear that ſomething was ‘"rot⯑ten in the ſtate of Denmark."’ What however they could not deviſe. Sir Sidney had certainly [289] taken careful meaſures to appear perfectly indiffer⯑ent as to what concerned Charles, but yet it was a moot point with Gloſs whether he was a friend or an enemy; for, as Annette was carefully kept from him, and Emma, in ſpight of all her caution, could not help occaſionally a little exultation, his arts—eſpecially as it was neceſſary to lay them on thicker than ever, and as every body knew them to be ſo many barefaced falſitics—were ſo apparent that it really became an irkſome taſk to have him about the baronet's family, although they were under the neceſſity of doing ſo till they ſhould be able to ac⯑compliſh their coup de grace.

About this time he received a letter from Stand⯑faſt, which informed him that the miniſtry were again tottering. He therefore haſtened to town, and finding that the intelligence was but too true, a ſcheme was concerted between theſe amiable friends to embezzle certain monies, which they well knew where to lay their hands on, and decamp into a foreign country.

This however could not be effected without the previous concurrence of certain men called clerks, in whoſe poſſeſſion were books and tallies, and other documents, by means of which alone they could obtain a right to receive theſe ſaid monies.

[290] Theſe documents they hoped to procure through the influence of our old friend Viney, who had held a lucrative ſituation under Gloſs ever ſince he firſt came into office, but a younger clerk, who happened to be a youth of honour and ſpirit, and who had very nearly been put out of office becauſe he had threatened to chaſtiſe this old ſinner, for moſt ſcan⯑dalous conduct to his ſiſter, a beautiful girl of thir⯑teen, conjectured by circumſtances what was going forward.

In ſhort, in attempting to poſſeſs himſelf of the neceſſary papers, Viney plainly found, by the ſteps that had been taken to prevent his intentions, that he was diſcovered, and therefore, leſt he ſhould be involved in the guilt, went directly and gave in⯑formation againſt his two friends, who, holding his conduct in equal diſtruſt, got intelligence of his treachery in time, as they imagined, to ward off its conſequences.

Neither Standfaſt nor Gloſs had been idle, for though they could not accompliſh their grand point, they nevertheleſs got together a pretty round ſum, which was at that moment depoſited in Standfaſt's bureau, and, as a coup de maitre, it was agreed that Gloſs ſhould force Annette from her father, with [291] an idea that after poſſeſſion, by means of marriage, or any other means, Sir Sidney would not only be glad enough to make peace with them, but give his daughter a fortune. Theſe were his words when he propoſed the matter to Standfaſt.

‘'As to the boy Charles, he can never marry her: but this is no time for inveſtigation. As to Sir Sidney, he will be glad enough to come to terms, when the injury is in any other way irreparable. If not, ſhe is the only woman I ever loved, and if poſſeſſion ſhould cloy that love, ſhe is very beau⯑tiful, and will always fetch a good price.'’

I do not know that I have ever before made Mr. Gloſs ſpeak without diſguiſe, and I almoſt hope, even now, that the reader will diſbelieve that ſuch a man could ever impoſe upon Sir Sidney. But nothing can be clearer than that ſuch conduct is not only in nature, but that it is practiſed every day, and practiſed ſucceſsfully. Goodneſs neither knows nor ſuſpects the ſnares of villany, which covers itſelf in a veil ſo truly the hue of virtue, and which, in this inſtance, wore ſo completely that appearance to the eyes of Sir Sidney, that, till he ſaw, in his laſt viſit, the ſoul of Gloſs in its own filthy colours, ſo free was he from a practical know⯑ledge of what qualities vice was formed, he did not [292] believe ſo vile a human monſter could infeſt the face of the earth.

The poor, fond, infatuated Standfaſt, on his part, was alſo determined not to leave his partner behind him, and therefore, having previouſly agreed with Gloſs on a meeting place, haſtened home, that, like an obedient wife, ſhe might pack up her alls, and accompany him.

Reader, I do not think I have given thee a more ſenſible pleaſure throughout this work than thou wilt now receive, when I inform thee that he found his houſe in confuſion, his bureau broken open and ſtript of every thing, and the dear partner of his ſoul decamped with his kind friend Dogbolt!

Were I perfect in the duty of a hiſtorian, I ought here to deſcribe that hell, his mind; but as no reader will be ſo unreaſonable as to expect a de⯑ſcription of what no words can expreſs, I ſhall con⯑tent myſelf with ſaying that no reprobate ever ſwore more volubly, no dancing-maſter ever capered more curiouſly, no bedlamite ever raved more in⯑coherently. In the midſt of this paroxiſm, he felt himſelf ſuddenly held down by two men, who thinking, probably, that a ſtrait waiſtcoat was not ſtrong enough to hold ſo violent a maniac, put him [293] on a pair of hand-cuffs, and, with the aſſiſtance of ſeveral others, carried him away in a hackney coach.

Mr. Gloſs, on his part, made the beſt of his way into Warwickſhire, determined to carry off Annette, let what would be the conſequence. He knew he muſt act very craftily, and therefore took care pro⯑perly to inſtruct his emiſſaries, by one of whom—indeed the very ſame gentleman who accompanied Annette to town in the chaiſe—he received intelli⯑gence that the young lady was much better, and now rode out every morning, for an airing, either with Lady Roebuck, Emma, or Mrs. Marlow.

When laſt Mr. Gloſs had been in Warwickſhire, he had taken uncommon pains to inſinuate himſelf into the good graces of this old lady, who alſo ap⯑peared to pay him extraordinary attention: to ſay truth, an attention that rather bordered upon in⯑quiſitiveneſs, and which he would have repulſed if it had not ſtruck him that it might lead to the ac⯑compliſhment of this ſcheme, which, as his dernier reſort, he always had meditated.

He had now no doubts, could he get Annette at a diſtance from home, through the connivance of Mrs. Marlow, but he ſhould complete his deſign. [294] He thought he had diſcovered that the old lady's paſſion was avarice, for he knew that the whole ſtory of her having quitted Charles on account of her daughter was trumped up; nay he had told her ſo, and had got from her a reluctant confeſſion that her inducement to take that ſtep was a wiſh to ſhelter herſelf comfortably for the remainder of her life, at a diſtance from a turbulent young man, who, though he had good qualities, would never do any good either for himſelf or any one elſe.

Poſſeſſed, as he imagined, of ſo much of Mrs. Marlow's private ſentiments, he thought he might, without danger, tamper with her a little further, and, for that purpoſe, ſent a ſervant on horſeback to ſay generally, at Roebuck hall, that Mr. Gloſs propoſed to pay that place a viſit in the courſe of a few days, to which effect he alſo wrote a note to Sir Sidney, but informed Mrs. Marlow privately, by another note, that he had ſome moſt particular buſineſs with her, which he muſt explain that even⯑ing, and would attend her wherever ſhe ſhould ap⯑point. He took care however ſo to qualify that note, by introducing ſuch circumſtances relative to her, that it muſt have told againſt her had ſhe either partially or generally ſhewn it to any one.

Mrs. Marlow made a great many difficulties, but [295] at length conſented to meet him at the bottom of the garden, which, in fact, ſhe did. He lamented his ſituation, ſaid he plainly ſaw that Sir Sidney would go with the ſtream, that ſhe had herſelf al⯑lowed, in former converſations, that he was avari⯑cious, and therefore ſhe muſt ſee the temptation a coronet held out would not be reſiſted; that if he could be favoured with an interview with Miſs Roe⯑buck, without her father's knowledge, he was ſure he could lay ſuch convincing proofs before her of the propriety of his conduct, and the impoſſibility, even now, that ſhe could honourably become the wife of that young upſtart, as he had no doubt would conquer all ſcruples.

He promiſed Mrs. Marlow mountains if he ſuc⯑ceeded, and at length it was agreed that he ſhould come upon them, as if by accident, the following Thurſday, at an appointed ſpot, before which time, Mrs. Marlow told him, there would be no oppor⯑tunity, as Lady Roebuck would, till then, accom⯑pany her daughter, and, on that morning, ſhe would have a particular engagement at home.

Thoſe readers who are ſorry to ſee this apparent deſertior of principles in Mrs. Marlow, will be more ſo when they are told that, on the following Thurſday, when ſhe was to ride out with Annette, [296] in order to keep the coaſt as clear as poſſible, that Mr. Gloſs might put his deſign in execution—for, not to diſguiſe the truth, he had, at a ſecond inter⯑view, informed her of the whole—the moment Gloſs appeared at a diſtance, ſhe ſent the footman, for ſome purpoſe or other, back again: ſo that there was no one to oppoſe what was agitating but an old and almoſt helpleſs coachman.

This being the ſignal agreed upon, Gloſs ſprang forward, and ſeeing ſome horſemen on a hill before him, which he took for his myrmidons, he ſoon came up to the ſide of the coach. Mrs. Marlow pretended great ſurpriſe at ſeeing him, and, after ſome general converſation, aſked if he would not walk in. This he eagerly conſented to, and the coachman got down apparently to open the door.

Hearing horſes, and ſeeing men in great coats, he now expected to find the coachman ſeized, as had been agreed on, and the coach box mounted by different men, to whom he had given ſuch in⯑ſtructions. What then muſt have been his aſto⯑niſhment when he himſelf was ſeized, and told there was a warrant againſt him for murder.

‘'Who dares accuſe me?' ſaid Gloſs very pe⯑remptorily.’ ‘'I dare,' ſaid Emma, who perſonated [297] Annette:’ ‘'And I,' ſaid Mrs. Marlow, 'who pre⯑pared the ſnare that brought you into the hands of juſtice. You are my ſon, and I cut you off to cure my honour, as I would amputate an infected limb to preſerve my life.'’

CHAPTER X.

THE reader having ſeen that Mrs. Marlow, in⯑ſtead of acting the treacherous part of a faithleſs ſervant, had aſſumed all the dignity of a Spartan mother, it may not be amiſs for the ſatisfaction of my readers to ſee how ſhe became that mother.

It will eaſily be recollected that, in the ſecond volume of this hiſtory, I gave a hint that Emma had made a very ſingular diſcovery, on hearing the particulars of Mrs. Marlow's ſtory. This diſco⯑very was no leſs than that Standfaſt was the very clergyman by whom that poor lady had been ſe⯑duced, through the connivance of her aunt, when little more than an infant.

She recollected to have heard that there had been a ſimilar accuſation againſt him when firſt he lived chaplain to Major Malplaquet, and now, having [299] learnt the maiden name of Mrs. Marlow, ſhe found that ſhe muſt have been the innocent victim whom ſhe had always underſtood he had treated with un⯑common cruelty. For the remainder of her intel⯑ligence, ſhe received it firſt from Figgins, and af⯑terwards, through Swaſh, from Fluſh, who had lived with him at the time, and was in the plot; but, as her communication with Kiddy had been ambiguous and guarded, till ſome little time before the grand eclairciſſement, ſhe had only learnt that Gloſs was the precious fruit of that illicit amour in time to make it the climax of her diſcovery to Sir Sidney.

The reader recollects—which will illuſtrate this matter better—that while that cloſe intimacy ſub⯑ſiſted between Charles and Gloſs, Figgins was of the party, who, from ſome circumſtances that came within his knowledge, learnt that Gloſs did not go to the Cape of Good Hope. This induced him to think oddly of his connexion with Mr. Standfaſt, but he did not find it worth his while to inveſtigate it till Emma went to France, at which time he un⯑dertook to gather all the intelligence he could for her at home, that, had it been neceſſary to make her grand diſcovery there, ſhe might be in poſſeſſion of facts of magnitude ſufficient to have induced Sir Sidney to diſcard Gloſs. Thus ſhe learnt, by a [300] letter from Mr. Figgins, three days before the buſi⯑neſs of Aix la Chapelle, that Gloſs was the ſon of Standfaſt, but ſhe never divined the reſt, as I have juſt ſaid, till after repeated converſations with Mrs. Marlow, and Kiddy's confirmation of thoſe ſuſpi⯑cions that aroſe out of it.

Thus, in different ſtages of this buſineſs, ſhe uſed as much of this fact as ſhe thought neceſſary for her purpoſe. She told Annette, in France, ſhe could blaſt Mr. Gloſs's hopes whenever ſhe pleaſed; ſhe told Mr. Gloſs, before Sir Sidney, it would be ſeen WHO he was; ſhe imparted the ſecret to Mrs. Marlow; and, finally, through the proper and heroic feeling of that good woman, ſhe now held him her captive, and was determined to give him up to that juſtice he had ſo ſtudiouſly laboured to abuſe.

This connexion of father and ſon will naturally account for the blended intereſt of Standfaſt and Gloſs, and alſo for the congeniality of their ſenti⯑ments: nay it will take off an imputation from me; for as I may be almoſt accuſed of repreſenting na⯑ture in too odious a light, by bringing forward two characters ſo ſhockingly profligate, ſo the proba⯑bility of their being ſo is conſiderably ſtrengthened when it is found that the ſame blood ran in the veins of both; nay, ſuch pains had been mutually [301] taken that the emulation of the ſon might be worthy the inſtruction of the ſire—for vipers and doves are equally fond of their offspring—that it is not aſto⯑niſhing Mrs. Marlow ſhould be ſo ſhocked with Gloſs, at the time Charles was arreſted, or expreſs that deteſtation which was inſpired by the remark⯑able reſemblance of both his perſon and manner to thoſe of Standfaſt.

But, ſays the reader, did it never occur to Mrs. Marlow that this very ſame Standfaſt was her be⯑trayer? There is great ſingularity in this circum⯑ſtance. Mrs. Marlow did not know Charles till he was nearly ruined, and it cannot be forgotten that Standfaſt, giving up his ſituation as an actor in this play of human life, had retired and become a prompter long before that period. Therefore, not ſeeing him on the ſtage, ſhe did not know that there was any ſuch perſon employed in the theatre. Charles never detailed his affairs, and though ſhe knew the ſum of them, ſhe was ignorant of many of the particulars till ſhe began to converſe with Emma, who, after all, was extremely cautious of letting her into ſo much of them as might impede any of her meaſures. Therefore, it was not till after Charles went to France the ſecond time, and ſhe had had frequent converſations with Emma and Figgins, that ſhe came at this truth, which, at [302] that time, Emma was the more anxious to inveſti⯑gate: finding it would be a matter of infinite im⯑port to aſcertain that Mr. Gloſs was the ſon of Mrs. Marlow, by Standfaſt. And, on the other hand, that I may make this matter perfectly clear, as Standfaſt went to Flanders before the good lady in queſtion was married, he never knew her by the name of Marlow. I could have ſtrengthened this elucidation, by noticing that Standfaſt, like Atall in the play, had a different name, at that time, for every different intrigue; but, as Mrs. Marlow knew him by his real name, I did not chuſe ſo to violate my hiſtoric veracity, as to make out a caſe by the inſertion of a falſity.

It now becomes neceſſary to illuſtrate two or three points, that I may give a clear ſtage to ſome prin⯑cipal actors, who are preſently to make their ap⯑pearance.

I have ſaid, in its place, and ſince hinted, that Kiddy had been very much ſhocked at ſome propo⯑ſal or other made him by Standfaſt; ſo ſhocked in⯑deed that it wrought in him an entire reformation, and attached him to the intereſt of his patron's de⯑clared enemy. I have alſo ſaid that when Figgins went to expoſtulate with Standfaſt, he, in the courſe of that expoſtulation, became witneſs to ſuch a [303] ſcene of altercation, between that gentleman and Mrs. O'Shockneſy, as begat ſome ſuſpicions in his mind of a very horrid nature.

I have all along repreſented Kiddy as a very weak, but not a very wicked character. He had, from his low origin, his mean education, his grovling propenſities, been taught to conſider Mr. Fluſh as a ſuperior genius; or, as he called it, geno; and thus he firmly believed that the conſummation of all human perfection was the accompliſhment of a well-digeſted fraud: but Kiddy always took care, as he phraſed it, to draw the line, leſt, as he cun⯑ningly obſerved, the line ſhould draw him.

Thus, were your wife or daughter to be ſeduced, your purſe ſtolen, your reputation deſtroyed, by treachery and cunning, Kiddy would lend a help⯑ing hand with all the veins in his heart—his lan⯑guage again—but as to going upon the highway, or being guilty of any other diſhoneſt act, which the law denominates felony, in that caſe, no crown lawyer ever knew better how to diſcriminate than Kiddy. And this the reader, when he recollects his outſet in life, will ſee he was taught by that firſt of maſters, experience.

In ſhort, ſeeing men of the firſt fortunes and abili⯑ties [304] conſtantly employing them to impoſe upon their friends and neighbours, he only looked upon it as ſelf-defence to arm himſelf with the ſame arts; for, ſaid Kiddy, ‘'In this here world I can't, for my part, ſee why a man has not a right to be as bad as his betters.'’

Having therefore ſuch an averſion to a halter, no wonder that Kiddy ſhould be ſo affronted at a direct propoſal from Standfaſt to commit an act for which, had it been diſcovered, he muſt have been hanged; nor was it an unnatural tranſition, fond as he had been of that fun called human miſery, to ſee, all of a ſudden, that he had delighted in it a little too much; but as, turn which way he would, he was in ſuch a ſituation that he could not help impoſing upon ſomebody, he covered his hypocriſy with the veil of religion, to rub off ſlighter ſins, and thoſe that bore too heavy on his recollection, he drowned in a dram; for, ſaid Kiddy, ‘'though every coge is a nail in my coffin, if I do but re⯑pent before I am put into it, the grim jockies may ſcrew me up and welcome.'’

To ſhew however the prevalence of cuſtom upon human nature, Kiddy very little conſidered that in the midſt of his repentance, he was acceſſary to a fraud of great magnitude, namely, the keeping [305] Charles out of his fortune: nor would he, in all probability, ever have taken any ſteps to reſtore him to his right, had not this laudable conduct, as we have ſeen, been ſuggeſted to him by Emma, through Swaſh; nor even then, had not the mea⯑ſures to be taken involved in them a poſitive neceſſi⯑ty of impoſing upon Tadpole. This laſt impoſi⯑tion however, being on the ſide of honour and vir⯑tue, Kiddy began to feel, that however it might be clever to be a rogue, it was more comfortable to be an honeſt man.

The repentance of Figgins, as the reader knows, was better confirmed, though, as there is weakneſs in every kind of wickedneſs, ſo it was certainly aſ⯑ſiſted by finding, in conſequence of what dropt from Mrs. O'Shockneſy, that Standfaſt had himſelf perpetrated the very crime which he had vainly perſuaded Fluſh to commit.

One moment more, and the reader ſhall know what this crime was, and alſo that it has been very often hinted to him.

It will be recollected that Standfaſt did not ac⯑company Mrs. O'Shockneſy into Warwickſhire, probably as he was grown remarkably hipped, [306] owing to his being led by his lady the life of a dog, as Jerry Sneak calls it; and, as he was eternally tortured with his own reflections, he might be afraid of ghoſts. I have ſaid they were driven to the verge of poverty, from which nothing could relieve them but the death of Lord Hazard. I then ſay ‘'what joy to find Lord Hazard no more.'’ The reader is upon the point of aſking ‘'By what means no more?'’ Again, I compare Standfaſt to Barnwell, who murdered his benefactor, which indeed did Standfaſt, or he muſt have been foully belied; for, juſt at the period to which this hiſtory is now ar⯑rived, he was, in company with his ſon Gloſs, brought before Sir Sidney for that murder.

Here it will appear that there was good reaſon for managing ſo adroitly the delay, from the Mon⯑day till the Wedneſday, of Gloſs's pretended inter⯑view with Annette. It has been ſaid that there is no ſnare for bringing a man into a ſcrape like a woman. This proved to be the caſe both as to Standfaſt and as to Gloſs: differently however; one was betrayed by adhering to a fiend, and the other puniſhed for aſpiring to an angel.

Standfaſt was taken into cuſtody in town, through the vigilance of Mr. Balance, but Gloſs was not to be found; therefore, when Sir Sidney diſcovered [307] that he was in Warwickſhire, it required the inter⯑vention of a few days to procure the warrant that had been granted againſt him, as well as to bring Mr. Standfaſt to that ſpot where the crime had been committed.

Let us now ſuppoſe Sir Sidney upon the bench, Charles, Mr. Balance, and Figgins by his ſide, and Standfaſt and Gloſs brought before him, on a charge of that murder for which we have ſeen them appre⯑hended.

Fluſh depoſed what has been related concerning the propoſal made him by Standfaſt; Figgins ex⯑plained the nature of his ſuſpicions, and his conſe⯑quent conduct; and Mr. Balance ſaid, from the pains he had taken to inveſtigate the buſineſs, there could be no doubt, as far as preſumption went, but that the priſoners were guilty.

‘'And ſo preſumption is all you have againſt us!' ſaid Gloſs.’ ‘'And this,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'upon the evidence of a raſcally ſervant, a falſe friend, and a meddling attorney!'’

Here they became turbulently inſolent, when the baronet, commanding ſilence, and addreſſing him⯑ſelf to Standfaſt, ſaid, ‘'Unhappy man, I have a [308] witneſs that ſhall ſtrike terror to thy very ſoul; that, preſumptuouſly ſhameleſs as thou art, ſhall ſicken thee with horror! See who enters at that door!'’

Had Standfaſt ſeen a ſpectre, the ſpectre of Lord Hazard, he could not have been more appalled.— ‘'By hell, it is all over!' ſaid he to Gloſs. 'I thought the raſcal had been dispatched.'’

This witneſs was John, who was tutored, as we have ſeen, to refuſe the half guinea from Dogbolt, who was placed about Charles, at the expreſs ſtipu⯑lation of Standfaſt—not only that his ruin might be more certain, but that the conduct of Mr. Figgins might be well watched, leſt, as it happened in the caſe of Kiddy, he ſhould not be ſtaunch to the in⯑tereſt of the confederacy—who intercepted all the letters, who returned expreſsly to murder his lord, who did not ſeem to arrive, however, till two days after the murder was committed, who then, though callous to the core, appeared to weep over his maſ⯑ter's corpſe, but who had ſince lived in ſuch a ſtate of agonizing horror and remorſe, that he now came to make an ample confeſſion.

John, after diſplaying a natural and pathetic pic⯑ture of his own penitence, told a moſt horrid tale. [309] By large bribes, and larger promiſes, he had been prevailed upon to murder his old maſter. For that purpoſe he ſtole into the houſe, on the fatal morn⯑ing, and took away the piſtols which were hanging in Lord Hazard's bed chamber. He afterwards ſurpriſed him in the garden; but he declared that, when he looked in his poor, wronged, old maſter's face, which was now grown pale and ghaſtly, ow⯑ing, he had no doubt, to that diſtreſs which he him⯑ſelf had cauſed, by ſo often falſely accuſing his ſon, all his reſolution forſook him, and he had not the cruel courage to perpetrate the deed. Standfaſt, ſeeing this, ruſhed from a ſhrubbery, where he had concealed himſelf, leſt they ſhould miſcarry; and, as Lord Hazard flew to him for protection, and while he was in the attitude of lifting his hands and eyes to heaven, that had mercifully ſent ſuch a friend to his aſſiſtance, the unmanly, hardened, helliſh monſter cowardly murdered him!

To this he added, that after the murder was ac⯑compliſhed, but not till then—for Standfaſt was not fully ſatisfied with his ſanguinary exploit till he had convinced himſelf, by a cautious examination, that there was no ſymptom of returning life—the mur⯑derer with great coolneſs placed the piſtol that was diſcharged cloſe to the body, and put that which was yet loaded into the coat pocket, which is the [310] preciſe ſituation in which the reader will recollect they were found.

John alſo ſaid that, fearing he ſhould be hanged for the part he had taken in this ſhocking buſineſs, he did, for ſome time, whatever he was bid by Stand⯑faſt, and conſented to any wickedneſs that was pro⯑poſed to him; but his conſcience being at laſt hea⯑vily loaded—for which he was often ridiculed, and ſometimes threatened, by Standfaſt—he was upon the point of giving himſelf up to juſtice, when it ſtruck him to conſult his old friend Fluſh, who, he underſtood, had repented, and then lived a religi⯑ous life.

Fluſh, who, the reader knows, was at that time ſeeking for every kind of evidence to ſerve Charles's cauſe, had known, John ſaid, a great deal of his former wickedneſs; and it was agreed that, at a proper time, he ſhould be called forward to atone for it, by a true confeſſion of all he knew concern⯑ing the murder. ‘'That confeſſion,' added John, 'I have now made, and it has taken ſuch a load off my conſcience, that though all good men muſt hate me here, and I dare not expect mercy here⯑after, my poor heavy heart will be ſomething lighter, when I reflect that I have brought ſuch a [311] villain to juſtice, to revenge the murder of ſo good a maſter.'’

John's repentance Standfaſt all along had not only feared, but he had determined to guard againſt its conſequences. He called him a half-bred vil⯑lain; one who would certainly one day or other ſqueak.

Impreſſed with theſe ſuſpicions, he conſulted Mrs. O'Shockneſy upon the propriety of putting him out of the way. She, at a proper time, to quiet him—which accounts for his exclamation juſt now to Gloſs—told him it had been done by Dogbolt; but indeed it was the laſt thing Dogbolt would have done, or ſhe permitted; for as that gentleman and lady had, for ſome time, determined to get rid of Mr. Standfaſt, ſo it did not appear to be their in⯑tereſt to keep any witneſs out of the way who, ſhould it be neceſſary, might facilitate his being hanged.

The evidence being cloſed, Mr. Standfaſt was committed to Warwick jail for the murder of Lord Hazard, and Mr. Gloſs was told there was not ſufficient proof againſt him to criminate him.

[312] ‘'Then I demand my liberty,' ſaid Gloſs, very exultingly.’ ‘'Not quite ſo faſt ſir,' ſaid Sir Sid⯑ney. 'You muſt be remanded to London, to an⯑ſwer there a charge of fraud and perjury.'’

‘'Of which ſhould I be convicted,' ſaid Gloſs, 'I ſhall ſtill be happier than your intended ſon in law. The worſt that can happen to me is to be ſent to a priſon, from whence, for the world wants ta⯑lents, I ſhall ſoon be releaſed; after which I ſhall cut as ſplendid a figure as the beſt, and drink the pleaſurable cup of life by perhaps flattering the foible of ſome fool who, like you, may pride him⯑ſelf upon virtues attributed to his anceſtors, which they probably never poſſeſſed, while his portion ſhall be bitterneſs and miſery: for, to be com⯑pletely happy, he muſt poſſeſs your daughter, which he cannot do, having already married—her mother!'’

CHAPTER XI.

NOT a ſingle returning day had paſſed ſince the reconciliation between Charles and Sir Sidney but brought with it ſome new proof to the latter how egregiouſly he had been impoſed upon by Gloſs, and what noble firmneſs there muſt have been in the mind of our hero, who, though he panted for an explanation, ſcorned to capitulate for it diſho⯑nourably.

But what were Sir Sidney's feelings when he found that the knave who had thus practiſed upon his credulity, was the ſon of him who, by a long, cool, deliberate ſeries of unexampled villany, had firſt ruined the peace, and then deſtroyed the life, of his friend and benefactor.

Oh how he was rouſed! His good ſenſe, his friendſhip, his generoſity, his every ſeeling ſeemed [314] inſulted! And then the taunting impudence of that inſinuation concerning his anceſtry, which, as Sir Sidney indulged it, was ſurely a right and laud⯑able pride; ſhewing by what means he had led him into a belief of the moſt groſs and palpable falſity. He felt affronted and aſhamed, and was at a loſs to account for the motive that could have induced him to admit ſuch a creature into his converſation. He alike reproached himſelf for having communicated with the viper, and thanked providence that had reſcued him from its fangs.

Yet, what was all this compared to that thunder⯑bolt which Gloſs, in his wanton, wicked luſt of miſchief, had now hurled at theſe happy friends! The peſtiferous breath, as it uttered the terrible words, affected the hearers like a contagion, and it is but too true that he had the inſulting, trium⯑phant, unmerciful pleaſure to ſee both Charles and Sir Sidney appalled and confounded.

As the reader is of courſe full of anxious expec⯑tation, I ſhall now proceed to a nice inveſtigation of all that train of circumſtances which led Mr. Gloſs to the knowledge of whom our hero had married.

The reader will inſtantly recollect that Sir Sid⯑ney, [315] at the latter end of the firſt book, ſpeaks of a lady in the convent that Annette, when an infant, uſed to call Mamma Le Clerc. It will alſo eaſily be remembered that Mr. Ingot gave Lord Hazard an account of a Madmoiſelle Le Clerc, who had ſome buſineſs with Sir Sidney, and that this ac⯑count tallied ſo exactly with the ſtory of Annette's mother, as to confirm both Lady Hazard and Lady Roebuck in an opinion that it could be no other than her.

This Lady, as we are informed by Emma, left ſome jewels at Sir Sidney's, but ſhe refuſed, at the inſtance of one of the gentlemen who accompanied her, to leave a packet of papers.

I will now be honeſt enough to declare that this gentleman was no other than Combrie, and his rea⯑ſon for adviſing the lady not to leave the papers, aroſe from a ſear leſt Sir Sidney ſhould actually know who ſhe was, and diſcover what were then her intentions. The ſame reaſon induced him to prevail on her not to ſee the baronet in town.

The third perſon, who was, as I have ſaid, de⯑puted by the convent to receive the fortune, was our old friend Goufre, and it was from this journey Combrie became ſo well acquainted with all his af⯑fairs; [316] nay he had attended the young lady with a view to have ſurpriſed the vigilance of the procu⯑reur, and have ſecured her fortune when in En⯑gland, which circumſtance I alſo hint in the ſe⯑cond volume; but this, however, not being practi⯑cable, he had afterwards recourſe, as we have ſeen, to other methods, which were attended with better ſucceſs.

It has been related that, on Mrs. Hazard's mo⯑nument, at Rocheſter, were placed her maiden name, the name of her firſt huſband, and of that ſhe owned when ſhe died. This circumſtance, ſu⯑peradded to ſome intelligence obtained from one of the firm of Bondham and Co.—indeed the very gen⯑tleman who afterwards went to Botany Bay—con⯑firmed Mr. Gloſs's conjectures. He had however a great deal of collateral intelligence: one of his emiſſaries having been conſtantly ſtationed by the ſide of our hero, who, had he attempted to return to England, had inſtructions to lay him by the heels, either in Flanders, or on his arrival, juſt as might be moſt expedient to aſſiſt the purpoſes of Mr. Gloſs. Finding however that marriage had barred every paſſage that could lead to the poſſeſſion of Annette, he at firſt made himſelf perfectly eaſy, but when he heard of the death of Mrs. Hazard, and found that theſe impediments were removed, he was obliged [317] to caſt about in his mind for freſh matter, and, after ſtraining his ingenuity, and putting a variety of circumſtances together, taking a hint from the name of Le Clerc upon the monument, he found out what I have no doubt the reader will be heartily ſorry for.

It will immediately occur to the reader that both Charles and Figgins muſt have been acquainted with all this matter, and yet it is very certain they were not. The hiſtory of Annette was known only to five perſons; namely, Lord and Lady Hazard, Sir Sidney and Lady Roebuck, and Emma. Three of theſe did not know the whole truth. Thus, the name of Le Clerc was never uttered to Charles nor Figgins as the name of Annette's mother, nor to Sir Sidney as the maiden name of Mrs. Combrie; or, if it had, it probably would not have induced any ſuſpicion of ſo extraordinary and unlikely a circum⯑ſtance as this: for Le Clerc, in France, is as com⯑mon a name as Smith is in England.

It alſo looks ſingular that Charles ſhould not know the private ſtory of his wife, or that ſhe ſhould be ignorant of his; but ſhe is mentioned early in life to have been engaged in an intrigue, and it is probable that ſhe thought youthful folly was not a proper thing for a huſband to be entruſted with, [318] and as to him, I have already noticed his remark⯑able delicacy towards Annette, as well as that ſhe greatly commended him for it. Beſides, had there been no other reaſon, the ſtate of Mrs. Hazard's mind and health muſt have been ſuch as to have precluded the ſmalleſt likelihood of retroſpective inveſtigation between them on ſubjects which could only have been developed through the medium of great curioſity and long intimacy, neither of which, as the reader ſees, obtained in the preſent caſe; and therefore nothing could be further from the mind of either than that their union involved in it ſo momen⯑tous and myſterious a circumſtance.

During the journey that Emma perſuaded Sir Sidney to take into France, it cannot be forgotten that every poſſible enquiry was made by the baronet concerning Annette's mother. He however only learnt, as I there ſay, Ingot's ſtory, and alſo that Miſs Le Clerc had ſhifted her quarters to another convent, where they either could not or would not give any account of her. The fact was, that as the elopement of a nun from a convent in France is never, like a runaway from a boarding ſchool in England, advertiſed in all the newſpapers, but, on the contrary, kept as ſnug as poſſible, their enqui⯑ries were looked upon as little more than imperti⯑nent curioſity, which will indeed be readily believed [319] when it is conſidered that the convent of our lady of the aſcenſion at Nancy—which was the very place our travellers went to—had been pretty well ſcandalized by the buſineſs of Madame Combrie al⯑ready, and therefore they were very little likely to gather any intelligence from thence. Indeed the matter was ſo taken in dudgeon, that had Sir Sid⯑ney ſtayed any conſiderable time, and repeated his ſolicitations, it is within poſſibility that he might have been conſidered as an acceſſary to the fact of Combrie's procuring the fortune from Goufre, and ſo have been accuſed of the very fraud which he had been ſo angry with Charles for committing.—Thus, as we have ſeen, he came away from France no wiſer than he went there.

The reader will now ſee that, as the parties had no ſort of communication with each other, it was impoſſible they ſhould compare notes; conſequently, no one of them, in ſuch a length of time, had en⯑tertained the ſmalleſt ſuſpicion of what now, in one moment, appeared to be beyond a doubt.

I have two or three times hinted—for I did not chuſe to do any more—that Mrs. Combrie reſembled Annette, and there are ſeveral paſſages in this work where the reader would very ſtrongly have ſcented [320] this game, if I had not opportunely put up ſome other to divert his attention.

The blood hound Gloſs, however, has at length ſound it, and, like all prey ſtarted by ſuch ſangui⯑nary hunters, it leads us a tedious chaſe, only to bring us to the knowledge of miſchief.

To leave every thing but plain narration, never was there apparent happineſs ſo daſhed by certain diſappointment. Every comparative circumſtance ſerved to confirm the fact, and miſery ſeemed now to confound the innocent with the guilty, till at length Emma herſelf, after torturing probability by every ingenious and ſubtle inveſtigation her inven⯑tion could ſupply—all which, at an earlier period, perhaps I ſhould have given at length—was com⯑pelled to confeſs that there was novelty in every thing relative to our lovers, for that, contrary to all eſtabliſhed rules, they were born to be virtuous and unhappy.

I know not if I have introduced any thing into this hiſtory ſo truly pathetic as what it is now my reluctant duty to mention. The health of Annette was only completely confirmed on that very day when the whole family were convinced ſhe could not bleſs him for whom alone ſhe wiſhed to live, and [321] ſhe was welcomed to reaſon only to be plunged into miſery worſe than madneſs. The delight that every one felt at once more beholding the angelic inno⯑cence of her ſoul conveyed by thoſe benevolent ſmiles which now ſpoke her thankful joy, was daſhed with a mixture of agony; ſighs were mingled with congratulations; tears choked the utterance of plea⯑ſure; an univerſal gloom pervaded thoſe faces that fain would have beamed with the willing ſmile of grateful tranſport; and every one, out of pity, ad⯑viſed a ſuppreſſion of that wretchedneſs which no one could conquer.

Too plainly did poor Annette perceive the miſery that theſe inexperienced diſſemblers vainly en⯑deavoured to hide. Did ſhe aſk if her father was well, yes was the anſwer, and a profound ſigh fol⯑lowed it. One began to give her pleaſure by an account of the reconciliation of Sir Sidney and Charles, and interrupted the relation with a flood of tears. From Sir Sidney, from Lady Roebuck, from Emma, from Charles himſelf, ſhe found no better comfort; till, at length, her gentle mind was ſo wounded and diſtreſſed, that ſhe ſeemed, like an innocent victim, recovered from one torture to be tormented with another, ſtill more ingenious.

However I may be partial to ſportive writing, I [322] really think that, in this place, it would be both impertinent and unfeeling to tantalize the reader, who now begins to think that I have introduced a ſet of characters which I hold up as models of vir⯑tue and goodneſs, only to reward them with un⯑merited miſery and hopeleſs wretchedneſs; but I flatter myſelf I ſhall not be accuſed of this unneceſ⯑ſary wantonneſs. I do no more than my duty, and againſt all ſuch cenſure I ſhall defend myſelf, by noticing that I undertook nothing in this taſk but to record facts, and if I leave the more amiable part of my groupe of characters as miſerable as thoſe whoſe practice has been knavery and villany, I ſhall not, even in that caſe, have deſerted probability, nor have inculcated a uſeleſs leſſon of morality, ſince to leave goodneſs in diſtreſs, is to enforce that higheſt of moral duties, reſignation.

CHAPTER XII.

Mr. Balance, who had been to town for the pur⯑poſe of ſeeing that the proſecution againſt Gloſs was properly carried on, was alſo determined to ſearch as deeply as poſſible into the truth of this unhappy affair, and, while he was thus employed, it happened that he was called upon by a gentle⯑man who ſaid he had very particular buſineſs with Sir Sidney, on this very ſubject. With this gen⯑tleman Mr. Balance returned to Warwickſhire, where he told Sir Sidney that, from what he could gather, he feared the wretched tale was but too true.

It will be remembered that Charles knew, in the ſouth of France, a father Fitzgibbon, who told him that, in three years from that time, he ſhould have ſome buſineſs in England, and would then call on him in London. Our hero gave him a direction to Mr. Balance, who, he knew, would be his man [322] [...] [] [...] [324] of buſineſs, and who, whether they were friends or foes, would, of courſe, forward any thing or perſon to him.

It will alſo be recollected that Mrs. Hazard's mo⯑nument at Rocheſter, from which Mr. Gloſs re⯑ceived ſome of his intelligence, was ſhewn to all ſtrangers. It appears therefore feaſible enough that Father Fitzgibbon, in his way from Dover to the capital, ſhould have ſeen it.

Father Fitzgibbon was the perſon now introduced by Mr. Balance, who had ſcarcely exchanged the uſual compliments with Charles, when he admired by what remarkable and extraordinary means the ſtrangeſt diſcoveries are brought about. In ſhort, it appeared that he was the intimate friend of Com⯑brie, and had received the greateſt obligations from his family; that he had known him the whole time he meditated the elopement [...] with Miſs Le Clerc, and indeed was the very friend who had equipped him with the dreſs in which he ſo ſucceſsfully per⯑ſonated father Benedict. He had alſo connived at the buſineſs of the keys, and lent him much other material aſſiſtance, which he was the better enabled to do, as he was well acquainted with Goufre's af⯑fairs, and then belonged to a convent at Dieu-le-war, about two leagues from Nancy, where all intelli⯑gent [325] travellers to that part of France have been in⯑formed there is ſuch a convent made up of Engliſh, Iriſh, and Scotch, and where they brew very good beer.

Fitzgibbon mentioned the buſineſs of Miſs Le Clerc's journey to England, and of Combrie's pre⯑venting her from leaving the papers at Sir Sidney's; adding, that thoſe papers had at length been entruſt⯑ed to him, and that, as he underſtood they contained ſomething of conſequence, he had deferred ‘'ſend⯑ing them by another,' to uſe his own words, 'till he had an opportunity of delivering them him⯑ſelf.'’

So ſaying, he gave the packet to Sir Sidney, who, in a moment, knew and proclaimed that the hand writing was that of Annette's mother.

‘'Then I am right, I find,' ſaid Fitzgibbon.—’ ‘'Too right,' cried one.’ ‘'Fatal confirmation!' ſighed another.’ ‘'Cruel deſtiny!' ſaid a third.—’ ‘'Unheard of miſery!' exclaimed a fourth.’ In ſhort, the whole company exhibited ſuch tokens of wretchedneſs, that the Iriſhman cried ‘'Why, by my ſoul, one would tink, by all theſe deſtinies, and fates, and long faces, that I had brought over the plague ſealed up in a letter. Upon my [326] honour and conſcience I only diſcharged the pro⯑miſe I made poor Mrs. Combrie, four years ago, who deſired me moreover to add that every ſyllable was authentic; for in that paper would be found the lady's dying words in her own hand writ⯑ing.'’

It occurring in a moment to every one preſent that if Mrs. Combrie, four years ago, had given Fitzgibbon the dying words of ſomebody elſe, writ⯑ten in a hand which Sir Sidney knew to be that of Annette's mother, Mrs. Combrie could not be that mother, every countenance immediately under⯑went a total change, and what had been but the moment before certain miſery, was now ſweet ex⯑pectation. This was immediately evinced by a volley of oppoſite exclamations; at which Fitzgibbon exclaimed, ‘'Pray good folks is it Bedlam I am in? By my ſoul, you ſeem firſt to be crazy, and after⯑wards diſtracted.'’

By this time Sir Sidney having ran over a part of what the packet contained, found abundantly enough to convince him that there was no farther bar to the happineſs of his daughter and our hero. To be brief, from the papers, backed by what Fitz⯑gibbon had learnt from Mrs. Combrie, it appeared that ſhe was certainly the Mamma Le Clerc for⯑merly [327] mentioned; for that Annette's mother had left her infant daughter to her care, requeſting ſhe would contrive to convey her to Sir Sidney; which commiſſion, through the medium of the nuns of St. Claire, as we have ſeen, ſhe faithfully executed.

The ſentiments, the diſtreſſes, the very names of Mrs. Combrie and Annette's mother bearing ſo ſtrong a ſimilarity, it is not at all extraordinary that there ſhould be this ſtrict friendſhip between them, or that this aſſimilation of circumſtances ſhould beget a likelihood that they were one and the ſame perſon. The conduct of the two fathers alſo is re⯑markably ſimilar, and it would be extraordinary if it was not. They were both bigotted catholics, and both puniſhed the diſobedience of their daugh⯑ters, by ſhutting them up in a convent; which is only two inſtances out of two thouſand, or very likely ten thouſand, upon the records of French nunneries, where the ſame crime has been puniſhed in the ſame manner. We have heard that the fa⯑ther of Mrs. Combrie died in England. They now learnt that the father of Annette's mother died in Italy, after he had given the whole of his fortune to the church.

Fitzgibbon got the laugh completely againſt the company in the courſe of inveſtigating all theſe mat⯑ters. [328] He ſaid that, after all, they were ſad bun⯑glers at a diſcovery; for, added he, ‘'though you have only juſt found it out, by my faith you knew it well enough long ago:'’ and really, if it were not highly indecent to get the laugh againſt the reader, I ſhould be tempted to follow the Iriſh⯑man's example, and indulge myſelf at his expence; for it certainly ought to have occurred to him that each of theſe ladies had a Chriſtian name, and, if it had, he would have know that the Chriſtian name of Sir Sidney's Miſs Le Clerc was Annette, and that of Combrie's Miſs Le Clerc was Araminta.

This very circumſtance of the difference in the Chriſtian names, accounts for the whole, and ſhews how much deeper fear impreſſes us than hope.—Araminta was the name placed upon the tomb, and had it been proper to have queſtioned Gloſs as to where he got his intelligence, his anſwer muſt have developed the whole myſtery: nay, leſt it ſhould be penetrated by the reader, it may be recollected that I took advantage of the miſtake of Charles, who, abſorbed in thought, called Mrs. Hazard An⯑nette, by miſtake, as ſhe lay in her coffin.

Thus, I have gradually and naturally unravelled all that maſs of entangled circumſtances that ſtood between our hero and the poſſeſſion of his wiſhes. [329] I ſhall not offer on my labours a ſingle comment. If they embrace any important purpoſe, if they incul⯑cate any uſeful moral, or ſerve occaſionally as ob⯑jects of warning or imitation in the various purſuits of life, I ſhall have exerciſed a pleaſing duty, and ſhall not fail to receive the thanks of every man of reaſon and honour as my reward.

As Annette was recently recovered from ſo ſe⯑vere an indiſpoſition, and as there were ſome other very ſerious matters to ſettle, it was agreed that her union with Charles ſhould be deferred till their ap⯑proaching grand feaſt, which was to be celebrated in about a month.

I ſhall take that interval to give a very ſummary account of what became of the other characters which I have introduced into this work.

Standfaſt actually did what Swaſh pretended to do. He poiſoned himſelf in his cell, to prevent his trial. The interval between his commitment to jail and his defrauding the hangman, exhibited a moſt frightful example to all villains. It conſiſted of alternate fits of intoxication. In ſome of theſe he execrated and blaſphemed; in others he trembled with terror at the horrid images his fancy created [330] to torture him. One hour he howled in an agony of apprehenſion, in another raved in a paroxyſm of imprecation; till at length his ſon Gloſs, affectio⯑nate and conſiderate to the laſt, prevailed on a com⯑mon friend to viſit him, who, well tutored for the purpoſe, induced him to ſave the diſgrace that would be entailed on his memory by an ignomini⯑ous death, and anticipate his fate by poiſon.

Gloſs himſelf had the addreſs to turn this cir⯑cumſtance to his own account, intimating that they had, among them, made away with his father, for fear circumſtances not altogether ſo pleaſant ſhould come out on the trial. As to his own fate, it was this. He was put in the pillory, where he har⯑rangued the populace to ſuch good effect, that he perſuaded them the conſtitution of their country was rotten; that the groſſeſt abuſes were practiſed by thoſe who were entruſted with the public con⯑cerns; and, ſo completely did he, for the moment, work upon the people's credulity, that, when he returned to priſon, the horſes were taken from the hackney coach, in which he rode, and the deluded populace, with one conſent, yoked themſelves in their place: exactly the ſame as if they were ho⯑nourably conducting ſome patriot, who had done an eſſential ſervice to his country!

[331] In proceſs of time he was liberated, ſince when he has lived in various circumſtances, by depreda⯑tions on the public; and, at this hour, goes about, like the arch fiend, his principal, ſeeking whom he may devour.

Mrs. O'Shockneſy, who had robbed Standfaſt, ſcarcely arrived on the continent when ſhe was robbed and deſerted by Dogbolt. After this, ſhe herded with a ſet of contrabanders; and at length,—firſt being detected and branded—ſhe finiſhed her career diſeaſed, loathſome, and a pauper, in the Hotel de Dieu.

As to Tadpole and his wife, as they knew that a retroſpection would bring out every particular of their nefarious conduct, they thought it expedient to meet their examiners half way. Charles found the eſtate rather improved than injured by Tadpole's management, and therefore ſcrupled not to pay ſuch bonds, and fulfil ſuch other engagements, en⯑tered into by his brother, as did not ſtrike at the terra firma of his anceſtors. He alſo agreed to a handſome proviſion for the children; one of whom, at this moment, is the beſt horſe jockey, and the other the beſt maker of nut-crackers, in the king⯑dom.

[332] Tadpole, with this money, and what he had pri⯑vately amaſſed, launched boldly into his own pro⯑feſſion of attorney, to which he added that of money lender, and has accumulated an immenſe fortune, by adminiſtering to the neceſſities of young men of faſhion, under age; not ſcrupling, occaſionally, to lend the perſon of his cara ſpoſa—on whom he doats to diſtraction, and who rules him with a rod of Iron—to bind an advantageous bargain.

The penitent John was put, by Kiddy, into the hands of a methodiſt preacher, to complete his con⯑verſion; but, the good man going the wrong way to work, by terrifying inſtead of ſoothing him, his brain was at length touched, and he finiſhed his life and his miſery together, by a raſh leap into Swaſh's mill-ſtream.

As to the ſinner Kiddy, as he uſed to call him⯑ſelf, he lived for ſome time pretty comfortably on a handſome annuity that Charles had granted him; but having frequented meetings, conferences, and love-feaſts, till his ſenſes were a little deranged, he firſt ſlanged himſelf, as he called it, behind the door, and, being cut down, the ſhock ſo preyed upon his ſpirits, that, doubling his viſits to the brandy bottle, he is ſaid literally to have gone out [333] of the world with a dram in one hand and a homily in the other.

At length came the day which was to unite per⯑haps the moſt elegant and accompliſhed pair that ever graced the altar of Hymen. The grand feaſt was conducted with prodigious ſplendour, which the reader will the more readily conceive, when he adds to the former deſcription of this feſtival the ad⯑ditional exertions upon the preſent happy occaſion.

Every friend within the knowledge of any of the parties was invited, and, among the reſt, Ego, Toogood, and Muſquito, who, ſpight of their jar⯑ring diſpoſitions, united in an univerſal acknow⯑ledgment that wealth, worth, and happineſs were never more emulouſly blended together.

A few words more will ſtill be neceſſary. The good Mildman, in a very advanced age, yielded his breath amidſt the lamentations of his pariſhio⯑ners, who ſincerely mourned his memory, as they accompanied his remains to their laſt home, and who—all they had—as their only remaining tribute to his worth, dropt the tear of ſenſibility on the grave of virtue.

Figgins, who married the amiable Jude, ſuc⯑ceeded [334] Mildman. His reformation is perfect and confirmed, and his conduct honourable and exem⯑plary. Bleſt with two ſuch friends as Sir Sidney and Charles, his happineſs is complete. His ef⯑forts at Caſtlewick, in conjunction with thoſe of Mr. Friend, at Little Hockley, who is ſtill alive, though very old, have rendered thoſe induſtrious communities the emulation of each other.

Mrs. Marlow ſucceeded Emma as companion to Lady Roebuck, Emma herſelf having, at the earneſt recommendation of the baronet, married the butler, now Sir Sidney's land ſteward. She had long be⯑fore, as I hinted to the reader, a ſneaking kindneſs for him, on account of his fidelity to his maſter in France. This had improved, to uſe her own words, into eſteem, from her knowledge of him in the fa⯑mily, and had been confirmed into love, by his re⯑fuſing to take a part againſt Sir Sidney in her grand plot, which, however worthy in her, would, in him, have been treachery. She has ſeveral children, who, inſtructed by her, are become excellent Engliſh ſcholars, for ſhe does not chuſe they ſhould aſpire to any thing more. She is univerſally beloved, and will be univerſally regretted. On a converſation with Annette, the other day, in which this topic was touched upon, ſhe ſaid, that as her book of life now verged towards the laſt page, it gave her great [335] ſatisfaction to reflect that ſhe ſhould not fear to look at the word Finis, having inculcated, in every line, that goodneſs is the beſt ſecurity for happineſs.— ‘'The hour of death,' added Emma, for ſhe is now grown rather ſententious, 'is the hell of the wick⯑ed, the purgatory of the doubtful, and the heaven of the virtuous.'’

Mr. Balance is ſtill alive, and as much reſpected as ever. Sir Sidney, who is Mr. Balance's ſenior by a year, being now ſeventy-five, is alſo living in all the vigour of health and ſtrength. He can ſtill play at cricket and quoits, and pitch the bar as well as ever; and it was but the other day he was re⯑queſted to let his name ſtand in a tontine, inſtead of that of a faſhionable young man of twenty. The ve⯑nerable and amiable Lady Roebuck is alſo living.—Her employment is the care of our hero's children: out of ſeven, three of whom are alive: two boys and a girl. The baronet has long ſince given over his idea of augmenting his grandeur as to himſelf, but having recently ‘'done the ſtate ſome ſervice,'’ he is promiſed a peerage in favour of Charles's ſecond ſon, by the name and title of Sidney Roebuck, Earl of Caſtlewick.

As to Charles and Annette, little more need be ſaid. Complete in beauty, goodneſs, clegance, and [336] virtue, no wonder they are completely happy. Nor is the goodneſs and virtue of this amiable commu⯑nity of friends ſelfiſhly conſined. It transfuſes its conſcious bleſſings to all around. Charles's dar⯑ling paſſion for patronizing worth and merit, aided by Sir Sidney, flows now in its right channel. All are ſure of encouragement who worthily apply for it, nor is there an individual in either Caſtlewick or Little Hockley that does not feel, and enjoy the gene⯑rous influence of their wide-extended philanthropy.

Theſe fortunate places are now equally reaſonable and equally happy. Both know the advantages re⯑ſulting from mild control and honourable obedience. In ſhort, they are a type of the country at large.—Every individual is thankful to the power that ſe⯑cures his ſafety, protects his property, and ſuccours his family; and there is not one among them, ſti⯑mulated by theſe principles, and encouraged by their patrons, that would not nobly riſk his life, were it neceſſary, in defence of the wiſeſt of conſtitutions, and the beſt of kings.